So everyone knows I’m a little queer. Well, about twenty years ago I was, now I’m a big queer. Like, I like girls and that, really like girls, but I’ve also enjoyed the company of men. I used to wear the label bisexual, but I’m tired of that. Like, all the men I’ve met who have told me they’re bi: you know they’re totally gay; they just have neglected to tell their wives about it. So I prefer the term queer. Nobody really knows what it means per se. Whenever someone asks me about my sexuality I simply say, “Well, Dad. I’ve never shot a deer. I’ve never been to San Francisco. But I have enjoyed a Bacardi and lime, and, sure, I’ve packed fudge before.”
Now, having tasted the green grass on either side of the fence, I have to say there pros and cons. And a lot of the time I can see where homophobes are coming from. Like, without sounding totally anti-gay I should point out…
….that the naked male foot should never be up in the air. It should be planted firmly on the floor, or at the most tucked away in a corner where no one can see or smell it. If you think just because we’re doing the horizontal tutti frutti you can feel free to put that ugly thing on my shoulder or in my face, then I think I have the right to bring out the can of industrial strength air freshener.
…that some guys should try out a new word, and it’s called “good”. Homos, try it in a sentence some time. Here are some examples. This pie tastes good. That movie wasn’t so good. You look good in those hot pants and angel wings. You don’t have to use the word fabulous all the fucking time. In fact, it’s pretty much made everyone else afraid of using that word. I think straight men should reclaim the word. I challenge all AFL footy players to adopt the word in ordinary linguistic practice. “So, good game today?” “Oh yeah, the start was pretty ordinary but-ah, but-ah, at the end of the day, when the full forward picked up his game (good on ya Jono) it was fabulous.”
…that I am constantly surprised how long it takes for a pair of lesbians, once they decide to break up, to actually fucking get off their arses and do it. Like just last week, right, I saw an old mate and I said, “Jane, I heard you broke up with Barb last month. Sorry to hear that. You living alone now?” And she replied, “Nah we’re still together. Like, we’ve stopped talking to each other, and we’re not having sex, which is fabulous of course… but the couples’ Pictionary tournament starts in a week, and, umm, we haven’t yet decided who’s getting the Doberman and who’s getting the hanging garden, so we’ll be sticking around a little longer. Man, rip it off! Get it done! Break up girls! It’s not like she’s the last lesbian on earth. Shit, every third girl I meet in bars tells me she’s a lesbian, eventually, so it’s not like a drought.
I shouldn’t judge though, really. Like, I haven’t ever been with a guy long enough to, you know, actually do the break-up thing. But I reckon if I guy says “I’ll call you Saturday”, or starts making plans with you more than two days in advance. Then I think that’s a break up. Because, like shit man, he’s already bringing his new boyfriend to that date.
Oh, and if you think I’m being a little homophobic, let me say this: Over-population, Margaret Thatcher, global warming, nobody has money any more. It’s the heteros what did it. That, sir, concludes my investigation.
