Terrible language in this one:
If you want to see rage and violence forget the UFC. You need to watch four recovering alcoholic gay men play euchre.
Awful.
So there we were one dismal sober evening gathered around Lovely Melvin's kitchen table with a new deck of cards featuring topless women. Fifty cents at Dollaramma we were told. Lovely Melvin, Big Thighs Paul, Drag Mack and Fabulous Me. Ok, those three actually have a different nickname for me but I'm not particularly fond of it. They call me the R.-B.A.G. (the Rage-Based Alcoholic Goof). It's not at all me.
Melvin and I were leading 9 to 1 when Mack and Big Thighs stormed back to tie it 9-9. I informed Big Thighs that given the depressed state I was in it would be very cruel to complete the comeback. They did it anyway. Bastards. I turned to Big Thighs and said, "You are a thoughtless twat."
Even for me that was pretty good.
"You are a vicious and angry little man," he responded.
I am neither vicious nor angry.
I am just shy.
And then B.T.'s partner Mack backed him up by throwing a cookies'n'cream cupcake at my head. It missed, because I am sneaky quick, hit the wall and fell to the floor. One of Melvin's local district champion schnauzers scooped it up and he went ballistic. "She's not supposed to eat that kind of stuff!! Oh my God!!"
Complete gay-os.
There followed a few carefully constructed insults (by me) and a few dumb ones (by them) and at some point I got slapped. Hot.
We took a little pause from the game and Mack asked Melvin if he could try on the gown he had been promised for the upcoming sober drag show. Sober drag show. Of all my least favorite phrases in the English language that's right up there with "rebound constipation" and "trans-rectal probe", all of which I have either seen or had.
Mack came gliding down the staircase in a full-on pur-gay-ple gown, matching cape, gold stiletto heels and a massive blond afro. He attached a little brooch but tossed it aside saying, "Oh no. That's ridiculous." Ya, THAT'S the part that's ridiculous.
I have never understood the whole gay man drag thing. And I let it be known. I have been accused of internalized homophobia. Not so. My homophobia is externalized. Out there to be analyzed and commented upon. The reason I am not fond of most gay men is that they are way too fragile, i.e. bar fights are rare, they vacuum their drapes and most of them have no idea who Aaron Rodgers is. Intolerable.
Round 2 of euchre went according to plan. Mack and I jumped to an 8-2 lead. Mack decided we should turn our little Euchre tournament into a Broadway musical. Gays do that. Everything should become a Broadway musical. "Burning Foot Cream: The Musical." "Clogged Hoover: The Musical." "Big Silly Hat: The Musical."
We went up 9-2. And again, to my horror, they tied it up. Sensing a second astonishing comeback I put an end to it by setting my cards on fire. Melvin threw his coke at me to put it out, missed, (remember, I'm sneaky quick) and Big Thighs got drenched.
They all accused me of being a sore loser or something like that but I stopped listening.
I was looking around the table at my sad-sack dear buddies. Big Thighs, all soaking wet, Drag Mack in his broochless gown and afro, and Melvin clutching his local district schnauzer performing the Heimlich in attempt to dislodge the unhealthy cupcake.
Nuts.
I know we're all a bit crazed but really I wouldn't want it any other way. Those idiots saved my life. They caught me at the point where loneliness was settling down. It could have become permanent. They pulled me in, sat me down, dealt me a hand, and said, "You're on."
My hand sucked.
By the way.
.
Wednesday 26 September 2012
Wednesday 5 September 2012
the vicious daisy smokes
So I told my shrink that I don't think my sleeping meds are working to their full potential. She asked me if I was taking them with food as suggested. "Of course." I said.
"What food?"
Well yesterday I took them with a Pop Tart and the day before that I had them with a bag of Skittles.
"You're supposed to take them with healthy food!"
"That is healthy food."
"So what exactly do you consider to be unhealthy food?"
Anthrax.
She stared at me blankly. She does that a lot. I actually don't think she's very good. She always seems quite stunned when I'm talking. They say that most people have a love/hate relationship with their shrinks. I think we've hit the "hate" part.
Not listening to the advice of doctors has always been one of my hobbies, along with smoking near babies and chasing cats.
I've recently been kicked out of my Nicotine Cessation Program. I was accused of insubordination, lying and subterfuge by the evil Russian doctor running the thing. I don't know what some of those words mean so I deny everything. However, I did lie. When I walked into his office the first time he asked me if I had just had a smoke. I said no. He said, "Yes you did." "No. I didn't." "I was watching you through the window. You had a smoke." I think he was a KGB spy.
One time the evil doctor was facilitating a group therapy when he asked the question "Why do you smoke?" I raised my hand and preceded to go on a ten-minute monologue beginning with, "Because smoking is fabulous..." I talked about how I've so met many cool people in dirty smoking areas, how a smoke break give me a peaceful moment away from the assholes populating my day, and most importantly I had only recently perfected flicking my butts through the air really really far. (Although I have to watch that. I have flicked butts into garbage cans, open car windows, and once into a woman's hair.) By the end of my speech the Russian just glared at me. He said, "You are really something." I sighed, " I know".
He said to me, " If you had saved up all the money you spent on cigarettes this year you could have gone on a cruise." "I don't want to go on a cruise," I said, "I want to fucking smoke." Well. That was the end.
I muttered a few awful things on the way out. As we all know - I wear my emotions on my middle finger.
Somehow, the Russian got one last little magical dig in. Going home I cupped my hands to light up a smoke and set my transfer on fire. I walked home.
"What food?"
Well yesterday I took them with a Pop Tart and the day before that I had them with a bag of Skittles.
"You're supposed to take them with healthy food!"
"That is healthy food."
"So what exactly do you consider to be unhealthy food?"
Anthrax.
She stared at me blankly. She does that a lot. I actually don't think she's very good. She always seems quite stunned when I'm talking. They say that most people have a love/hate relationship with their shrinks. I think we've hit the "hate" part.
Not listening to the advice of doctors has always been one of my hobbies, along with smoking near babies and chasing cats.
I've recently been kicked out of my Nicotine Cessation Program. I was accused of insubordination, lying and subterfuge by the evil Russian doctor running the thing. I don't know what some of those words mean so I deny everything. However, I did lie. When I walked into his office the first time he asked me if I had just had a smoke. I said no. He said, "Yes you did." "No. I didn't." "I was watching you through the window. You had a smoke." I think he was a KGB spy.
One time the evil doctor was facilitating a group therapy when he asked the question "Why do you smoke?" I raised my hand and preceded to go on a ten-minute monologue beginning with, "Because smoking is fabulous..." I talked about how I've so met many cool people in dirty smoking areas, how a smoke break give me a peaceful moment away from the assholes populating my day, and most importantly I had only recently perfected flicking my butts through the air really really far. (Although I have to watch that. I have flicked butts into garbage cans, open car windows, and once into a woman's hair.) By the end of my speech the Russian just glared at me. He said, "You are really something." I sighed, " I know".
He said to me, " If you had saved up all the money you spent on cigarettes this year you could have gone on a cruise." "I don't want to go on a cruise," I said, "I want to fucking smoke." Well. That was the end.
I muttered a few awful things on the way out. As we all know - I wear my emotions on my middle finger.
Somehow, the Russian got one last little magical dig in. Going home I cupped my hands to light up a smoke and set my transfer on fire. I walked home.
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