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.
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