Bigfoot Comes Out of Hiding to Apply for Obamacare and He Might be Gay

January 18, 2015

BigfootThe legend of Bigfoot has fascinated mankind since the sightings began in the early 1800’s. Initially, it was thought to be the mere drunken lore of self-pleasuring woodsmen and horny teen campers but the hairy giant’s myth has only grown over time. Now, after a lifetime in hiding, the creature with an immeasurable sandal size has come out of his self-imposed exile seeking medical treatment among those he once hid from. Sadly, our favorite hairy bipedal humaniod is reportedly developing advanced symptoms of what could be the Ebola virus or as Sasquatch himself suggests “something I caught from eating that French guy.” Here is an excerpt from an exclusive interview with the Yeti Supreme.

Q: Bigfoot, it is truly a pleasure to meet you. You are a cultural icon. Welcome. Now, aside from dozens of sightings and some blurry photographs, you’ve managed to stay in hiding for well over a century.
(long pause)
BigFoot: Was that a question?
Q: Ok. Why stay hidden? Were you frightened of us?
BigFoot: Frightened? I’ve ripped the heads off of more humans than you’ve shaken hands with. I still have dried entrails between my toes from the last asshole that tried to toss a net over me. Look, I know how you people treat strangers. I HAVE seen E.T., you know. By the way, you guys really need to bring back more Drive-Ins. Anyway, I’d either have ended up dissected, in a zoo or teaming up with David Spade for a direct-to-Hulu screwball comedy that nobody watches. I don’t need that kind of disrespect OR incision scar. The fact that I got smacked with a bag of flea powder walking in here today is probably as good as it’s gonna get for me. Is this the biggest chair you have?
Q:  Yes. But your existence was essentially known to us for a long time. Aside from some impressive footprints, though, we’ve always lacked the evidence to prove much of anything. How did you cover your tracks for so long?
BigFoot: Well, I didn’t exactly go shopping downtown on Black Friday… duh. I’ve always partied in the remote bumpkin areas where you (makes quote fingers) civilized people can’t get your aerosol cheese cans and NetFlix marathons. You tend to stay away in droves when you can’t be pampered. Heaven forbid you miss an episode of a show you can watch anytime, you act like somebody killed off your food supply or something. I mean, I’ve changed my diet hundreds of times BECAUSE of you guys.
Q:  Is that why you’re coming out now? To deliver a message about the environment?
BigFoot: First of all, I’m not (makes quote fingers, again) coming out because I’m not gay but thanks for voicing your erroneous assumption in front of the world audience like that. I’m probably blushing under all this hair now. And no, I don’t care about nature. Your environment is my bathroom, ok? Now, as I said before the interview I’ve been bleeding from the eyes a bit, my bowels are oozing like warm mustard and…
(interrupting)
Q: But how is it that scientists have never found your campsite or remains of your food?
BigFoot:  Oh, back to this? Ok. Remains of my food? Really? You mean, SHIT? You want to know why nobody found my titanic turd rods? You didn’t find them because I picked them up with my hairy palms every single time I went and ran with them until I could throw my muck in the river where your lab geeks wouldn’t think to look for it all. Do you want to smell my hands?? Have you ever thought how humiliating it would be to have your stool boiling in a beaker? It’s a means to an end, my friend so don’t judge me. You know, one time I almost left one behind when somebody was chasing me but thankfully the poop stuck to my fur and I escaped with it dangling behind me. Shit like that usually doesn’t work to your advantage, does it?
Q: Not at all, I can certainly relate. But, are you saying you carried and disposed of your own feces for almost two centur….
(interrupting)
BigFoot: I’m sorry, did you say “campsite” earlier? Do I look like a fuckin’ cub scout to you? Sorry but nobody gives out merit badges for ripping torsos in half, asshole. Are you new here? I mean, does somebody write these questions for you? Campsites are for visitors, ok? Like I would be at a Super 8 or Red Roof Inn. I’m a goddamned legend and legends don’t sit in tents toasting marshmallows over a Sterno can. I kick over trees and flip Winnebagos for fun. Women want me and men want to be me. Oh, and by the way you guys might want to do background checks on some of those scout leaders ‘coz I’ve seen some pretty inappropriate shit while lurking in the woods. I can’t possibly kill them all for you…(whispering) unless you nod your head for yes… then, I will. (pause) Was that a nod? Ok, forget it. We’ll talk later. (Normal volume) So yeah, I’m super concerned about this raging rectal rash. It’s made it impossible to distinguish gas from solids and I’m sure you can imagine the awkward social situations that can lead to. How do you guys make up these crazy-ass diseases, anyway? I spend my life shunning human existence and still wind up getting sick. Maybe that big drunk chick from the Discovery Channel wasn’t clean like she said. We were both pretty lit that night when she got lost in the woods. She kept crying and calling me Daddy so I played along and pretended her name was Lee. I bet she’ll never forget that safari!
Q: Bigfoot, it says here that you’re concerned about your health. Can you tell us where you stand on Obamacare?
BigFoot: Look, I realize I’m not a documented, tax-paying member of your society but from what I’ve read out of your trash cans, I’m pretty sure that doesn’t matter anymore. I couldn’t figure out that stupid website of theirs though and my fingers were too damned big for the keys anyway. So listen, I’ve really lost a lot of weight and I’ve been running out of breath when sodomizing hikers. If I could see a…
(interrupting)
Q: Sasquatch, how do you feel about the media’s portrayal of you over the years?
BigFoot: What? (cough, cough, sneeze) Ugh! Sorry, did I get blood on you? Um, yeah I guess it’s been okay. The fuzzy pictures make my ass look kinda fat so I guess that always bothered me a little. That Krofft Supershow thing with Wildboy was pretty weak but I liked when Andre the Giant played me on The Bionic Man. I had quite the guy-crush on Lee Majors back then. Like I said though, I’m definitely not gay. So yeah, I don’t want to be quarantined or anything but I could definitely use some medicine, maybe some cough syrup and antibiotics. Ointment too. Honestly, a veterinarian would be fine…
Q: If you indeed have the Ebola Vi…
(interrupting)
BigFoot: Oh, hey! Harry & the Hendersons was pretty cool, too but I never act that goofy unless I’m drunk. But, that’s Hollywood. Lithgow is definitely a class act, by the way. Whoa, did you say that clump of hair just fall out? It’s not even my regular season! Man, I cannot go bald, that would totally kill my woodland cred. Ever notice how black guys can shave their head and look cool but when the honks do it they look really sick… or worse, like Michael Stipe?
Q: No, not publicly. But, how have you maintained your health in the wild up until this point?
BigFoot: You mean, without insurance?
Q: Um, in general.
BigFoot: Beats me. It’s not like there’s some kinda wildebeest clinic out there in the sticks with a red cross on it. I mean aliens won’t even pick up probe victims out where I roll. But, I grew up healthy. No different than any other yeti, really. Stayed active, played sports. We used to play soccer with a human head as kids. So yeah, all good ’til I started vomiting profusely a few months ago. It’s been terrible. I can’t even keep down the tastiest child. Is that an ebola symptom or was that whole thing just a political virus? C’mon, you’re white. You must know the truth. (grunts heavily in discomfort) Do you have any medic training?
Q: Well, uh… we, um ..actually we’re going to take you to a doctor now… SECURITY!
BigFoot: Sure, right. Look, I should get going. Oh hey, is there a Payless around here? (runs across room and jumps out window)


Observations of the Unemployed

January 5, 2015

Unemployed

10. Employers don’t seem impressed with the Linkedin profile pic of me laying on the sofa in my underwear scratching myself with a turkey leg.

9. Meow Mix doesn’t leave my breath as fishy as other leading brands.

8. Those chicks on Springer really need testing. I mean scholastic… bacterial, whatever.

7. Wednesday matinee strippers have the sex appeal of Rosie O’Donell teaching nude aerobics.

6. The liquor store lines are pretty short first thing Monday morning.

5. My proposal to become the inaugural Wal-Mart sniper tasked with cleaning up the customer base has apparently been rejected.

4. There’s a bar downtown that’ll serve me in my bathrobe and slippers.

3. The woman next door must be expecting a large package because the mailman seems to stay there for at least a half-hour or so each day delivering it.

2. At least 60% of the dog’s ball-washing is purely recreational.

1. Apparently, HandJobs.com is NOT an employment website despite the hours I’ve devoted to it.


Dear Nabisco: A Letter of Dissension from an Angry Oreo Aficionado

September 21, 2014
You don't mess with a man's munchies. You just don't.

You don’t mess with a man’s munchies. You just don’t.

First, I’d like it to be known that I am in my fourth decade as a drooling gorger of the snack world’s greatest creation, the Oreo Cookie. Barely a day goes by that I don’t gobble, grind and swallow a sleeve or two of these wondrous caloric delights. Prior to a heavy snacking session, I’ve even been known to crush, powder and snort a few choclatey biscuit rails as a preface to the joy that will follow. The very concept of these marvelous stacks still seems revolutionary to me a full century after their inception! The Nabisco Research & Development team must’ve really been smoking the good stuff back in 1912. I mean, who else would have thought of bookending a pair of cocoa wafers around a patty of pure-white poisonous paste?! Well, technically, of course that would be the Sunshine Company that created the Hydrox sandwich cookie years earlier, but who even tracks those things other than Wikipedia? My point is that I have faithfully stuck by the Oreo brand even in the face of their colossal fuck-ups such as watermelon, banana split, and ass-fudge filling. In return for such loyalty, Nabisco has sunk to a low that qualifies as their most heinous crime ever against the Oreo institution and billions of rabid snackers, stoners and trans-fat fans.

To be direct, I hereby charge The Oreo Institute of America of shortchanging the public on the amount of jizz between their wafers. You should know that my allegations don’t stem from the mere musings of a munchie-driven ganja fiend. Physical research has been conducted in order to verify what started simply as paranoid suspicion. Extensive lab testing has confirmed the beat count you are attempting to pass off as a satisfactory volume of frothy filling. In essence, The National Biscuit Company has been skimping on the neuro-toxic wadding in order to save money. Well, let me tell you something you lousy crumb-counters, the pasty sweet stickum has fallen far below the quantity needed to effectively provide structural integrity to the cookie. We are not talking about a simple single-layered dessert organism here. Physics come into play with a creation as complex as a sandwich cookie. You more than anyone should realize that the security of the assembled piece hinges crucially upon the contact area of the bleached-putty, patty-face. Vacuum is a principle you seem to have forgotten, which is surprising when one considers how much you really suck for fucking with a good formula. Cream filling to a cookie stack is much more than what frosting is to a cake; it functions as a sealant to bond two bisections. Yet, you’ve allowed your manufacturing minions to reduce it to meaningless gelatinous muck. This attrition in volume not only robs connoisseurs such as myself of the Oreo’s very essence, but creates an unstable snack structure that falls apart as soon as it is airborne en route to the gullet.

My testing began with calipers ensuring that the thickness of the two pseudo-chocolate discs hadn’t changed, which they have not. At least that much is held sacred (for now.) However, using a freshly calibrated drop-gauge, I found that the cream filling itself (or lack, thereof) was negatively effecting the overall thickness of the snack. Worse than that, ultrasonic testing revealed that there were gaping air pockets within the filling which would ultimately act as sink holes denying the wafers the proper vacuum seal needed to hold the entire assemblage together. Collapse is inevitable under these conditions. Even the more progressive-minded munchers that dissect the confection for de-creaming across their central and lateral incisors are essentially robbed of the complete noshing experience. “Hollow” is just not a word that should describe a dessert. I realize that sugary lard may not be the cheapest ingredient in the world but with increased sales due to marijuana legalization, Nabisco can certainly afford to give us a properly constructed cookie that doesn’t fall the fuck apart between the daintiest of fingers. Granted, the dog is quite happy with my lapful of crumbs but then again, he isn’t the one paying for the damned cookies, is he?

I’d also like to take issue with the Oreo Marketing Department. No favors are being done to the English language by dropping a crucial consonant from your “Double Stuf” cookies. Was this initially a typo that you decided to ride out as opposed to eating crow? By any stretch of logic, the pronunciation is no different than the properly spelled “stuff.” I can assure you that there is nothing clever about acting stupid, my friends. I am desperately trying to look past the fact that this abysmal creation of a cookie holds barely a pittance more filling than the original cookies once possessed. Double, my ass! I see where this game is going. Nabisco is once again trying to stiff the consumer, or should I say “stif?” So, thanks for shitting on the last cornerstone of American awesomeness, you greedy cream-scrapers. The terrorists have officially won.


Self-Absorbed Asshole Enjoys the Hell out of Father’s Day

June 15, 2014

fathersdayWhether by blood or human bonding, the father figure has historically been treated with great reverence. Hence, our annual celebration of the ones we know as Dad, Papa, Darth or StepFucker. Sadly, an alarming number of fathers are undeserving of these accolades but, as Americans we do our part to grease the gears of capitalism by taking part in the charade, nonetheless. After all, somebody has to rape the forests of their life blood. Why not, Hallmark?

Ahmnat Ward is an international banking professional and father of an unknown quantity who prefers to spend time by himself than with what he refers to as the “sack dwarves.” “Look, I got kids. A mega fuck-slew of ‘em. I think of them as my little anonymous army. I travel you know, so I’ve sprayed my seed halfway ’round the country and even dropped a few shots in some border towns for color. Overseas, too. I’m sure there were dry loads along the way too but who keeps track of these things? Point is, I just don’t like kids. BUT, I really like gifts, LOTS of them!” Ward’s shameless admission speaks to the selfishness of the Gimme Gimme Generation. When asked if he feels any responsibility for the poop-jockeys he’s brought in to the world, he exclaimed with excitement “My birthday and Father’s Day are the best! I get so much cool shit in the mail from kids I didn’t even know about! Some don’t even spell my name right, ha, ha. I love the ones written in crayon that matches the ribbon! But seriously though, the gifts are great. Their Mom probably put them up to sending me something, which is pretty awesome. Way to go, forgettable females! No clue how they ever find me but I’m always glad they do. Kids never have much money but they’re desperate to please which makes them damned good gift-givers, in my book. That’s from the heart, too. I feel that shit. I really cleaned up last June. Not just cards, but calculators, radios, neckties and pen sets. I even got some of that celebrity cologne so I can splash on the sweat of Andre the Giant. No re-gifting, either. That shit is mine, baby, mine. Some teenager named Helmut sent me a shoe-stretcher! No idea why anyone would want to stretch a shoe when you can get two for one at Payless but I love anything that has to be unwrapped! Oh, and for the record that kid’s name definitely wasn’t my idea.”

Thankfully, most father figures don’t subscribe to Ahmnat Ward’s particular brand of parental dickishness. Positive role models still exist here and there but looking to popular culture for moral guidance might not be the best idea. Even Ahmnat rejects television icons as role models, albeit not for the expected reasons. “You’d have to have anal warts on your brain to adopt three more kids than you already have like that guy on TV did, especially on an architect’s salary. I mean, the number of presents you get would be totally awesome and almost worth it but you pretty much pay for them yourself by shoveling grub into those dirty face-holes all year round. Shit, no wonder the guy became a gay alkie.” As a final stab into the heart of the paternal institution, Ward added “To me, every day should be Father’s Day. I love the discounts and free admission to the zoo… by myself, of course. I even love the smiles from flirty women who seem to know I’m wearing a pair of socks given to me by a faceless kid in Bangladesh.”


Road Journals: Excerpt I- The Toilet Pages

May 13, 2014

Straight from the Ant’s Rants travel log comes the sordid tale of a man on a quest. He seeks no gold, no fame, no worldly wisdom. The only treasure sought along this road is the mighty Porcelain Throne. Enjoy the ride…

Road Journals: Excerpt I- The Toilet Pages

Hundreds of miles lay in my wake. The hours of cross country trekking were finally catching up with me. My gut was grumbling and my bodily functions were screaming for action. By the time I hit the backwoods of Georgia, my Hanes were in danger and my fountain was on the spritz. As much as I hated to push a nugget in the porcelain jungle of a public piss pen, it seemed a far better choice than inside my $30 American Eagles. Problem was, it was about three o’clock in the morning. Any clean and respectable establishment was closed until the AM. Technically, of course it WAS morning but not the time generally suited for bacon and eggs. This hour was ripe for hookers, cocaine and curious clergyman… possibly all as part of the same transaction.

I’d been fighting my inner needs for the better part of two hours and I knew I’d never make it until the cock cried. If my eyes weren’t already brown they sure would have been after the level of urgency rose as high it did. Let’s just say things can really back up on a guy driving for hours on end with nothing but Slim Jims for sustenance. Waiting any longer was just out of the question. I’d simply have to settle for less than ideal conditions. Sure, in a perfect world I would calmly place myself on a heated velvet toilette and gracefully let nature take its course but that seemed like a rather tall order that time of night. I mean, a scantily-clad French maid to mop my crack with a silken cloth would have been stellar but equally as difficult to obtain on such short notice. Especially, with the wages I was offering. Besides that, I hadn’t seen any kind of man-made structure in fifty miles. Anybody actually living in the woods I was driving through was bound to be a white-tail deer rapist. All I knew was that if I didn’t take care of business within the next few minutes, I’d have to renege on my personal oath to never again poop in the woods. Decades earlier, the Scouts taught me to wipe my ass with leaves, but not how to identify poison ivy when I see it. Needless to say, several youthful days were spent dripping ice cubes down nature’s valley for relief. A debilitating addiction to Calamine Lotion ensued. Eventually, I was weaned off the sauce with bacitracin and cold cream. Since then though, I’d held my vow to never drop my drawers in a non-tiled room. Miraculously, that promise would remain intact as the opportunity soon arose for me to complete the most fetid of bodily functions. Salvation stood alone in the middle of an otherwise uninhabited roadway and came in the form of a rundown gas and food-mart. I would later find that the gas came about an hour after eating the food.

My eyes saw the Gates of Heaven and its sign said Fuel. That building contained everything I needed to feel complete again; sugar, caffeine and most importantly Porcelain. Of course, the dirty deed was top priority and not to be delayed. I careened into the parking lot driving at highway speed with my foot dragging outside the door in anticipation like Fred Friggin’ Flintstone. I hobbled as fast as I could over to the store, swung the door open with full force tearing out the bottom hinge and knocking over a newspaper rack. Standing in the doorway amidst the broken glass, not a soul could I see. As if no other words or action were necessary, I barked out the lone word “Bathroom!” to the open air in the center of the store. Pause. Nothing. As I prepared to paint the place brown, a head slowly popped up over the counter from underneath a wrinkled newspaper. Without ever actually looking at me, the head’s owner mumbled, “outside” while holding out a key tied to a 2×4. I grabbed the pebble from his hand and left the temple posthaste. Outside again, my head spun around like Linda Blair on a coke binge, but I failed to see the bathroom anywhere. In fact, I found no doors at all other than the store entrance. I felt panic setting in as my underwear feared the worst. After circling the perimeter twice, I scratched my head and pondered aloud, “Where the fuck is the damned crapper?!”

Minutes later, something caught my eye at the far end of the rear parking lot. It was a tiny shed-sized building standing alone in the darkness. Surely, this must be the place for which I seek. Indeed it was. It was a cold, dark, and damp little shithole in the middle of nowhere. A thing of beauty, indeed. My chapel. My church. My saving grace. Tears of joy welled in my eyes as I waddled across the lot with my legs squeezed tight and my arms stretched before me like Herman Munster on his way to the parlor.

At first, the door seemed locked, stuck or rusted shut but with a few sharp kicks and a pulverizing head-butt it scraped open to reveal my soiled savior. Moments later, I remembered the key in my hand and decided to keep it as a souvenir. The only light inside came from the moonlight shining in through the vents in the roof. That luxury skylight was probably the only reason the smell in there wasn’t worse than it was. The sensation was gag-inducing. I cringed in Poe-ish horror as I imagined being entombed alive like Fortunato. That stony crypt could easily have become my final place of residence if I hadn’t used my emergency pocket shoe horn to prop the rusty door open. If it came to pass that I got trapped in there though, I’d be forced to live on toilet water and excrement until someone found my decaying remains still trying to claw their way out of that Walnut Grove hell-hut. All my mail could be forwarded to the rooftop air vent and dropped below. The thought was almost enough to initiate retreat, but at that point there was no way I could turn back without shitting to regret it. I’d come too far to walk away with funky undies.

Shunning the darkness and all its horrors, I unfastened the butt-flap in the back of my Michael Landon long-johns and mounted the porcelain pony for that joyous ride to Relief Town. Sure enough, pulling open the chute doors allowed ten years of life to return to my broken body replacing the buckets of junk food that just departed through the Southernmost exit. I unleashed weapons of ass-destruction never before thought possible. I slumped forward in post-orgasmic satisfaction unfazed by the fact that I hadn’t even covered the seat with anything protective. If I hadn’t been so pressed for time, I probably could have fashioned some type of sanitary wreath out of mud and twigs. Surely that would have blocked at least a few germs from getting in through the out door. Nevertheless, as I sat on that toilet in the Georgia outhouse at 3:00 A.M., I thought to myself, “I can’t believe I’m sitting on a toilet in a Georgia outhouse at 3:00 A.M.” As comfortable as that sticky ass-ring felt on my tired backside, I knew it was best not to rest there for too long. As dark as it was, there was just no telling what kind of matter might me festering beneath me. Besides, I would only get more tired if I rested there longer. Worse than that even, I would procure an unattractive oblong indentation around my posterior. Nope, not for me. It was best to buckle up and clean up… although not necessarily in that order.

As I stepped up to the basin, I encountered yet another unpleasantry. Not at all to my surprise, there wasn’t a single drop of water running in the little prison style sink with which I could wash my hands. Nothing but rust stains from the corroded faucet covered its chipped porcelain skin. The shadowed moonlight revealed what might have been a roll of paper towels lying in a rain puddle on the floor, but I couldn’t be sure. It could just as easily have been the slumped cadaver of some poor animal that got trapped inside while seeking shelter. Or perhaps, some drunk the night before stumbled in and missed the commode after bingeing on Captain Morgan and Cool Ranch. Too chancy. Just as my Aunt Jemima always told me, “Never touch unidentifiable objects in dark Southern outhouses without rubber gloves, tongs and a friend that works in the germ ward.” For lack of a better idea, I washed up by way of the ole’ Denim Dry Rinse Method. Thanks to dark jeans, nobody would ever know my dirty little secret, sans the smell. It was just me and the open road, anyway. With my intestines contracting back to normal, I split that concrete hellhole as quick as my rubber legs could carry me. Problem was I was still exhausted and now famished. I hadn’t eaten anything of consequence all day. Let’s just say the quality of snacks that went into me was similar to the way the snacks came out. I needed food. I was starting to feel as hungry as the Olsen twins look. In the middle of nowhere, I had no choice. Fuel.


Lamest Powers of Wannabe X-Men

April 6, 2014

According to comic book lore, human beings possessing the X gene have the potential to become one of the mighty X-Men, whether it be for good or evil. That is of course assuming that they survive the blast of radiation that initially empowers them without later suffering the horrors of cancer. Without a doubt, all of our favorite X-Men possess powers to be reckoned with such as mind control, magnetic influence and extreme weather forecasting. But, what about the other mutants whose powers never develop into something useful like making ice cream materialize out of thin air? I’m sure there’s plenty of people that have opened the microwave door too quickly and sucked up more than their share of Chinese gamma rays. However, the radiation just isn’t strong enough to effectively alter someone’s body chemistry much less properly cook their baked potato. So, if  palm freckles are all that type of incident can result in, I’m pretty sure the exposed victim doesn’t deserve a leather bodysuit and a bad-ass nickname to prefix his gender. So, aiming slightly higher than glowing skin blemishes, let’s look at the lamest powers ever possessed by nameless mutants that will never be cool enough to be X-Men.

10. Toe knuckle hair as strong as piano wire but harder to tune

9. Can swallow bullets and shoot them out the ass while sustaining only minor injuries to internal organs

8. Fat rolls in the breadbasket can project small objects with the force of a lemon lobbed by a leftie with his right arm

7.
Ultra strong ass-breath can weaken mortar with 6-7 precisely aimed exhales

6.
Hurricane force eyelid fluttering can flatten anything with 14 centimeters

5.
Super steely sideburns can scratch the shit out of any opponent foolish enough to get lured into a hug

4.
Flabby side skin stretches out like wings on a partially malformed sugar glider

3.
Razor-sharp detachable nipples serve as retrievable throwing stars so long as the wind is cooperating… in both directions

2.
Flame retardant belly button lint can be used as… well, nothing

1.
Vaginal vice grip can twist open stuck peanut butter jars yet gracefully flip phonebook pages without ripping them


Philandering Lesbian Blasts Gay-Marriage Supporters

March 1, 2014

LesboLashOut2013 was a celebratory year for gays and lesbians throughout the country. Numerous states voted to legalize gay marriage entitling same-sex spouses to medical and tax benefits as well as gratuitous groping of each other’s junk in public. Heterosexuals nation-wide rallied behind the flag of equal rights in an effort to win the political favor of those that enjoy the same kind of genitalia they see naked in the mirror. Although many lips and tips have been pleased with the support, not every homosexual appreciates the elevated level of attention.

Womanizing lesbian, Edie Berber is a professional arc welder that’s fiercely defensive of her lifestyle. She describes herself simply as “your average ho, looking for free drinks and some fresh moose-knuckle.” Edie has been working the downtown scene since the early eighties when she says “we all just wanted to strap one on and have fun. It was about getting laid. Nobody cared about marriage, white picket fences and all that Leave It To My Beaver bullshit.” The crop-haired Berber insists that the media frenzy surrounding gay marriage has adversely affected her ability to engage in meaningless dalliances with other fur traders, “Look, I ain’t lookin’ for nobody’s help. I’m at the Labia Lounge three nights a week picking up raw stank and I’m pretty good at it too. I just wanna keep my average up, ya know? But all that domestic talk scares away the fresh fish. Either that or I give ‘em a sip of my drink and they’re ready to buy Hers & Hers towels together. The whole scene is whack now. It’s like all you people are clam-jamming and don’t even know it. You think I wanna keep some bitch named Frankie? Get real.”

Despite being off the marriage market, Edie Berber appreciates the right to wed if she were to ever choose to do so…. well, sort of. “Shit, I guess if you always want your mouth tasting the same, that’s great. Ain’t for me, though. I ain’t tryin’ to be part of no damned Brady Munch. I’d shit thumbtacks before I wake up face down on the same carpet every morning.” When we reached Edie’s trailer for a follow-up interview, we found her naked and alone grinding her drunken privates against an old bean bag chair as she wept. She quickly finished herself off before wailing how she’d struck out on Nipple Night at the Tuna Club. “I got slapped twice for one grope, had my hand sat on once and had three drinks thrown in my puss. On top of that I got two marriage proposals. Two! What the hell am I supposed to do with that, rub it in my bird’s nest?” Edie sobbed. “Why do you self-righteous assholes always gotta be goddamned saviors? I should be motorboating some bitch on a barstool right now! Instead, I’m home alone… yet again, with an unopened bottle of rufies and a pair of dead D-cells. Fuck off, you meddling breeders!”


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