Sunday, October 5, 2014

Will We....Or Won't We?

     So…here I sit looking at this big blank page, once again. Now what? I’m sitting here with my coffee, watching the news letting my mind wonder. 

     Crap! Snow! In Chicago. UGH. I don’t do snow. I blame Matt Boston. Once again he’s gone and done his flippin’ snow dance. So when y’all are up there, shoveling snow…all winter…again, you know who to blame! He did it last year too.

     Eeep! Another commercial for limp-dick syndrome. Awww…how nice. An older couple dancing to a vinyl record, an oldie but goodie. How sweet. Ummm… I wonder… 

     When will these companies start showing gay couples doing the same thing? Probably not in my life time, but then I said that about gay marriage too. Never thought I’d live to see that. That’s happened, so maybe? 

     Naw… not gonna happen. Why? Because men are pigs for the most part. However, it would be nice. Two grown adult men holding hands sitting on a bench, all snuggled up together. A quick fade to black. Fast. That damn little blue pill has kicked in. 

     What they aren’t going to show is them jumping into bed. Hair pulling, ass smacking, biting, and one screaming “Fuck me! Fuck me harder!” Yeah, we all know it’s gonna be happening. Dirty, raw man sex. What else they aren’t going to show is the aftermath. Matted hair, the bed a total disaster and two men snoring, drool from one of their mouths sliding down onto the pillow. Yeah, the reality of romance. 

     Oh, and what about the Bath House Queen. Oh, I can just see that one now. The guy has probably spent hours whooshing and douching himself into a stupor. Balls shaved, hair just right, brush, flossed and mouth-washed himself almost drunk. Pops a couple of little blue pills, some vitamin C, D and K, makes a quick cocktail and he’s off to the races. 

     Just imagine that cartoon wolf, drooling and foaming at the mouth, his eyes popping in and out of his head and he races to the Bath House, where the wonders and delights of hot raw man-sex await. The chance of finding that one true love, in between rabid fucks of course, but so sure that he’ll be there none the less. 

     Fast forward six hours later, and here comes our hero, looking like something the cat threw up, dragging his worn out ass out to his car. He looks down at his now deflating, sore, somewhat raw dick with a big silly grin on his face. Four hours? Run off to a doctor if it lasts more four hours? Yeah, right…that’s gonna happen. Pfft…a gay man’s dream! Yeah, we’ll never see that commercial either. 

     Oh, what about the White Party twinks? You think they won’t be going online and ordering their own little supply of little blue party pills? Hell, you can get those things online, don’t act so shocked. Yeah, them twenty-somethings will also be using the Mr. Happy Dick pills. Sure they will. I mean, what gay man doesn’t want to have sex for hours and hours…and hours on end? Pu-leeease, Mary…you know they’re doing it. Think you’ll see an advertisement showing that? LMAO Nope. 

      This takes me back to that whole demographic report that Absolut Vodka and Ikea did years ago. Very quietly, they started slipping ads into gay newspapers, magazines and other free rags. Why? Because their study showed that gay men had more disposable income than the average household. They also partied their asses off, and of course, we all know fags like to decorate. Yes, we’re fabulous at it too! 

     So why won’t we see Viagra or Cialis targeted towards gay men? Simple. The American public isn’t ready to see two men holding hands, walking off into the sunset. Why? Pfft. Men are pigs and everyone knows it. They know what’s gonna happen. Yep, head banging into the wall, hips slapping hips, ass smacking, balls swinging…for hours on end. Yep…we know…all our minds will go there. 

     Nawww, we won’t be seeing those commercials anytime soon. Whew…I think I need a cold shower now. 

     Now then…I have a few friends that seem to be suffering from depression. I listen, I do the awwww in all the right places. I try to be a good friend. My advice? Get up off your sorry ass and go do something for someone else who has it a hell of a lot worse than you do. Quit your wallowing in your own self-pity, put on your big boy/girl pants and do something for someone else that really needs the help. Spend that time on those people instead of trying to crawl up on that cross getting splinters and then crying about that too. Come on... pull yourself out of that pity pool and do something productive.

     Now, go. Have a good day. See y’all next week. 


'Cause I like it!