Dear Uppity Bitch at Dog Park,

And by bitch, I do not mean female dog. I mean human who needs to relax and shut the fuck up.

So you decided to take your two dogs to the excellent Parkgrounds for the first time. Fantastic! As you walk Rufus, the 5 year old Boxer, and Ollie, the younger white Havanese, towards the entrance you can see inside. I know you can because I can see you through the chain link fence. You see me, a 50 pound transsexual, and you see other dogs my size all running around in the mud. Mud, may I add, that you knew about because when it rained earlier in the day it did so all over the city. Later, you say out loud, "[Ollie] is very playful. He likes to roll around with big dogs." So please, for the love of Rin Tin Tin, explain to me your behavior upon actually entering the dog run area. This playful Havanese of yours instantly bounds to me and another dog to engage in friendly (but not wink-wink friendly) play. He literally jumps in our face. So what the fuck is with your shocked and appalled face when we play back? At the sight of light wresting you actually got down, cradled a wriggling Ollie, and started calling out to have people remove their dogs from his presence. We were playing, woman! The panic you felt while whisking him to a safe area so you can frantically brush the dirt off his pretty white coat was totally uncalled for. You actually used the word "dramatic" to describe the 30 seconds he spent enjoying himself. You are a bitch.

Then you drag your big boxer into the human area as well and make complete strangers hold Ollie on a leash while you go inside. Why?! What terrible, horrible, no good, very bad danger lies in letting a dog be a dog? At one point when someone comes up to admire your precious, pretty lap dog, you instruct Ollie to tell them, "I'm a bad puppy." I can only assume that's a gay porn reference considering poor, emotionally abused Ollie exhibited no signs of misbehavior. According to you, "We adopted him." We? So that IS a wedding ring on your finger? I thought if you liked it then you should put a ring on it. I can't imagine anyone wanting to put anything around you but a noose you're so fucking obnoxious. This supposed husband can't possibly have the will to live anymore. You hate fun so much that the moment you walked back out carrying your Arden's Garden juice -- that was extremely reminiscent of my shit after I eat too much lettuce -- and wearing your "Peace" tank top you grab the dogs and declare, "This is a disaster." You're right. Your dog getting the opportunity to play and socialize is a disaster. Something tells me that your husband trying to turn you on is a disaster too, you uptight doily. Thank goodness you left the park immediately with hapless Ollie still trying to escape your grasp to sniff some ass otherwise who knows what sort of joy could have been had. Way to avert a catastrophe.

Get over yourself, woman. We're dogs.

Love,
Tranny Dog

P.S. You look like Justine Bateman. And that's not a compliment. She's been playing her share of hookers and drug addicts lately.

And by bitch, I do not mean female dog. I mean human who needs to relax and shut the fuck up.<br /><br />So you decided to take your two dogs to the excellent <a href="http://www.parkgrounds.com/">Parkgrounds</a> for the first time. Fantastic! As you walk Rufus, the 5 year old Boxer, and Ollie, the younger white <a href="http://www.havanese.org/">Havanese</a>, towards the entrance you can see inside. I know you can because I can see you through the chain link fence. You see me, a 50 pound transsexual, and you see other dogs my size all running around in the mud. Mud, may I add, that you knew about because when it rained earlier in the day it did so all over the city. Later, you say out loud, "[Ollie] is very playful. He likes to roll around with big dogs." So please, for the love of Rin Tin Tin, explain to me your behavior upon actually entering the dog run area. This playful Havanese of yours instantly bounds to me and another dog to engage in friendly (but not wink-wink friendly) play. He literally jumps in our face. So what the fuck is with your shocked and appalled face when we play back? At the sight of light wresting you actually got down, cradled a wriggling Ollie, and started calling out to have people remove their dogs from his presence. We were playing, woman! The panic you felt while whisking him to a safe area so you can frantically brush the dirt off his pretty white coat was totally uncalled for. You actually used the word "dramatic" to describe the 30 seconds he spent enjoying himself. You are a bitch.<br /><br />Then you drag your big boxer into the human area as well and make complete strangers hold Ollie on a leash while you go inside. Why?! What terrible, horrible, no good, very bad danger lies in letting a dog be a dog? At one point when someone comes up to admire your precious, pretty lap dog, you instruct Ollie to tell them, "I'm a bad puppy." I can only assume that's a <a href="http://badpuppy.com/">gay porn</a> reference considering poor, emotionally abused Ollie exhibited no signs of misbehavior. According to you, "We adopted him." We? So that IS a wedding ring on your finger? I thought if you <span style="font-style:italic;">liked it</span> then you should put a ring on it. I can't imagine anyone wanting to put anything around you but a noose you're so fucking obnoxious. This supposed husband can't possibly have the will to live anymore. You hate fun so much that the moment you walked back out carrying your Arden's Garden juice -- that was extremely reminiscent of my shit after I eat too much lettuce -- and wearing your "Peace" tank top you grab the dogs and declare, "This is a disaster." You're right. Your dog getting the opportunity to play and socialize is a disaster. Something tells me that your husband trying to turn you on is a disaster too, you uptight doily. Thank goodness you left the park immediately with hapless Ollie still trying to escape your grasp to sniff some ass otherwise who knows what sort of joy could have been had. Way to avert a catastrophe.<br /><br />Get over yourself, woman. We're dogs.<br /><br />Love,<br />Tranny Dog<br /><br />P.S. You look like Justine Bateman. And that's not a compliment. She's been playing her share of <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/12317/arrested-development-family-ties">hookers</a> and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1002852/">drug addicts</a> lately.<p>

Tour of Homos: Alan Gold's or Hey, Mr. DJ!

Ever hang out at the bar in the Days Inn in downtown Chattanooga? You haven't? Oh. Yeah, well neither have Edith and I. But if we had then I would know that it was a high class establihment that offered all the trimmings. Cigarette burn holes in the plastic table cloth? They've got multiple... at every table! Stripper pole? It's on the raised stage! They thought of everything except customer service. I wondered why it was taking 30 minutes for our waitress just to take our order. Then I realized it was because we were literally the only occupied table in the place, so clearly she was swamped.

Ever hang out at night under an overpass in an unmarked, windowless van with the door open almost as though you are waiting for something, say, a victim? You have? Then that must have been you Edith and I saw in Chattanooga. I hope I'm not embarrassing you when I say that your aura of Holy-Shit-I'm-Going-To-Die is unparalleled. Because, holy shit, I thought I was going to die on our walk from the hotel to Chattanooga's gay bar, Alan Gold's. Little did I know that the danger lied not with the rapist troll under the bridge but inside Alan Gold's. That's where I died. On the inside. From prolonged exposure to obnoxiousness.

It's rare, but occasionally Edith and I will come down with boogie fever. When that happens the only prescription is salt. ... and her friend, Pepa. As any good American citizen - nay, any good citizen of the world does, we like to push it. Push it good. Push it real good, in fact. Unfortunately, the DJ did not realize how afflicted we were so we traversed the empty dance floor and explained our predicament. "So you see, Mr. DJ, it's a medical emergency." And that's when we were told that he doesn't take requests unless you tip him. Excuse me?! I suddenly understand why Wild Cherry was so hostile towards the white boy when he didn't play that funky music. This request surcharge seemed outrageous to us considering we had the answer to his Empty Dance Floor Blues, but we were tourists and therefore suckers so we dropped some dollar bills into the jar and waited for our song.

And waited. And waited. And waited some more. But we never heard it. All we heard was the same unch-unch-unch beat with lyrics behind it - some recognizable, others unknown. Of the songs we knew, there were a few good ones but all of them were butchered by the thumping club beat. I don't understand the need for the techofication of perfectly good, already danceable songs. Britney Spears' songs, for instance, are genetically engineered to be played at dance clubs. Adding the standard dance beat to Toxic is like taking a seedless orange and removing the seeds. Layering one track over your entire MP3 collection does not a DJ make. All it makes is a tool abusing Garage Band. Good DJs dissect, remix, mash up, and pair songs all in the name of enhancing the music and dance experience. Shitty DJs make all the songs sound the same so as not to confuse and scare the coke-addled brains of the queens that wear Gucci because it's what fancy people wear, not because they understand fashion, quality, or style. One of those queens happened to be on the dance floor that night. And it's quite probable that he got his dance instruction from his As Seen on TV VHS, Darrin's Dance Groves 2: Jazzercise Boogaloo.

The clubs that hire these shitty DJs also tend to be the clubs that line every single wall with speakers and turn up the volume to ear bleeding decibles. It's like they're trying to accomplish going plaid. Keep the music on the dance floor, kids. Maybe this makes me an old fuddy-duddy, but screaming like Al Pacino just to be heard and straining so hard to hear Edith that I poop myself a little everytime she speaks is not enjoyable. Certain areas of the bar need to turn it down to a low airplane engine roar, right? Am I crazy to want to talk to the people I go out with or start conversations with people I may meet? Is this why shallow Abercrombie twinks only seem to go to clubs in homogenous groups? Because the conversation would have been so vapidly boring that not having it because the music is too loud is a better alternative? There is so much I don't understand about club culture. I should look into a continuing education course; something like Technofication 101. But not in Chattanooga. All I wanted to do there was stumble back to the Days Inn then drive the hell home.

Ever hang out at the bar in the Days Inn in downtown Chattanooga? You haven't? Oh. Yeah, well neither have Edith and I. But if we had then I would know that it was a high class establihment that offered all the trimmings. Cigarette burn holes in the plastic table cloth? They've got multiple... at every table! Stripper pole? It's on the raised stage! They thought of everything except customer service. I wondered why it was taking 30 minutes for our waitress just to take our order. Then I realized it was because we were literally the only occupied table in the place, so clearly she was swamped.<br /><br />Ever hang out at night under an overpass in an unmarked, windowless van with the door open almost as though you are waiting for something, say, a victim? You have? Then that must have been you Edith and I saw in Chattanooga. I hope I'm not embarrassing you when I say that your aura of Holy-Shit-I'm-Going-To-Die is unparalleled. Because, holy shit, I thought I was going to die on our walk from the hotel to Chattanooga's gay bar, Alan Gold's. Little did I know that the danger lied not with the rapist troll under the bridge but inside Alan Gold's. That's where I died. On the inside. From prolonged exposure to obnoxiousness.<span class="fullpost"><br /><br />It's rare, but occasionally Edith and I will come down with boogie fever. When that happens the only prescription is salt. ... and her friend, Pepa. As any good American citizen - nay, any good citizen of the world does, we like to push it. Push it good. Push it real good, in fact. Unfortunately, the DJ did not realize how afflicted we were so we traversed the empty dance floor and explained our predicament. "So you see, Mr. DJ, it's a medical emergency." And that's when we were told that he doesn't take requests unless you tip him. Excuse me?! I suddenly understand why Wild Cherry was so hostile towards the white boy when he didn't play that funky music. This request surcharge seemed outrageous to us considering we had the answer to his Empty Dance Floor Blues, but we were tourists and therefore suckers so we dropped some dollar bills into the jar and waited for our song.<br /><br />And waited. And waited. And waited some more. But we never heard it. All we heard was the same <em>unch-unch-unch</em> beat with lyrics behind it - some recognizable, others unknown. Of the songs we knew, there were a few good ones but all of them were butchered by the thumping club beat. I don't understand the need for the techofication of perfectly good, already danceable songs. Britney Spears' songs, for instance, are genetically engineered to be played at dance clubs. Adding the standard dance beat to Toxic is like taking a seedless orange and removing the seeds. Layering one track over your entire MP3 collection does not a DJ make. All it makes is a tool abusing Garage Band. Good DJs dissect, remix, mash up, and pair songs all in the name of enhancing the music and dance experience. Shitty DJs make all the songs sound the same so as not to confuse and scare the coke-addled brains of the queens that wear Gucci because it's what fancy people wear, not because they understand fashion, quality, or style. One of those queens happened to be on the dance floor that night. And it's quite probable that he got his dance instruction from his As Seen on TV VHS, <em>Darrin's Dance Groves 2: Jazzercise Boogaloo</em>.<br /><br />The clubs that hire these shitty DJs also tend to be the clubs that line every single wall with speakers and turn up the volume to ear bleeding decibles. It's like they're trying to accomplish <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mk7VWcuVOf0">going plaid</a>. Keep the music on the dance floor, kids. Maybe this makes me an old fuddy-duddy, but screaming like Al Pacino just to be heard and straining so hard to hear Edith that I poop myself a little everytime she speaks is not enjoyable. Certain areas of the bar need to turn it down to a low airplane engine roar, right? Am I crazy to want to talk to the people I go out with or start conversations with people I may meet? Is this why shallow Abercrombie twinks only seem to go to clubs in homogenous groups? Because the conversation would have been so vapidly boring that not having it because the music is too loud is a better alternative? There is so much I don't understand about club culture. I should look into a continuing education course; something like Technofication 101. But not in Chattanooga. All I wanted to do there was stumble back to the Days Inn then drive the hell home.<br /></span><p></p>

The Way To My Heart Is Through My Loft

Having a bunch of new people over to my doghouse reminds me how much I love people complimenting it. I'm thinking of having a party every week now but never with the same people. But being as anti-talking to stupid people as I am, I don't have a supply of party goers available in my Rolodex. Do they have wholesale warehouses for these sorts of things? Like a CostCo for acquaintances? I think I'll have to take an ad out in the paper. "Are you highly complimentary? Do you enjoy parties? Does the idea of spending Saturday night at a tranny stranger's house excite you? If you answered yes to any of these questions then make sure it was the first question and come on down to Amelia Papaya's Weekly Loft Tour Jamboree! We'll have food, fun, and a home so amazing you'll be held at gunpoint till you say, 'Wow, I really like your place, Amelia.'"

It's strange, really. Other compliments I get (and let me tell you, there are a number of them!) are nice or whatever but my absolute favorite is always when people compliment my home. They can rave all day about my shiny coat, my spectacular humping, my puppy-like exuberance for life, my ability to be wholly unimpressed with you, my love of lists, my third grade report card, anything really and all I want to say is, "Yes, but what about my loft? Let's get to the real issue here." Perhaps because, with the exception of the drug habit that supports my puppy-like exuberance, nothing else cost me this much fucking money. Or perhaps because it is physical, literally concrete proof that I'm better than you.

So next Saturday night my place? Bring a friend but no fatties or repeat guests. ... well, okay, fatties can come but they have to compliment twice.

Having a bunch of new people over to my doghouse reminds me how much I love people complimenting it. I'm thinking of having a party every week now but never with the same people. But being as anti-talking to stupid people as I am, I don't have a supply of party goers available in my Rolodex. Do they have wholesale warehouses for these sorts of things? Like a CostCo for acquaintances? I think I'll have to take an ad out in the paper. "Are you highly complimentary? Do you enjoy parties? Does the idea of spending Saturday night at a tranny stranger's house excite you? If you answered yes to any of these questions then make sure it was the first question and come on down to Amelia Papaya's Weekly Loft Tour Jamboree! We'll have food, fun, and a home so amazing you'll be held at gunpoint till you say, 'Wow, I really like your place, Amelia.'"<br /><br />It's strange, really. Other compliments I get (and let me tell you, there are a number of them!) are nice or whatever but my absolute favorite is always when people compliment my home. They can rave all day about my shiny coat, my spectacular humping, my puppy-like exuberance for life, my ability to be wholly unimpressed with you, my love of lists, my third grade report card, anything really and all I want to say is, "Yes, but what about my <i>loft</i>? Let's get to the real issue here." Perhaps because, with the exception of the drug habit that supports my puppy-like exuberance, nothing else cost me this much fucking money. Or perhaps because it is physical, literally concrete proof that I'm better than you.<br /><br />So next Saturday night my place? Bring a friend but no fatties or repeat guests. ... well, okay, fatties can come but they have to compliment twice.<br /><p></p>

Tour of Homos: BJ Roosters

Ah, BJ Roosters. Where dirty strippers sway on a dirty bar and use their dirty sneakers to step over your dirty martini. Only, they're not strippers because the strippers in Atlanta work at Swinging Richards. These are the rejects from that crack den relegated to a career of keeping their underwear on and dancing on a bar so tall in a room so small that any one interested in their antics has to pull a neck muscle just to catch a glimpse of the razor burn on their taint. The lucky ones get purchased for a private in these kennel-looking cages. Because nothing telegraphs having your life together like selling or purchasing a blow job in a dog pen. BJ Roosters: the ashtray of gay bars. Smoky, grimy, and full of discarded butts. Don't let the upbeat thump-thump of house music fool you -- the nursing home your grandmother is waiting to die in is less depressing.

Ah, BJ Roosters. Where dirty strippers sway on a dirty bar and use their dirty sneakers to step over your dirty martini. Only, they're not strippers because the strippers in Atlanta work at Swinging Richards. These are the rejects from that crack den relegated to a career of keeping their underwear on and dancing on a bar so tall in a room so small that any one interested in their antics has to pull a neck muscle just to catch a glimpse of the razor burn on their taint. The lucky ones get purchased for a private in these kennel-looking cages. Because nothing telegraphs having your life together like selling or purchasing a blow job in a dog pen. BJ Roosters: the ashtray of gay bars. Smoky, grimy, and full of discarded butts. Don't let the upbeat thump-thump of house music fool you -- the nursing home your grandmother is waiting to die in is less depressing.<br /><p>

Boldly Going Where Many Trannies Have Gone Before

A few years ago, Jonathan Joseph and his partner, Foxy Brown, snuck me into Dragon*Con. I had to wear someone else's badge and find an inattentive security guard. The secret is to walk a few paces behind someone with an amazingly intricate costume... or a slut in an amazingly revealing costume. It's easy to do as both are ubiquitous at the world's largest sci-fi/fantasy convention. After my display of crazy mad Mission: Impossible skillz, I met up with some of Jonathan Joseph's friends only to discover that one was wearing the exact same outfit as me. Not really what either of us were expecting since only 5 people on the planet own a shirt like ours. It was from one of Jonathan Joseph's failed experiments, running a tee shirt company. As embarrassing as our faux pas was for me, it seemed it was more so for him when he lamented that I looked better in the shirt than he did. Oh, the days of being the skinny one. Gone but not forgotten.

Our reason for getting me into The Con that night was to attend an OutWorlders party. The OutWorlders are all the gay nerds who are nerdy and gay enough to throw a gay nerd party. Those uninitiated with the world of the geek probably don't have too much of an idea of what I was walking into. You might think that it would be a bunch of pasty invertebrates who live in basements with 8 computer screens and the DVD box sets of all three Battlestar Galactica series having spirited debates about whether Luke or Han is a better lover. Well, first of all, that's not fair. Geeks come in all shades, not just pasty. You'd think in a post-Obama America we'd be past that. And second of all, no. You'd be wrong. The man checking ID's at the door of the hotel room hosting the party was wearing a Utilikilt. Common enough around Dragon*Con. But this Utilikilted individual was also performing "Kilt Checks" on all the other kilt wearers. A "Kilt Check" is similar to that testicle check thing doctors do. Only Utilikilt had no medical training and instead of turning your head and coughing, he'd ask his patients to spread their cheeks and loosen.

Inside the hotel room was a mélange of horny bears, thumping disco, awkward come-ons, and hunch punch. Among the attendees were a number of older men and the younger boys they kept on payroll. One such couple was grinding... I mean, dancing in the middle of the room dick-to-ass style. Both with ragingly obvious erections because that's how you do when you roll with the OutWorlders. Another of the kept boys ended up knowing an old boyfriend of mine so I chatted with him for a while until it became blatant that his sugar daddy was trying to sell his boy's ass. Sugar Pop wasn't doing a very good job of it, I must say. He needed to display the wares more -- like the Dancing Hard-On Twins a few feet away. I would have liked to have seen a bit more showmanship. "Hot slut here! Get yer hot slut! We've got great deals on preowned mangina. Fully inspected and certified so you can trust that it is disease-free and retightened to be like new!" Of course, I would have liked to see a more attractive product as well, so I guess I was disappointed all around.

A friend of Jonathan Joseph, Sebastian, tried to cheer me up by placing his hand on my crotch completely unsolicited and without preamble. Unfortunately, Sebastian is was would happen if an uncoordinated, all-limbs Great Dane fucked a twitchy little Yorkie and their child got into mommy's medicine cabinet. I removed his paw and sent him on his way. He was last seen making out with someone behind a curtain. Possibly Frank Morgan.

Having had enough of the OutWorlder's Orgy, Jonathan Joseph, Foxy Brown, and I stepped into the hallway to sit down and talk without the fear of semen flying at us. While out there, I caught the eye of a handsome, sturdy gentleman strolling by. He stopped to talk and I learned that he was from Alabama, comes to Dragon*Con every year, and had just purchased the leather armor he was wearing as a shirt that same day. The way Jonathan Joseph tells this next part of the story makes it sound like I'm some sort of drunken slut. Nothing could be further from the truth! All that happened was Jonathan Joseph and Foxy Brown stepped away briefly to check on Sebastian (who was still asking the Wizard for a rim job) so I took my window of opportunity to run off with Leathabama unannounced because I wanted to have sex with him as I'd been drinking. I don't see how that makes me a floozy lush. Clearly, Jonathan Joseph is just projecting his own issues onto me.

There was, however, one obstacle in bedding Leathabama: this dweeby, dumbass poodle that had met my new man earlier and clearly had similar intentions as I. He followed us all around The Con, barking and running into walls. Leathabama, being more polite than I, needed to find his friends and let them know where he was going so they didn't worry when he never returned to their hotel room. Finding them was like questing for the Holy Grail with this poodle annoying us every step of the way like the Nazi's pestered Indiana. Trailing Leathabama all over the fucking hotel got a bit ridiculous. To the point where the poodle stopped and asked me, "What are we doing here?" To which I turned to look him square in the eyes and responded, "I don't know what you're doing here but I'm having sex with him tonight." And have sex with him I did! The poodle scampered off into the night after that and I got to check "help a lover out of a medieval leather tunic" off my bucket list. Tranny Dog scores again!

A few years ago, Jonathan Joseph and his partner, Foxy Brown, snuck me into <a href="http://dragoncon.org/">Dragon*Con</a>. I had to wear someone else's badge and find an inattentive security guard. The secret is to walk a few paces behind someone with an amazingly intricate costume... or a slut in an amazingly revealing costume. It's easy to do as both are ubiquitous at the world's largest sci-fi/fantasy convention. After my display of crazy mad Mission: Impossible skillz, I met up with some of Jonathan Joseph's friends only to discover that one was wearing the exact same outfit as me. Not really what either of us were expecting since only 5 people on the planet own a shirt like ours. It was from one of Jonathan Joseph's failed experiments, running a tee shirt company. As embarrassing as our faux pas was for me, it seemed it was more so for him when he lamented that I looked better in the shirt than he did. Oh, the days of being the skinny one. Gone but not forgotten.<br /><br />Our reason for getting me into The Con that night was to attend an OutWorlders party. The OutWorlders are all the gay nerds who are nerdy and gay enough to throw a gay nerd party. Those uninitiated with the world of the geek probably don't have too much of an idea of what I was walking into. You might think that it would be a bunch of pasty invertebrates who live in basements with 8 computer screens and the DVD box sets of all three Battlestar Galactica series having spirited debates about whether Luke or Han is a better lover. Well, first of all, that's not fair. Geeks come in all shades, not just pasty. You'd think in a post-Obama America we'd be past that. And second of all, no. You'd be wrong. The man checking ID's at the door of the hotel room hosting the party was wearing a <a href="http://www.utilikilts.com/">Utilikilt</a>. Common enough around Dragon*Con. But this Utilikilted individual was also performing "Kilt Checks" on all the other kilt wearers. A "Kilt Check" is similar to that testicle check thing doctors do. Only Utilikilt had no medical training and instead of turning your head and coughing, he'd ask his patients to spread their cheeks and loosen.<br /><span class="fullpost"><br />Inside the hotel room was a mélange of horny bears, thumping disco, awkward come-ons, and hunch punch. Among the attendees were a number of older men and the younger boys they kept on payroll. One such couple was grinding... I mean, dancing in the middle of the room dick-to-ass style. Both with ragingly obvious erections because that's how you do when you roll with the OutWorlders. Another of the kept boys ended up knowing an old boyfriend of mine so I chatted with him for a while until it became blatant that his sugar daddy was trying to sell his boy's ass. Sugar Pop wasn't doing a very good job of it, I must say. He needed to display the wares more -- like the Dancing Hard-On Twins a few feet away. I would have liked to have seen a bit more showmanship. "Hot slut here! Get yer hot slut! We've got great deals on preowned mangina. Fully inspected and certified so you can trust that it is disease-free and retightened to be like new!" Of course, I would have liked to see a more attractive product as well, so I guess I was disappointed all around.<br /><br />A friend of Jonathan Joseph, Sebastian, tried to cheer me up by placing his hand on my crotch completely unsolicited and without preamble. Unfortunately, Sebastian is was would happen if an uncoordinated, all-limbs Great Dane fucked a twitchy little Yorkie and their child got into mommy's medicine cabinet. I removed his paw and sent him on his way. He was last seen making out with someone behind a curtain. Possibly <a href="http://www.gonemovies.com/WWW/MyWebFilms/Drama/WizardBallon.asp">Frank Morgan</a>.<br /><br />Having had enough of the OutWorlder's Orgy, Jonathan Joseph, Foxy Brown, and I stepped into the hallway to sit down and talk without the fear of semen flying at us. While out there, I caught the eye of a handsome, sturdy gentleman strolling by. He stopped to talk and I learned that he was from Alabama, comes to Dragon*Con every year, and had just purchased the leather armor he was wearing as a shirt that same day. The way Jonathan Joseph tells this next part of the story makes it sound like I'm some sort of drunken slut. Nothing could be further from the truth! All that happened was Jonathan Joseph and Foxy Brown stepped away briefly to check on Sebastian (who was still asking the Wizard for a rim job) so I took my window of opportunity to run off with Leathabama unannounced because I wanted to have sex with him as I'd been drinking. I don't see how that makes me a floozy lush. Clearly, Jonathan Joseph is just projecting his own issues onto me.<br /><br />There was, however, one obstacle in bedding Leathabama: this dweeby, dumbass poodle that had met my new man earlier and clearly had similar intentions as I. He followed us all around The Con, barking and running into walls. Leathabama, being more polite than I, needed to find his friends and let them know where he was going so they didn't worry when he never returned to their hotel room. Finding them was like questing for the Holy Grail with this poodle annoying us every step of the way like the Nazi's pestered Indiana. Trailing Leathabama all over the fucking hotel got a bit ridiculous. To the point where the poodle stopped and asked me, "What are we doing here?" To which I turned to look him square in the eyes and responded, "I don't know what you're doing here but I'm having sex with him tonight." And have sex with him I did! The poodle scampered off into the night after that and I got to check "help a lover out of a medieval leather tunic" off my bucket list. Tranny Dog scores again!</span><br /><p></p>

Amelia, the Teenage Bitch

There was the world's most adorable mongrel at the dog park today. He was like Harvey from Sabrina, the Teenage Witch. I fell in love so hard that I wanted to have Delilah dedicate a song to him. I would tell her all about how we first locked eyes and she would whisper that she has the perfect song and Harvey and I would slow dance as Chicago's "You're the Inspiration" poured out of the radio. But it turns out he's not into my strap-on or any of it's suggested uses. Sigh, the Harveys of the world never are.

There was the world's most adorable mongrel at the dog park today. He was like Harvey from Sabrina, the Teenage Witch. I fell in love so hard that I wanted to have <a href="http://www.delilah.com/home/home.html">Delilah</a> dedicate a song to him. I would tell her all about how we first locked eyes and she would whisper that she has the perfect song and Harvey and I would slow dance as Chicago's "You're the Inspiration" poured out of the radio. But it turns out he's not into my strap-on or any of it's suggested uses. Sigh, the Harveys of the world never are.<br /><p></p>

Tour of Homos: Tripp's

Jonathan Joseph is almost always the Barney Stinson to my Ted Mosby, but his understudy if for any reason the reigning wingdog is unable to perform his duties is my dear friend, Homeless Dirty Bastard. HDB is Edith's boyfriend (the one who must have spit on Madame Z's mother in a past life) and is one of those "straight not narrow" kids that are populating the US these days. I attribute that to HDB's libido. In a pinch, he'll take what's available. Being a homeless beggar, he knows he can't also be a chooser (take note, Portlanders). HDB is actually one of the most patient and tolerant people I know. Which is one of the reasons our trip to Tripp's (hmm, that was unintentional but possibly unavoidable) did not end in bloodshed and black eyes.

Tripp's is located in an old house on Piedmont Circle that is practically Buddhist with all its incarnations. First life as a house then as a doctor's office then as a Martian space craft then as a bar. I may not be accurately reporting the order of that, but that is the fault of the bartender who relayed the history. Not because he was in any way dismissive or a terrible conversationalist, mind you. In fact, the opposite is true. I found him to be quite friendly and engaging. He even gave us a free shot for being first time customers. Granted, it was Cactus Juice, to which I learned the answer is no. The reason I don't quite remember what he said about the house was because he knew how to pour drinks at a gay bar. My gin and tonics (I had 4? 5? 62?) were served in tall regular drinking glasses and what I like to call GIIIIIN and tonics. Delicious. And cheap! And deadly. How I like it.

These beverages natrually necessitated a trip to the bathroom. If you'll allow me a moment of crassness, restrooms in places like this can be a crap shoot. At Tripp's there are two and both are clean and well lit. But only one had a real door. Riddle me this, blogosphere: Who came up with the concept of saloon door as bathroom door? And was there no one in the entire chain from design firm to manufacturer to installer that found this as unacceptable as I do? Is it to discourage the coked up fairies from doing blow off the toilet? Because that does not appear to work. And let me tell you, there is nothing worse than being on the verge of pissing all over your fur only to find a gaggle of chihuahuas in skinny jeans and open shirts having their own party in the bathroom. There's no door, jackasses, we all see you doing it anyway so get the hell out of my way!

Luckily, I did not come across this problem at Tripp's. Of the very small number of people there, most were fine and inoffensive. Two huddled around a bar top touchscreen game in the corner and didn't move till past closing. Another was a regular dog who worked and lived within walking distance. He was good natured, so we sniffed each other's butts and hung out a little. HDB, meanwhile, was lured in by the bright lights and loud noises from the mini-arcade room. One of the great things about Tripp's is its old Ms. Pac-Man cabinet and two pinball machines. According to Homeless Dirty Bastard, he played a lot of Ms. Pac-Man in his youth. It makes sense, look at that gussied up little harlot! Little known fact, those aren't the ghosts chasing Ms. Pac-Man in the artwork. It's a pubescent HDB's raging hormones. Those suckers are demented.

Anyway, I left HDB to fiddle with his joystick and sat with my new friend at the bar. We were having a nice conversation when I got a text message. Since it was near 2 a.m., I had a sneaking suspision who it was, but didn't know why HDB would text me from across the room. Then it became clear when I saw the message was just four simple letter, "help." I turned around and saw a pinball playing HDB literally cornered by two newcomers. Politely excusing myself, I made my way over and was able to assess the situation with ease. My poor hetero friend was being circled by the worst breed of faggot there is: trashy assholes who turn to meth to escape the pain of being so goddamn ugly. They were trying to get HDB to go home with them so I thought a little territory marking was in order. I put my arm around him and when asked how long we've been together we executed the "no, it was January because remember..." couple banter perfectly. This all backfired, however, when they then tried to get both of us to go home with them. I could tell these two were going to be formidable opponents.

I sent HDB to safety with a "go get me another drink" ruse and tried a We're-not-into-that manuever. It was quickly countered with a lap dance. These fuckers were fighting dirty. And I say that because they probably hadn't showered that day. The one on my lap was named Eddie, I remember because he wore a collar proclaiming that and the image of his writhing, scraggy form is scarred into my memory. I shifted to a dismissive tactic and blew the guys off to head back to the bar. HDB had actually gotten me another GIIIIIN and tonic despite the obvious near full one that was awaiting my return. This is when I started to suspect something might be wrong with my friend. But there was no time to dwell on that because the enemy had regrouped and was swooping down in a divide and conquer formation. Eddie grabbed hold of me and Eddie's white trash boyfriend got HDB. Their plan? Nibble on our ears. Things could have gotten ugly at that point but thankfully back-up arrived. Our kind bartender declared closing time and all but booted the methies out. After locking the door behind them, he turned to the rest of us and said, "Y'all can take your time."

With our foes vanquished, I could turn my attention on HDB. He was staring down at the bar in a manner that concerned me. "Maybe these gay pours are starting to get the best of him," I thought to myself when he went off to the bathroom and didn't return for some time. Going to inspect, I was relieved to see that at least he had the good sense to avoid the saloon doors and was in the real bathroom. Our increasingly more awesome bartender let him hang out in there for a while as I fed him some water. Turns out, though, Homeless Dirty Bastard didn't need the toilet until later. Tripp's had closed but we were still in the parking lot because HDB's state + motion + my truck did not equal anything I wanted to deal with. Finally, it all came up as he was leaning against the fence. By my estimation, his dinner consisted of French Onion soup with a giant bowl of Feta cheese.

I actually need to go back there. I had a good time at Tripp's.

Jonathan Joseph is almost always the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gkYcaVel5bo&feature=related">Barney Stinson to my Ted Mosby</a>, but his understudy if for any reason the reigning wingdog is unable to perform his duties is my dear friend, Homeless Dirty Bastard. HDB is Edith's boyfriend (the one who must have spit on <a href="http://trannydog.blogspot.com/2009/07/psychic-touchs-phenomenons-sic.html">Madame Z</a>'s mother in a past life) and is one of those "straight not narrow" kids that are populating the US these days. I attribute that to HDB's libido. In a pinch, he'll take what's available. Being a homeless beggar, he knows he can't also be a chooser (take note, <a href="http://trannydog.blogspot.com/2009/07/open-letter-to-homeless-of-portland.html">Portlanders</a>). HDB is actually one of the most patient and tolerant people I know. Which is one of the reasons our trip to Tripp's (hmm, that was unintentional but possibly unavoidable) did not end in bloodshed and black eyes.<br /><span class="fullpost"><br />Tripp's is located in an old house on Piedmont Circle that is practically Buddhist with all its incarnations. First life as a house then as a doctor's office then as a Martian space craft then as a bar. I may not be accurately reporting the order of that, but that is the fault of the bartender who relayed the history. Not because he was in any way dismissive or a terrible conversationalist, mind you. In fact, the opposite is true. I found him to be quite friendly and engaging. He even gave us a free shot for being first time customers. Granted, it was Cactus Juice, to which I learned the answer is no. The reason I don't quite remember what he said about the house was because he knew how to pour drinks at a gay bar. My gin and tonics (I had 4? 5? 62?) were served in tall regular drinking glasses and what I like to call GIIIIIN <span style="font-size:78%;">and tonics</span>. Delicious. And cheap! And deadly. How I like it.<br /><br />These beverages natrually necessitated a trip to the bathroom. If you'll allow me a moment of crassness, restrooms in places like this can be a crap shoot. At Tripp's there are two and both are clean and well lit. But only one had a real door. Riddle me this, blogosphere: Who came up with the concept of saloon door as bathroom door? And was there no one in the entire chain from design firm to manufacturer to installer that found this as unacceptable as I do? Is it to discourage the coked up fairies from doing blow off the toilet? Because that does not appear to work. And let me tell you, there is nothing worse than being on the verge of pissing all over your fur only to find a gaggle of chihuahuas in skinny jeans and open shirts having their own party in the bathroom. There's no door, jackasses, we all see you doing it anyway so get the hell out of my way!<br /><br />Luckily, I did not come across this problem at Tripp's. Of the very small number of people there, most were fine and inoffensive. Two huddled around a bar top touchscreen game in the corner and didn't move till past closing. Another was a regular dog who worked and lived within walking distance. He was good natured, so we sniffed each other's butts and hung out a little. HDB, meanwhile, was lured in by the bright lights and loud noises from the mini-arcade room. One of the great things about Tripp's is its old Ms. Pac-Man cabinet and two pinball machines. According to Homeless Dirty Bastard, he played a lot of Ms. Pac-Man in his youth. It makes sense, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Mspacmancabinet.png">look at </a>that gussied up little harlot! Little known fact, those aren't the ghosts chasing Ms. Pac-Man in the artwork. It's a pubescent HDB's raging hormones. Those suckers are demented.<br /><br />Anyway, I left HDB to fiddle with his joystick and sat with my new friend at the bar. We were having a nice conversation when I got a text message. Since it was near 2 a.m., I had a sneaking suspision who it was, but didn't know why HDB would text me from across the room. Then it became clear when I saw the message was just four simple letter, "help." I turned around and saw a pinball playing HDB literally cornered by two newcomers. Politely excusing myself, I made my way over and was able to assess the situation with ease. My poor hetero friend was being circled by the worst breed of faggot there is: trashy assholes who turn to meth to escape the pain of being so goddamn ugly. They were trying to get HDB to go home with them so I thought a little territory marking was in order. I put my arm around him and when asked how long we've been together we executed the "no, it was January because remember..." couple banter perfectly. This all backfired, however, when they then tried to get both of us to go home with them. I could tell these two were going to be formidable opponents.<br /><br />I sent HDB to safety with a "go get me another drink" ruse and tried a We're-not-into-that manuever. It was quickly countered with a lap dance. These fuckers were fighting dirty. And I say that because they probably hadn't showered that day. The one on my lap was named Eddie, I remember because he wore a collar proclaiming that and the image of his writhing, scraggy form is scarred into my memory. I shifted to a dismissive tactic and blew the guys off to head back to the bar. HDB had actually gotten me another GIIIIIN <span style="font-size:78%;">and tonic</span> despite the obvious near full one that was awaiting my return. This is when I started to suspect something might be wrong with my friend. But there was no time to dwell on that because the enemy had regrouped and was swooping down in a divide and conquer formation. Eddie grabbed hold of me and Eddie's white trash boyfriend got HDB. Their plan? Nibble on our ears. Things could have gotten ugly at that point but thankfully back-up arrived. Our kind bartender declared closing time and all but booted the methies out. After locking the door behind them, he turned to the rest of us and said, "Y'all can take your time."<br /><br />With our foes vanquished, I could turn my attention on HDB. He was staring down at the bar in a manner that concerned me. "Maybe these gay pours are starting to get the best of him," I thought to myself when he went off to the bathroom and didn't return for some time. Going to inspect, I was relieved to see that at least he had the good sense to avoid the saloon doors and was in the real bathroom. Our increasingly more awesome bartender let him hang out in there for a while as I fed him some water. Turns out, though, Homeless Dirty Bastard didn't need the toilet until later. Tripp's had closed but we were still in the parking lot because HDB's state + motion + my truck did not equal anything I wanted to deal with. Finally, it all came up as he was leaning against the fence. By my estimation, his dinner consisted of French Onion soup with a giant bowl of Feta cheese.<br /><br />I actually need to go back there. I had a good time at Tripp's.<br /></span><p></p>

The Non-Gay San Fransisco

I know! I'm surprised too. I went to San Fransisco and the only thing gay I have to report is my crush on our adorable host, another old friend of Edith's. He was like Thumper with sex appeal (is dog on bunny still considered beastiality?). Instead of a day of homobauchery, it turned out to be a really classy day of fine drinking.


We started north of the city in Napa Valley. We found a little winery named Bouchaine down some winding vineyard encased roads. Everything from the grapevines to the breeze was gorgeous. Neither Edith nor I had been to a wine tasting prior to this. Truth be told, I do not have a particularly advanced palate. I don't know what undertones are and I've never once used the word "earthy" to describe what was in my mouth. Oh, except for when I was a puppy and I ate dirt simply because I was too lazy to go inside to get actual food. ... Huh, I never noticed this before but that's exactly how I ended up sleeping with most of the people on my Been There list.

My relative ignorance didn't matter, however. Our pourer lady was friendly and informative and educated me quite a bit. For instance, did you know there are only three types of grapes allowed in champagne? Chardonnay, pinot noir, and pinot meunier. Well, you probably did. But I didn't. I also didn't have champagne, but we did have the wines made from those three types of grapes. I picked up hints of deliciousness and subtle notes of 13% alcohol by volume. After we had way more peaceful happiness than either of us could stand, we drove into the city to meet up with Thumper.

As it happens, one of the new trends in San Fransisco is a trend that I happen to fully endorse (Hint: It's not handlebar mustaches, so stop trying to make that happen, you skinny hipster fucks). It's exquisite cocktails. There are also a few places in Atlanta that employ mixologists and are bringing back Prohibition era, handmade cocktails. I'm talking drinks that involve egg whites or basil or white whiskey. I'm a big fan. Seeing as how I don't particularly like my drinks sugary I was never able to lap up a frozen bahama coladarita at TGI Fridays, but the usual blank on the rocks or martini was getting a bit boring. I often find myself jazzed when a bar has cocktail onions for a gin gibson because at least onions in my martini gives the illusion of variety. Also? I f'in love cocktail onions. Now that I can go to a bar and order a cocktail made with absinthe or bacon-infused bourbon, Dot Martix's Alcoholic Alarm is sounding more than ever. It's great!

I had a great time in San Fransisco trying the many cocktails at the two places Thumper took us. I would tell you the names and give a more detailed review, but, honestly, I don't remember the names and any attempt at reviews I've written are more boring than this post so I'll spare you. I will, however, mention that thanks to San Fran and Thumper I discovered a new liquor and that excites me to no end. It's called genever and, as it was described to me, is halfway between whiskey and gin. I was skeptical since that description makes no sense, but once you try it you realize it's somehow true. Genever is a dutch liquor made with juniper that the English evolved into gin as we know it. Sort of a proto-gin. So although I don't have all the palatey words to talk about it, I'm glad for the non-gay education I got in drinking that day. Next visit, though, I'm gonna fuck my way through the Castro until I'm the Grand Marshall of the Pride Parade.

I know! I'm surprised too. I went to San Fransisco and the only thing gay I have to report is my crush on our adorable host, another old friend of Edith's. He was like Thumper with sex appeal (is dog on bunny still considered beastiality?). Instead of a day of homobauchery, it turned out to be a really classy day of fine drinking.<br /><br /><span class="fullpost"><br />We started north of the city in Napa Valley. We found a little winery named Bouchaine down some winding vineyard encased roads. Everything from the grapevines to the breeze was gorgeous. Neither Edith nor I had been to a wine tasting prior to this. Truth be told, I do not have a particularly advanced palate. I don't know what undertones are and I've never once used the word "earthy" to describe what was in my mouth. Oh, except for when I was a puppy and I ate dirt simply because I was too lazy to go inside to get actual food. ... Huh, I never noticed this before but that's exactly how I ended up sleeping with most of the people on my Been There list.<br /><br />My relative ignorance didn't matter, however. Our pourer lady was friendly and informative and educated me quite a bit. For instance, did you know there are only three types of grapes allowed in champagne? Chardonnay, pinot noir, and pinot meunier. Well, you probably did. But I didn't. I also didn't have champagne, but we did have the wines made from those three types of grapes. I picked up hints of deliciousness and subtle notes of 13% alcohol by volume. After we had way more peaceful happiness than either of us could stand, we drove into the city to meet up with Thumper.<br /><br />As it happens, one of the new trends in San Fransisco is a trend that I happen to fully endorse (Hint: It's not handlebar mustaches, so stop trying to make that happen, you skinny hipster fucks). It's exquisite cocktails. There are also a few places in Atlanta that employ mixologists and are bringing back Prohibition era, handmade cocktails. I'm talking drinks that involve egg whites or basil or white whiskey. I'm a big fan. Seeing as how I don't particularly like my drinks sugary I was never able to lap up a frozen bahama coladarita at TGI Fridays, but the usual blank on the rocks or martini was getting a bit boring. I often find myself jazzed when a bar has cocktail onions for a gin gibson because at least onions in my martini gives the illusion of variety. Also? I f'in love cocktail onions. Now that I can go to a bar and order a cocktail made with absinthe or bacon-infused bourbon, Dot Martix's Alcoholic Alarm is sounding more than ever. It's great!<br /><br />I had a great time in San Fransisco trying the many cocktails at the two places Thumper took us. I would tell you the names and give a more detailed review, but, honestly, I don't remember the names and any attempt at reviews I've written are more boring than this post so I'll spare you. I will, however, mention that thanks to San Fran and Thumper I discovered a new liquor and that excites me to no end. It's called genever and, as it was described to me, is halfway between whiskey and gin. I was skeptical since that description makes no sense, but once you try it you realize it's somehow true. Genever is a dutch liquor made with juniper that the English evolved into gin as we know it. Sort of a proto-gin. So although I don't have all the palatey words to talk about it, I'm glad for the non-gay education I got in drinking that day. Next visit, though, I'm gonna fuck my way through the Castro until I'm the Grand Marshall of the Pride Parade.</span><br /><p></p>

Tour of Homos: Krave OR How I Became Mortally Offended

I rarely go places that charge a cover. There is no room on this planet worth an entrance fee. After all, what's the main feature at a club? The dance floor. What is a dance floor? A big, empty space. Why should I pay good money for an empty space? This same logic was applied later in the trip when Edith and I forewent the Grand Canyon. But I found myself paying the $10 it cost to enter Krave with a k just off the Las Vegas Strip.


Earlier, Edith and I were trying to find the so-called Fruit Loop, a group of gay bars all near each other. I'd sort of heard of it from my previous trip four years ago and knew it's general location but not the specific bars. It had been recommended by the front desk girl at our hotel. Perhaps I should have been skeptical. I mean, the hotel only cost $9. How much could the advice possibly be worth? We asked our concierge for directions to the delightfully named Ramrod but she managed to talk us into trying the Fruit Loop. Armed with the vicinity as well as a few bar names, we boarded the bus. It was a surprisingly long trip made worse by the bus driver abusing the PA system and trying out his misogynistic comedy routine on his captive audience. He made such humorous observations as "women can't drive" and "you better get some food at 7Eleven because your wife won't have dinner ready for you." He was clearly a Second City alum.

Getting off -- the bus needing a two drink minimum more than ever -- we set out for the fruits. Upon discovering both Hamburger Mary's and Rainbow Bar and Grill to be shut down, we scoured for one of the others. And thus began the ill-advised trudge towards the Strip. Which only got better... oh, I'm sorry, I meant wetter when the rain began. Edith and her hooker heels made me promise to stop in the first place with alcohol. By happenstance, that place was a gay club... with a $10 cover: Krave with a k.

After we paid to enter, I was determined to get $10 worth of fun. The male go-go dancer was going to provide it about as much as his hair dye provided the illusion of him being blonde. The female go-go dancer, though oddly out of place, was a smidge better but still not worth $10. The other patrons weren't going to provide it either. The drunk girl trying to get everyone to dance was just annoying. The 4'10" lesbian and her Jew-haired friend stepped off the dance floor way too early and really only gave about $4 worth of entertainment. The old man recovering from knee surgery slowly sliding towards the obviously underage little bottom boy was just sad. And the crazy looking German girl cost me another $10 (Lesson: Never bet against Edith if she declares someone to be German). Our DJ for the evening must have gotten suckered in by a special TV offer and paid $9.99 plus S&H for the DVD instructional video "How to be a Gay DJ Stereotype." Was nobody going to give me a return on my investment?

And then on top of it all, Krave with a k offended my delicate sensibilities. Walking up to the shirtless bartender, I ordered gin on the rocks and requested the cheapest they had when asked (since I was essentially mugged at the entrance). He returned holding two bottles, his pecks flexing as he held out a plastic bottle of generic gin that not even I'd heard of and said, "8 dollars." Then some triceps did a little spasm as he held out a bottle of Tanqueray and said, "9 dollars."

"Excuse me?! Are you saying the difference between your well drinks and Tanqueray is one dollar?"

He was.

"Do you have any drink specials?"

He didn't.

"Well then I guess I'll get the Tanqueray." I was miffed but $9 for a drink in a place like this in a city like Vegas was alright, I supposed. And then... oh, this is the worst... and then! He pulled out a jigger and poured precisely one shot of gin and unceremoniously dumped it over a pile of ice cubes.

Really, Krave with a k? Really?! You're measuring your rocks drinks? Wow. What the fuck kind of gay bar is this? Are you expecting us to have sex with each other sober? My god, shirtless man, think of Old Man Gimp back there. Will his underage boy pussy really give it up because of how accurately you pour your overpriced liquor? If you are going to jigger it out then you charge no more than $4 for gin that comes in a plastic bottle. It's like you read the gay bar commandments, scoffed, and smashed the tablets with your Gucci sponsored muscles. You may as well have climbed over the bar and used the jigger to scoop my heart out and charge me $9 for the experience. I hate you, Krave with a k and I want my $10 back.

I rarely go places that charge a cover. There is no room on this planet worth an entrance fee. After all, what's the main feature at a club? The dance floor. What is a dance floor? A big, empty space. Why should I pay good money for an empty space? This same logic was applied later in the trip when Edith and I forewent the Grand Canyon. But I found myself paying the $10 it cost to enter Krave with a k just off the Las Vegas Strip.<br /><span class="fullpost"><br /><br />Earlier, Edith and I were trying to find the so-called Fruit Loop, a group of gay bars all near each other. I'd sort of heard of it from my previous trip four years ago and knew it's general location but not the specific bars. It had been recommended by the front desk girl at our hotel. Perhaps I should have been skeptical. I mean, the hotel only cost $9. How much could the advice possibly be worth? We asked our concierge for directions to the delightfully named Ramrod but she managed to talk us into trying the Fruit Loop. Armed with the vicinity as well as a few bar names, we boarded the bus. It was a surprisingly long trip made worse by the bus driver abusing the PA system and trying out his misogynistic comedy routine on his captive audience. He made such humorous observations as "women can't drive" and "you better get some food at 7Eleven because your wife won't have dinner ready for you." He was clearly a Second City alum.<br /><br />Getting off -- the bus needing a two drink minimum more than ever -- we set out for the fruits. Upon discovering both Hamburger Mary's and Rainbow Bar and Grill to be shut down, we scoured for one of the others. And thus began the ill-advised trudge towards the Strip. Which only got better... oh, I'm sorry, I meant wetter when the rain began. Edith and her hooker heels made me promise to stop in the first place with alcohol. By happenstance, that place was a gay club... with a $10 cover: Krave with a k.<br /><br />After we paid to enter, I was determined to get $10 worth of fun. The male go-go dancer was going to provide it about as much as his hair dye provided the illusion of him being blonde. The female go-go dancer, though oddly out of place, was a smidge better but still not worth $10. The other patrons weren't going to provide it either. The drunk girl trying to get everyone to dance was just annoying. The 4'10" lesbian and her Jew-haired friend stepped off the dance floor way too early and really only gave about $4 worth of entertainment. The old man recovering from knee surgery slowly sliding towards the obviously underage little bottom boy was just sad. And the crazy looking German girl cost me another $10 (Lesson: Never bet against Edith if she declares someone to be German). Our DJ for the evening must have gotten suckered in by a special TV offer and paid $9.99 plus S&H for the DVD instructional video "How to be a Gay DJ Stereotype." Was nobody going to give me a return on my investment?<br /><br />And then on top of it all, Krave with a k offended my delicate sensibilities. Walking up to the shirtless bartender, I ordered gin on the rocks and requested the cheapest they had when asked (since I was essentially mugged at the entrance). He returned holding two bottles, his pecks flexing as he held out a plastic bottle of generic gin that not even I'd heard of and said, "8 dollars." Then some triceps did a little spasm as he held out a bottle of Tanqueray and said, "9 dollars."<br /><br />"Excuse me?! Are you saying the difference between your well drinks and Tanqueray is <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">one</span> dollar?"<br /><br />He was.<br /><br />"Do you have any drink specials?"<br /><br />He didn't.<br /><br />"Well then I guess I'll get the Tanqueray." I was miffed but $9 for a drink in a place like this in a city like Vegas was alright, I supposed. And then... oh, this is the worst... and then! He pulled out a jigger and poured <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">precisely</span> one shot of gin and unceremoniously dumped it over a pile of ice cubes.<br /><br />Really, Krave with a k? Really?! You're measuring your rocks drinks? Wow. What the fuck kind of gay bar is this? Are you expecting us to have sex with each other sober? My god, shirtless man, think of Old Man Gimp back there. Will his underage boy pussy really give it up because of how accurately you pour your overpriced liquor? If you are going to jigger it out then you charge no more than $4 for gin that comes in a plastic bottle. It's like you read the gay bar commandments, scoffed, and smashed the tablets with your Gucci sponsored muscles. You may as well have climbed over the bar and used the jigger to scoop my heart out and charge me $9 for the experience. I hate you, Krave with a k and I want my $10 back.<br /></span>

You're Such a Black Lacquer Table

Harley gave me a Dirty Sanchez. And I liked it.

Harley gave me a <a href="http://www.wearedirtysanchez.com/main.html">Dirty Sanchez</a>. And I liked it.<p>