Swine Flu = Cheap Hotel Rooms

I'm like an effing absentee father.
I post regularly, I'm in your life, and then - *POOF* - I just vanish for a month. It's as if I went out to get cigarettes in the middle of a conversation about dental dams and never came back.

Well, I've been busy, bitches. I finished my job. All finished with traveling all over the country every damn day. I now hate planes. And hotels. And America.

I spent a week securing a new fake job where I "edit" stuff in an office in St. Paul. I'm "editing marketing materials" as I write this. I spent a week wearing fake eyelashes in Las Vegas at the Miss Exotic World pageant. (That's like the Miss America pageant for burlesque dancers.) And I spent a week in Mexico, buying every single thing I could find that either had Jesus being gorily crucified in great detail (chunky plastic blood!) or with the Virgin of Guadalupe on it - stickers, belt buckles, t-shirts, candles, mini plastic crucifixes, and one electrifyingly elegant Guadalupe lamp made out of seashells, glass, glitter, and red whore light bulbs. It got placed in my bathroom, where it scares the shit out of me nightly. Our Lady has glowing eyes.Anyhoo.

The topic today is something I feel passionately about: Dykes who don't go out.

We're talking about this today because Pride is next week, and all the homos I haven't seen all year come out to frolic and drink and get sunburned on their tender parts. Every year, I look around in amazement at Pride and say, "Are you KIDDING me? All of these dykes live here? HERE? Well, where the FUCK have y'all been?" Because, seriously, I see the same 30 girls out at the bars and clubs. This suggests either one of two things:

1) All the lesbians are hanging out in a Secret Dyke Hangout that I haven't been invited to, or

2) they are partnered-up and curled-up on the couch all year long, trying on each other's sweatpants and Netflixing Better Than Chocolate for the 23rd time.

I'm pretty sure it's #2.

LEZFACT: When lesbians find a girlfriend, they stop going out and you never see them again.

I'm guilty, too. Just yesterday, I was crouched on the living room floor, protecting my soft organs and screaming with laughter while CJ (my favorite lil' piece) pretended to be a mosquito - jabbing me with her "finger proboscis" and demanding in a shrill, nasal voice, "Where's the sweet meat? Where's the sweet meat?"

Fucked up.

In the midst of begging the mosquito for mercy, I thought, "I've got to get out more."

It's true! Only single dykes go out, and they're only going out so they can be not-single. The bars are full of girls who just turned 21 and women who just finalized their divorce. Everybody else is at home, impregnating each other with their gay-friend-Robbie's sperm.

The sad truth is, as we all get a few years older, the pool of people who think it would be funny to stick mini firecracker rockets in your ass and then hang it out the window and light 'em is...dwindling. It's fucking boring.

But once a year, every year, all the gays in the entire city get together to wear assless chaps and get floppy and bare-titted for Dykes on Bikes. The city throbs with "I'm gay! I'm gay! There are so many of us! Isn't it wonderful? Tra la!!" for three days, and then everybody goes into hiding again. Lesbians, once more, become like endangered gazelles - such a rare sight that straight couples grip each other's arms and stage-whisper, "I think they're together, Mike."

I want to know why. Surely there must be other benefits to leaving the house. Is poontang the only reason anyone goes anywhere?

I mean, for other people, besides me?