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OMIGOD OMIGOD OMIGOD

Five fucking minutes ago, I WAS IN LINE WITH THE U.S. OLYMPIC WOMEN'S HOCKEY TEAM at the Boston Airport.

HOLY, HOLY SHIT.

Here's what happened:

I was bored, shifting my weight from foot to foot in the "Expert Traveller" line for the x-ray.  
Waiting for all the assholes who think they're 'experts' at being ready for security because they go to Vegas twice a year. 

Assholes.

Annoyed.

Idly running my eyes over a delicious girl's ass.  

This girl was kinda dykey.  She was standing in front of me, wearing jeans, and I gotta tell you - even through jeans, you could tell her legs were muscled like a stallion. 

I was having filthy thoughts about pulling her shiny brown ponytail and shouting 'giddyup!', when I noticed she had a 'Team USA 2010' puffy parka on. 

THEN I NOTICED SHE HAD FRIENDS. 

And they also had 'Team USA' jackets.  And asses you could bounce quarters off.

There were four of them. 
They were laughing, they were shoving each other; they all had ponytails, lip gloss, and colored elastic headbands (the definitive markers of young Sporty Dykes.) 

And they all had 'Team USA' duffel bags.

It couldn't be. 

It. could. not. be.

I was right behind them!! A women's team from the Olympics!  I could have touched them! 

Thoughts were racing through my head. 
I should say something.  I should ask them what sport they play.  I should drop something in front of the whole team and see if they wrestle each other to get it.  I should should talk to them.  I should say something.  I should ask for a picture.  I should yell, "USA!  USA!" and then ask them all, collectively, out on a date to the nearest airport bar.  Holyshitholyshitholyshit.

It is in these key moments in my life that I choke up.

In awe, I quietly went through security and started to collect my stuff.  I would never know.

AND THEN!!!   The TSA Security Butch saved me!  She did!

She was patting one of them down, right in front of me, and she said casually, "Hey, so what, were you in the Olympics or something?"

YES!!!

The girls broke into hoots and hollers and one yelled, "HOCKEY, BABY!"  and pulled out....

THE SILVER FUCKING MEDAL.

No lie! I saw it and it was huuuge. 

Then my eyes rolled back in my head and I fainted from delight and then I came to and sent about 3,000 text messages about this amazingness. 

And then I tried telling the lady next to me on the plane, but she sucked at being happy for me. 

She obviously hates America.

You guys, I saw the Olympic Women's hockey team.
Aren't you so excited???

holyshitholyshitholyshitholyshitholyshitholyshitholyshitholyshitholyshitholyshit

But I'm A Fun Girl

It's Learning Time!

Word of the Day: Vituperative
Pronunciation: vih-too-per-ah-tive
Function: adjective
Meaning: uttering or given to censure : containing or characterized by verbal abuse.


Keep this word in mind, homos.
 Now guess what?

New Orleans is crawling with lesbians.

Holy shit is it ever. I was there for the MLK weekend, and it didn't even cross my mind that there would be dykes there. But it makes sense.

If they're not camping, lesbians love cheesy tourist/drinking destinations where they can buy fuzzy pimp hats or have their name airbrushed onto a t-shirt. Think Wisconsin Dells. Six Flags. Anywhere with fried mini-donuts.
New Orleans was a good time. Made better by the fact that there's a dyke bar there called Rubyfruit Jungle. Totally serious. Right off of Bourbon Street!

I had to go. I dragged Kirsten with me. She didn't want to go - she'd been pleading all night to go to a titty bar. BITCH NO! We were going to see if we could hook up for free first. (then we could totally pay for strippers. I'm just not that good at sitting on my hands in the club. They somehow...wander.)

Inside Rubyfruit Jungle, it was a sea of sporty dykes. They were wearing jerseys and cheering the Saints on toward playoff victory. Everytime the Saints gained yardage, much sporty-dyke shoulder-punching and whooping ensued.
Ew.


But wait! There! Leaning against the wall! A cute boi! Wearing a hoodie and drinking something clear! She was elfin (how I like 'em), messy-haired, and had what Avril Lavinge calls "shit on her wrists." Lots of cuff bracelets.
I had my target.


Never let more than two minutes go by after spotting what you want.


She had already seen me. I smiled. She smiled.
Kirsten rolled her eyes and sluttily ate a cherry out of her drink.

"AAack look at that girl over there OMG she's so cute," I hissed to Kirsten.


She looked over the bar.
"Which one? They're all sporty."


Bah. How could you not see the shining beacon of hotness that was the sulking boi-dyke? I gathered my courage and left Kirsten. She did not understand true magnetic attractiveness.

Me: (hovering near bar stool) Hi. (Sitting down next to adorable boi)

Adorable Boi: Hi.

Me: Wow. You are really cute.

Adorable Boi: (flatly) Thanks.

           (Really, really awkward pause)

Me: Just, um, wanted to tell you that.

Adorable Boi: Lemme guess. You're from out of town.

Me: Ha. Uh, yep. Chicago. Where are you from?

Adorable Boi: Here. (slow-motion points to the floor)

Me: Oh. Wow. Is this, like, the only place in town?

Adorable Boi: Uh-huh. And - lemme guess again - you're only in town for a couple of nights.

Me: (shifting uncomfortably) Well...yeah.

Adorable Boi: (laughs meanly) That's what I thought.

Me: You must get this a lot.

Not-So-Adorable Boi: (nastily) You could say that.

Me: Jesus. You live in a huge party town. Of course dykes in the only dyke bar in the French Quarter on a Saturday night are going to be looking for one-night stands. Let me give that a "duh." If you don't like it, you should move.

NSA Boi: You don't know me. Excuse me for trying to find something a little more long-term.

Me: Excuse me for paying you a compliment and trying to talk to your bitter ass.

NSA Boi: I think your friend's cuter, anyway.

                 OUCH.

Me: (in a vindictive fury now) Yeah? Well, she's straight. You're attracted to straight girls. That's why you're having problems, Bitter. You're attracted to straight girls.  Good luck having a long-term relationship with one of those.

I shoved back the bar stool. I collected Kirsten's cuter ass. We left.

SHOT DOWN!!!

I stalked through the cool mist, past flickering gas lamps. Fuming.
I told Kirsten was that the cute boi was really bitter and looking for a long-term relationship. I didn't tell her that the boi thought she was better-looking. Kirsten was mildly surprised we were leaving so soon, but willing to go, as we had plans to watch Interview with the Vampire in our Westin bathrobes.

We got a ride back to the hotel from a sweet white mule named Mercedes, and the driver was very nice to us. He gave us carrots to feed Mercedes, and I patted her nose and mourned the loss of my innocence. Y'all: That was the meanest rejection of my life. Granted, I said some pretty vicious words (should we say I was...vituperative?) as well, but that boi started it.


When you're a femme lesbian, and you don't have a second head growing out of your right shoulder, it's fairly easy to get dates.
Like shooting fish in a barrel.
Like bow-hunting a deer when you're riding the deer.
It's easy.

There just aren't that many gay girls who dress girly.
There just aren't.
We are a scarcity, and getting rejected out-of-hand like that had never happened to me before.

I called my favorite lil' piece, CJ, to howl.

CJ: Let me get this straight, boo. You're calling me at 3:37 in the morning to complain that some girl in a bar rejected you? On the New Orleans trip I wanted to come on but couldn't 'cause of school?
Me: Exactly. Now tell me how sexy I am.

That mean boi really hurt my feelings.
It was probably good for me.
You know, take me down a notch.

But never fear, skanks, I have recovered. It's Learning Time, and the lesson we can take from this is: we must deal with rejection and move on.

We must never, never stop hitting on women.

Sporty Dykes

Alright. Time to discuss Sporty Dykes. Sporty Dykes is an enormous category, spanning many other categories. Lots of dykes can play sports or like sports, but there is a certain kind of lesbian that is a True Sporty Dyke.

Sporty Dykes hang out in packs. Where there’s one, there’s twelve. This is because they’ve spent the majority of their lives on a sports team of some kind and are unable to function independently in a social setting. They can be instantly identified in any room by the amount of ass-slapping and shoulder-hitting going on. Sporty dykes usually have a sunburn and/or freckles. IF they have long hair, it is in a ponytail. No exceptions. A younger sporty dyke will have a colored elastic headband around her ponytail and be wearing mascara, lip gloss, and no other makeup. ATTENTION: Sporty dykes are NOT butches. They are absolutely different.

Softball dykes will often wear their uniforms to the bar together. That is so gay. Bowling team dykes will not. Rugby dykes are humongous.

Basketball dykes are completely seperate from regular sporty dykes. That’s because basketball dykes are not out. If you encounter a female basketball player, even if she is licking a girl’s crotch at the moment you meet her, it is absolutely inappropriate to ask her if she is gay. She will never say yes, and will be offended forever. Buuuuuut the point is moot because a vast majority of female basketball players (at least at the college level) are homos. Undercover homos. Women’s basketball leagues try extremely hard to 'feminize' their teams and make sure they have male fans -hence the long hair on all players. Dykes in the know are aware of basketball’s rift with the gay community, and satisfy themselves with going to WNBA games to salivate over the super-tall players with bulging muscles that gleam with sweat. Mmmmmmm female basketball players. So do not ask a basketball player out. If she likes you and is gay, she will probably pass you a secret note or something. I don’t know, I’ve got no idea how the b-ball girls mate.

Q: Where do we find the sporty dyke?

A: The sporty dyke hangs out almost exclusively at any bar that offers a “ladies drink free” night. This means that we find the sporty dyke in a lot of straight bars that will quickly become gayish bars in a couple of months. If a bar or club offers a two-for-one deal on beer, chances are good that there is a pack of sporty dykes camped out there.

Bad things about sporty dykes:

Sporty dykes never have waists. Or hips. They are built in straight lines. Sporty dykes are strangely religious and often have Jesus Fish on their cars. They live in the suburbs. They like to dance, and they dance like morons. They like to drink, and they like to swear, and they like to start fights at the bar. They date each other. They flash gang signs when being photographed. They use the word “cunt” outside of the bedroom. They wear visors. They start every sentence with “Dude.”

Good things about sporty dykes:

Sporty dykes are hilarious. They make unbelievably obscene jokes. They blush when embarrassed. They can be incredibly sweet, and are heartbroken easily. When they fall in love, they are monogamous. Sporty dykes are willing to be friends if you are, and couldn’t care less about you if you don’t like them. They buy rounds. A sporty dyke is the most likely person in the room to know how to do “The Worm.” They determine whether a gay bar will stay open, as their collective drinking power is enough to keep any place afloat. Sometimes they have gorgeous sweating muscles. They know how to use every machine at the gym. They will encourage you to eat even more fried food.

She’s Probably A Sporty Dyke if She:

- Thinks her college sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers are appropriate for a special event
- Punches your shoulder to be friendly and it totally hurts
- Has a beer belly and the rest of her is fit
- Wears a bikini top and men’s board shorts to the pool
- Has a crucifix keychain with rainbow beads on it
- Keeps a beer bong in her closet from “that awesome Spring Break in the Keys”
- Gets thrown out of bars on a regular basis
- Thinks 'makeup' means Chapstick and sunscreen
- Was in a sorority
- Has friends named Ashleigh, Morgan, Shannen, and Carrie.
- Knows how to ‘carb-load’
- Has a Pontiac Trans-Am, Sunfire, or a Jeep.
- Could talk knowledgeably about the pros and cons of particular protein powders
- Has never left the state she was born in (let alone the country)
- Breaks bones on a regular basis and/or has ‘amazing’ bruises she wants to show you
- Has ever, ever called someone a “pussy” for not getting up to sing at karaoke.