Excellent! The first line of my new column begins with a catchy title. Rule #1 of great writing: humor columns should always catch the reader with a startling title or, even better, a catch phrase. Perhaps I'll start these mother-fuckers with 'HEEEEEEY GURL!' or 'THE BITCH IS BACK!' or 'THREE SNAPS FOR SELF-DERISION!'
Capital letters work well too.
Fink didn't give me any instructions regarding this bullshit assignment, other than "Type what you want and I'll post it." I guess having a homosexual around gives this website some liberal credibility.
Now he needs a black man, a jew and a cripple. Well, shit don't matter where it goes. What matters is where that shit ends up. I only hope this fucking free ride ends with some massive tragedy.
Perhaps I'll find myself, three years from now, the ripe old age of 32, not really trying too hard to overcome my nasty addiction to prescription diet pills and Nyquil, on the dirty, pee stained floor of some highway rest stop in Any-Shithole-town, USA. I'll throw my hands to heavens and I'll scream, "Why??! DEAR GOD, WHY!??!?!"
I'll shove my head in the crusted, stinking toilet bowl, churl my entire breakfast of two grilled cheese sandwiches, greasy pork rinds and five Jack and Cokes, daintily wipe any remaining bits and stagger, (with dignity), to my '97 Volvo, crank that bitch up and make my way to the next Barnes and Noble at the Mall of Any-Shit-Hole-Town, USA for my very own National Fink Tank Collected Essays book signing tour, of which I'll see no goddamned royalties!
"Thanks for nothing Fink, you greedy bastard!!"
At the mall, following a depressing Starbuck's coffee klatch with the scariest gay people on the planet: Midwestern gay people. The kind of fucking queers who actually buy the overpriced, forehead moisturizer as seen on 'Queer Eye'. The kind of disconnected fags who live in a cornfield and consider themselves 'urban', 'hip', 'chic' and 'fabulous'. I hate the word fabulous.
A grossly obese person will slump to my book signing table and gush, "Oh Gayest Neil, your wit and self-hatred made me realize how fabulous my life really is!" I'll glare at him, smile, peel the whitening strip from my chompers and press it into his moisturized forehead.
"Yeah, you are fabulous."
The following morning my bloated body will be found, having perished from carbon monoxide poisoning in the mall's basement garage. Stiff and stinking, with my weenie exposed, having died masturbating to 'Daddy Magazine' and a half eaten Big Mac. My fans will never know which I found the more erotic.
It's a suitable demise, but a girl can only dream.
So my prophecy foretold, the first thing I want to get straight: Apart from my sometimes ironic self-disgust, I am not homophobic and although Fink tells me he hates anyone who puts things up their asses, I believe deep down inside (or rather deep up inside) that he's not homophobic either.
I'm a champion for my people, however much I tend to dismiss and belly ache about them. In the following weeks you'll come to taste a salty, milky, egg-white gulp of what it's like to be a gay man living in these here United States of America, equal and protected by God for life, liberty and the pursuit of horniness. A gay man told by both societies to conform or get out, but refuses to do either!
I'm a gay man on the brink of 30, marching towards the age when gay men start wearing ascots, tossing martinis and guest starring on the 'Match Game'. A gay man with little regard for stupid people, other than my friend, Fink. A gay man with big regard for porn, much like Fink. A man like you, only he's gay! You want a queer catch phrase America?
How's about "Ain't the Marryin' Type!"?