Eating 8


by James Killough

The most salient issue at the heart of Dustin Lance Black’s play 8, a live reading of which was broadcast on YouTube last night, is not just our equal rights as Gheys.  It’s the reason we have such a cumbersome, unrealistic institution as marriage to begin with: to protect children.  To a lesser extent it includes protection of women as well, but that lesser extent has only come about in recent times, and is pretty much limited to the western countries, where women enjoy some degree of parity with men and can fend for themselves, provided Rush Limbaugh isn’t knocking them up and making them go barefoot.

If I were a straight former Armani model, I'd be Jay Bulger. (See item two.)

I’ve never been big on political plays.  Whatever the viewpoint and ideology, they always come off as variations on Soviet and Chinese agitprop.  I can just imagine the stars of last night’s reading—George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Martin Sheen, Kevin Bacon, John C. Reilly, et al.—prancing heroically across the stage behind massive fluttering rainbow flags to a schmaltzy, goose bump-inducing rendition of “Born This Way,” played by a newly out gay military orchestra.

Mourning the Spineless Penis

According to my personal lexicon, a spineless dick is what I call a good friend who won’t go into overdraft to loan me more money.  According to the Guardian, the scientific community is all a-flutter over the discovery that we men have shed the DNA responsible for allowing us to have spines in our penises like other mammals.  The dickhead creationists will probably cite this lack of penile backbone as incontrovertible proof that we were actually created by God, not descended from apes through evolution.  I say to them, Verily, thou shouldst have more faith in science than fruitloops juju mumbo jumbo, for hath not science replaced the penile backbone with Viagra?  Is Pfizer not therefore divine?

Speaking of spineless dicks, I cannot resist reposting this image with a new caption:

Radical feminist poet and playwright Mama Muamah Gaddafi, author of “For Bedouin Girls, Who Have Considered Homicide When the Sand Dunes Are Too Ruff,” shows her followers that you don’t have to wear trousers to behave like a man.

I was right about the atrocities, they’re trickling out already: apparently Mama Gaddafi has swept out the dungeon and has been sharpening her knives and waxing the rack.  Some BBC journalists she had a stab at are reporting widespread torture by Mama’s minions.  Where does evil like that come from, do you suppose?  I’ve been watching Lady Gaga’s new video over and over for the answers, but her creation myth is just as bat-shit loony as anyone else’s.