AWFUL Truths : Let The Queer Set You Straight
"He handed me a whole chicken thinking I'd wanna cook it, and I threw that motherfucker at his HEAD!" said an inexplicably single for three decades lady friend and mother of three obese felines. Candidly, I asked if the auto factory manager she met at Applebee's (him resembling a chiseled TV daddy making me wanna hurl beheaded poultry at HER noggin for banging) put this discontented dowager in her place one good time, standing up to her shenanigans might make her fall hopelessly in love? This independent 60-something home-owning Master's recipient came back "Oh, HELL yes...", sighing out like an inner-tube impaled by a nail. Queers are ambulatory versions of Wonder Woman's golden lasso: magic objects guys and gals alike spill their truths to. The silly crud y'all do to yourselves and each other, I swear.
Pacing the hall of our prison's open dorm last night, talking with a felon about melodrama involving trans inmates I likened it to acquaintances I've known who have undergone gastric bypass surgeries, both outcomes analogous with narcissism, substance/self abuse, supporter abandonment, and promiscuity. Body/mind out of sync with the frenetic pace of metamorphoses, coupled with lost years of new-found tangible fantasy and confidence fostering a mental illness combination platter of mania and it's megalo-big sister, at least those doing it for appearance over health - analogous scenarios. Trans folk genuinely seeking gender re-wires do dandy says 40 years of living out, whereas queers seeking hetero sex partners get killed, a phenom blamed on churchgoing fag-bashers roaming the countryside instead of "cisgender" sexual assault victims in the heat of passion.
Submitted for your approval: a severely mismatched relationship of mine coasting on my guilt-fumes for almost a 1/2 decade (Nope, not Catholic nor Jewish a stitch, merely retarded) had a lively, thick (equal modesty and generosity with that lone adjective) fag-hag in Georgetown, KY who met a charming, nerdy penis-bearing minimized weather balloon from upstate New Yawk playing an online card game (early 2k time frame) and they rapidly became pen-pals, friends, visiting romancers, then spouses. She, the cook and homemaker of his dreams with the face of an angel adjoining a slight hirsute issue leading our non-mutual friends and me to the whispered shaming "Neckbeard, The Pirate" (I'm a piece of shit deserving of prison, sometimes). He was her punching bag, whipping boy, and pillow to primal scream into, at, through, and down to locale be damned. His mid-thirties bride was a psychotropics piñata, and clearly this cocktail was crap. One of the scant benefits I got from my relationship other than stone proof I didn't follow my pop's suicidal footsteps was dinner on this gal's dime on Wednesdays, otherwise I'd have given Jr. sage wisdom and told him to lob her wide ass in the head with a raw dinner bird coupled with a sermon re: the new by-God captain on this vessel. Savings on copays alone would buy him a Nintendo that week, but it might backfire and lost lasagne with cheesy garlic bread was too risky, it being likely both of ours main reason to still get up and get into clean pants. Also, his blushing bride was tight with her Vietnam vet papa who wiled away the hours crafting disturbing but kick-ass multi-themed papier maché Kabuki masks and might julienne the groom's trachea, guaranteed to condemn my secret Olive Garden.
Allow me to interject the person writing this screed didn't come out of the crate as the voice typing. This happened over 15 years ago and the guilty in these stories could evolve too. My current partner is the so-far love I've waited for, and two years ago was a homophobic Nazi gang-affiliate. Never give up on people, but don't be a blindly trusting idiot either, kids.
The lady of their house, biologically speaking, opted for weight loss surgery and I expressed serious concerns to my partner. He assured me we'd continue Wednesdays but she'd eat smaller portions. This proved right, thank Heaven. Barrages of therapeutic assessment, aerobic workouts, fasts, hellish preparations, and surgery happened. Our brave heroine sprouted wings. Kinda like Rocky the Flying Squirrel, with hanging flaps of skin that could coast her from cliff to cliff, or make a California-King Dermal Bedspread. Then the excitement of the yearlong fat girl circus left town and it was time to go home, watch TV, and be a person with the mundanes who stood by her 300+ lb pear body pre-op: new girl but same good ol' hubby, right y'all? Anybody holding onto hope, toss this device into your nearest water feature and return to the digital landscape after living some third-dimensional life because you are gravely in danger.
The mother of 3 pugs wanted no shared custody in a hastily declared divorce on what grounds, you ask? Domestic RAPE. Yep, that adoring purse rack who lived terrified of her was now getting slandered to their mutual friends as a sexual assault perp (mysteriously not in documentation). Anyone reading this who decidedly feels shes victimized: occupying an 80% sex offender prison I realize NO ONE is incapable of lying, goes without saying a whole fucking gender. An abortion of critical thought occurs to argue otherwise. That period ending the sentence prior was a slamming window.
Her post-marital routine involved a personal stool at Applebee's (where America gets crazy-laid, apparently) and those meds were now shoveled down with vodka tonics in lieu of chocolate cake. Sport-fucking became her new exercise regimen. Workout partners anew, interestingly, were African-Americans. Having an inmate LGBTQ status that has consumed from that portion of Earth's rich buffet, I will elocute delicately: WHY WOULD A WHITE DAME DROP 100+ POUNDS TO SCREW BLACK DUDES? Have a peanut oil deep-fried fish sandwich on Texas toast dunked in tarter sauce with pups, steak fries, Cole slaw, and a Cherry Coke, all Jumbo Size three Happy Meals a day, as this demographic understands your needs and celebrates them. Seriously, bottoms up Toots! If you're gonna booze it up nightly like a poet on payday, health isn't your mission. This is the second zoftig female in my orbit to shed weight and supportive husband embracing "Jungle Love" as Morris Day and The Time named it. Childhood neighbor Lisa did it too, doffing her high school honey and fast food manager (Druther's, née Burger Queen, hive to Queenie Bee whose lap I sat on when I was five, hustling a ring emblazoned with her cartoon image - they were dotted throughout Mid-America's topography having one only in Kentucky left, with orgasmic HUSH PUPPIES on their salad bar!) Steve for the once-illegal love. He, like this other feller was a doting doormat.
Ship me to Pee Wee Valley Correctional Facility For Women if I'm incorrect, but entertainment is supposed to mirror cultural truisms, right? Did hawk Claire Dunphy on "Modern Family" seem unfulfilled with Dover dorky dream boat's umbras Phil? Seemed like bliss to me. Fresh-to-syndication "Bob Hearts Abishola" had a wooden dick-saw Nigerian lady lead with a deflated White comic husband (How I loathe hefty humor actors getting skinny. Die for your damn art, Billy Gardell and Matt Ross. Corpse of chubby John Candy > still breathing, looking melted John Goodman. Delta Burke getting chunky took her from starlet to comedic AUTEUR) who made each other inauthentically complete. Cinema and small screen alike are rife with the satisfied customer femme whose mate is a trembling doormat, the way God, nature, or Oprah intended.
Penning a piece recently titled "If You Can Say Something Nice: Meat-Heads And Scat-Cams" regaling Roseanne for the best seasons, bringing flyover reality with artful hilarity to the '90's living room landscape, and this is a prime example. Rosie was top on the cast sheet and house boss, but her hubby's role as co-head of the establishment and the complexity of dual alphas got confronted in the scripts, not ending with his surrender/emasculation/apology, or an indictment of masculinity as "toxic" thank all that's sacred. We were permitted to love Dan, a pronounced 100% heterosexual man, only portrayed not as a wad of White devil doo-doo unlike Ray Romano or Kevin James, wherein that's part of the parcel. Every male lead existing not for the purpose of satire I've witnessed behind these walls was worm or wuss, as his woman expected or approved because lying to girls is America's Greatest Pastime unless you're Dave Chappelle.
When it was Comedy Central's #1 into-the-cosmos hit, Dave's hysterically funny sketch show that dared to go there did a bit aping "The Real World", MTV's maiden reality show featuring cohabitating strangers. One occupant was Average Joe College Honky whose existential epicenter was his blonde equivalent in short order being swept into the orbit of a Nubian thug and his homies, going bucks both wild and naked with a visual impairment, unable to see the guy who brung her to the dance. A simple joke identified an inconvenient truth: the lie everyone sold about what women wanted. I get it fully, in the House of Raging Boners. Thug allure is they wear the dangerous pants in the family (see: "Dude Awakenings" in Stories) even when pant-less, and often allow women to feel like actual ground-to-ceiling females via their ultimate sexual fantasy - power. Im not going to canonize the ghetto because thats done to overkill already and brimming with illusion, but that fantasy appeals, even clandestinely to women whod scoff before shareholders because of the weakness the men in their spheres have dealt. I imagine the joke was, for the pedestrian, about what inmates anatomically dub "radiator hoses". Whether Chappelle knew the deeper cultural veins he tapped with someone wanting to feel SOMETHING even intangibly I can only offer conjecture.
Further on comedians: Louis CK, whose early material was edgy and confrontational, often looking at the dark corners of marriage and womanhood. Ladies were littered and laughing in the crowd as men were while he demonstrated what kind of animal he was while being successful and unapologetic: a confident heterosexual. Then something changed. His Emmy-winning show featured a nonsensical diatribe from a great overweight actress about how most men (untruly) hate women like her, getting social media applause from Social Justice types unlike the usual clientele. CK then did a bit about "wife-beaters" AKA tank-tops, being willfully obtuse as I know he's aware they aren't genuinely called such, but nicknamed this because of the characters who donned them in 1970s - '80's flicks. Soon after such efforts to re-brand as Mr. Sensitive, it turned out he had this habit of jacking off in front of lady coworkers who put him on blast, firebombing his career. Like Dustin Hoffman, claiming to cry cross-dressing in "Tootsie" over treatment of women only to be discovered as a disgusting charlatan, the sensitive guy is simply doing a bit to bag snatch without having to rough up his soft hands. This particular type is to me one of the lowest form of bitch-life.
Stated, I'm in a facility with a multitude of convicted sex criminals. A woman I knew in another lifetime was speaking on a hulking guy blessed with a velvety, gruff voice. "Take it, Bitch", was what she fantasized about him brutishly growling into her ear from behind before taking it FROM her. That, I know, is a Class " D" felony in Kentucky. Plus, a majority of the womanscape would publish females detesting such, being the reason this gentle giant read Cosmopolitan to find out what the fairer (?) sex required of his generally single self. Myself a magical lariat, I'm here to call so much bullshit on rape fantasies being a male construct. It's from a populous of women shriveling from TESTOSTERONE deprivation. Men fantasize about sex. It's women who Jill-off about power then scapegoat that noun on their counterparts. Trust me, the arrested pervs I live with slobber all day over booty shots not concerned with overpowering anything, and fantasize about anything in stilettos commandeering their existences.
The problem isn't exclusively chromasomally speaking an X, though. Men by the scores are finding "Internet Dads" and a new journey. Chappelle's nugget "There wouldn't be houses if a man could fuck a woman in a cardboard box" might hold true, but the group of fellows who forgot how to build or do anything handy as economists and the South Park team pointed out, now social and cultural influencers from Mike Rowe, Scott Adams (RIP), and Joe Rogan to Titus with a mighty crew betwixt have began demonstrating independent, creative, strong, nontoxic, outspoken masculinization long overdue. Naturally, unexceptional males and bitter old harpies hate this as they do women with the slightest opening for happiness to breeze through. The fact that these men don't blanket demonize and in some cases embrace the right side of American politics makes them sans evidence (a device of the value-less assassins - "dog whistles" - no need for burdensome evidence) assailable as Neo-Nazis and misogynists. Immaterial how much these women might want guys like these, their "support" tells them loudly "no" via shame, a powerful cult-tool.
On a different Earth, I watched a group of girls develop together in "Womynhood" and it was a horror story I'd only revisit as a budding writer with savage lust for tragicomedy. An ongoing Mexican standoff wherein nobody was allowed the booty of happiness, only one filled with adipose tissue from the fast food they didnt eat yet vehicles stunk of, juxtaposing Facebook accounts extolling the.joys of vegetarian cooking with shit-eating natural toothpaste grins. Wellness proponents all, notwithstanding chain smoking, booze-swilling, obesity, and glaring clinical depression. This ride-or-die "sisterhood" so clearly hated, manipulated, and sabotaged each other a preemie incubator-tenant could see it. The fear of introducing even the idea of a new man into a member of the pack's critique more traumatic than the parents who instilled them with asinine ideologies without recant, then blamed the daughters solely for the basket cases they ballooned into as adults. I believe grown folks to be culpable for their happiness but when a hypocrite someone's lived life trying to honor won't apologize, set them straight and free as the senior is old enough to know better, spaces in Hell await them.
One tiny ideological star is "victim blaming", a concept one daughter from the last paragraph confronted me over. Living in a hundred+ years old house (another fantasy best kept that way) adjoining University of Kentucky's campus where smart families started buying real estate instead of losing king's ransoms on dorm and apartment rent. Next door, a landscape architect brought his spoiled brat and friends to the 'hood and I hated their spoiled, loud, obnoxious, and 10 ft. grass-having asses like poison, tagging daddy's business on social media regarding the neighborhood rat farm like a spectacular Karen. Regularly, young girls in uncomfortable footwear toting wine bottles in the late hours would stagger to the walkway between the fake bamboo farm and I'd want to run to them and beg for sense. I pictured phone pics ruining their lives, delirium-induced gang-bangs with payouts to avoid court proceedings, ending with naive, ignorant, maybe even silly girls sinking into miasmas of despair. I voiced this in sectors of Facebook to the rage of "empowered" females. Again, let's lie to girls and sling misery at them. The people who claimed to be building a world FOR them were booby-trapping it.
In the recent lexicon comes the acronym A.W.F.U.L., coined by opposition - Affluent White Female Urban Liberal. "Why are these witches acting like this?" Because they came from that. Everyone's failed them from girlhood starting with an absentee dad, usually. I might get vilified for comparing women to kids, but were ALL children. No one's offered them security, priority, or nurturing. That's why she's fighting cops, border agents, and authority figures because everyone loused the job. Now she's going to trainings to find out how to get herself killed because vacationers like Ruffalo, Sykes, and DeCaprio say she should. Why didn't she reach out to somebody for love, support, and security? She did. If somebody had to guide everyone else word for word and with baby steps, she did the job herself then. No one looked up from their mirrors, phones, or Game Boys to see the horror or sadness in her eyes.
This isn't hate mail to a lady-bully at all. It's a love note to a murder victim that didn't jump but got pushed. THAT'S the AWFUL truth.
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