Friday, June 24, 2005

The Big Gay Dolphin Show - Texas Chronicles Part Three

The gays are everywhere. They are in supermarkets coyly asking the produce guy what "scallions" are. They are on the subway reading the Metro letters and laughing at the all the silly breeders who write in about God. They are flocking to baseball games, making over "straight" guys, singing the national anthem and flaunting their pitching and catching skills before the first at bat. They are probably in your office right now, reading over your shoulder and whispering to their straight female friends about how you move your lips when you read or how your shirt isn't ironed very well. They are even at America's amusement and theme parks, pushing their ever-present "gay agenda" on unsuspecting tourists and water mammals. They are everywhere. Serious.

I didn't realize how omni-present the gays are until a recent family trip (and by family I mean my actual family, not some lame fictitious group of faggots that I call my own) to Sea World in San Antonio, Texas. I'm not going to go into how ridiculous it is that I was at a Sea World--let alone one in the middle of a desert in Texas--this isn't about that, this is about the gays taking over America with their sophisticated and sneaky PR machine.

Of course, any day trip to Sea World involves seeing the dolphin show, right? Everybody loves dolphins. They are so smart and cute and they have these little humanistic personalities that everyone can relate to. Plus, people love sitting anywhere where the words "Splash Zone" are prominently displayed. I have to admit, I too was excited to see dolphins laugh and play with humans and do silly little tricks and frolic in the water. But I had no idea what show I was really going to see.

After about 20 minutes of watching some stupid (and clearly gay) guy pretend to get taken advantage of by a series of little water fountains, making children laugh and pissing off large bald guys by "accidentally" spraying them with water, the lights dimmed and the crowd hushed...the dolphin show was about to begin. Suddenly, the stage/tank was surrounded by rainbow colored streamers and ribbons and the PA system was taken over by loud thumping club music. (The kind the gays like to listen to in dark rooms filled with smoke generated by machines while they take off their clothes and do tons of drugs while having really hot sex with strangers.)

And then the guys in skin tight clothes started coming out of the woodwork. Diving in very suggestive patterns, dancing and glancing at each other and the dolphins in very sexual ways, and I'm pretty sure there was even a short-haired butchy girl diver representing the lesbian population. I couldn't believe my eyes. Everything about this dolphin show was gay. It had faggot written all over it. I was shocked and appauled. No one else seemed to notice, people were clapping their hands and oo-ing and aww-ing, pointing the gays out to their children as if everything was just hunky dory.

Then the show slowed down it's pace and didn't seem quite so gay, but more like your traditional dophin show. But I'm sure that was not because the homosexuals had stopped their terrible proliferation of their gay ideas and "alternative" lifestyle. I had cleary become desensitized to their agenda by just watching the first 15 minutes of their staged propoganda. I had become a victim of gay dolphin trickery.

Monday, June 20, 2005

The Tabasco Fiasco

I love hot sauce. I love it. I put it on everything. My favorite is Frank's. There is nothing like taking a hot cheese pizza, sprinkling loads of kosher salt on it, and then dumping on some Frank's hot sauce. Of course, you can't get Frank's everywhere, and more often than not, restaurants don't carry it. I realized this the other week while travelling to Seattle. During my layover in Minneapolis (I hate that airport), I went to the bar for something to eat (and, of course, a beer or two). I got some food, and asked the bartender for some hot sauce. He reached under the bar and pulled out a bottle of , to no suprise, Tabasco sauce--a decent sauce, but lacks the sophistication of flavor and heat that Frank's carrys.

One thing I've noticed about Tabasco sauce at bars and restaraunts is that it is completely watered down--this bar was no exception. I had to completely cover my potato skins in the shit just to barely taste it. I'm sure the patrons of the bar thought that I was completely stoned. I used most of the bottle by the time I was done. What they didn't understand was that it was 3 parts water, 1 part hot sauce. What a fucking ripoff. (Not that I was paying for the Tabasco sauce itself, but what a horrible thing to do to the Tabasco name.)

This is not an isolated incident. There have been many times when--at a diner, a pub, a restaurant--I have been suprised at my ability to down huge doses of Tabasco sauce only to then realize that it is not my super-high tolerance for spice and pep, but a conspiracy by the food service industry to save $1.29 per bottle and water down the precious spicy 'gold' that is Tabasco. Either that, or previous patrons have eluded to the fact that the restaurant's sauce is "too spicy" and in the interest of profits over people who can actually take the heat, they have chosen to water down their sauce and pacify the pathetic masses.

I fear that I may have to be like those annoying ladies who would bring their own dressings to restaurants in those horrible commercials. I will be pulling un-adulterated Tabasco sauce out of my masculine handbag and dousing my food with normal strength hot sauce instead of worrying about what kind of watered-down red-liquid might be served at no one's discretion. How could this happen? Oh, the evils of society. I'm so sorry Mr. Tabasco, for your name has been tarnished forever and I fear there is nothing to be done about it.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

The Murderous Roomie

I had a very disconcerting dream last night. I dreamt that Roomie killed someone in my kitchen and left him lying there, bludgeoned and bleeding all over the kitchen floor. I walked in the house to see Roomie and some other fake roommate who only exists in dreamland working on some messy project in the kitchen, with some dead guy hanging out on the kitchen floor. I asked Roomie, "What the fuck happened in here?” He was clearly drunk in the dream and didn't answer me. Fake roommate chimed in, "He got angry and hit the guy over the head with a bowl." Of course, I said that someone should call the police, which didn't go over so well. In fact, Roomie shot me a displeased look at the suggestion, go figure. "Well, the least you could do is clean up the mess!" I yelled. I then retired to my room, deep in the deepest quagmire I have ever been in, real or imagined. Do I call the police, turning Roomie in for his poor drunken judgment resulting in what was clearly just a fit of accidental rage? Or do I just let it go and hope that he cleans up the kitchen and disposes of the body properly? Of course, Roomie, to my knowledge has never killed anybody with a bowl or any other lethal weapon that I know of. In fact, he is probably the least violent person I have ever come clearly this murder dream made no sense. However, by not turning him in, I am--in effect--an accomplice to murder. 'Maybe he won't get caught' I think to myself. But everyone who murders someone gets caught eventually. And to my knowlege, this is the first person that Roomie has ever killed, so I'm pretty sure he doesn't have the slightest clue as to what he is doing. Surely he'll get caught. What to do? What to do? So I woke up. Subject closed. Dreams are so fucked up. I can understand the whole Roomie being drunk in the middle of the day part. Both of us are oftentimes drunk in the middle of the day. I can also understand the part where I get upset that he and other fake roommate haven't cleaned up the dead body mess in the kitchen--for this is clearly a dream commentary about my obsessive compulsiveness in regards to ridiculous, anal retentiveness (such as making sure that the glasses in the cabinets are stacked from back to front in descending height order, that all the mugs are placed in the cabinet upside down with the handles all facing the same way, and that the cereal boxes are all facing the same way with the side labels reading from top to bottom--there's more, but I won't get into them here). And I can understand my dilemma of ratting out Roomie vs. protecting him from getting caught for some stupid thing he did in a moment of drunken passion--I don't want Roomie to go to jail or anything. But what I can't understand is why Roomie has to kill someone in my dreams? And who in the hell this mysterious fake roommate anyways? It doesn't make sense. Dreams. What are my dreams?