Red Handed

Dear Readers,

Your many letters and emails thanking the Gabby Gays for our pearls of wisdom have meant a great deal to us. Today I have a doozy, so whip out your note pads and pencils!

When home visiting family on an extended visit and if hypothetically perchance you have forgotten your favorite nighttime lubricant, be sure to read the label on the moisturizer you borrow for your bedroom. Because without such careful scrutiny, the next day your eagle-eyed niece will ask you why one of your palms is darker than the other and you will realize that the moisturizer is also a self-tanner.

Your friend in the battle against humiliation,

Shirlee

Burritoville

Dear Gabby,

I think I might be dating one of those illegal Mexican. His name is "Sam", but this morning when I was doing important research by going through his medicine cabinet, I saw a prescription for someone named Santiago Garcia. Later, when he was ironing his shirt for work, I joked, "Why don't you get Santiago Garcia to do it?" He said, "How did you know my real name?"
I hadn't thought Sam was short for anything but Samuel. So the real question, dear Gabby, is how should I figure out if Sr. Garcia is Central American or South American. If we had a car, I could ask him to turn on the air conditioning and see if he rolled down a window, but I don't have a car. I tried humming La Cucaracha under my breath, but I think I was off-key.

Only you, Gabs, can help me solve the mystery of Where In The World is Santiago Garcia from. And what if he is one of those illegal immigrants? What's a law-abiding white boy to do? Should I call up George Bush or one of those red-faced right-wing Republicans who can't seem to focus on more important things than whether the person who cleans my house has a Visa?

Oh, and another question Gabby. He tans beautifully. I began calling him my chocolate lover. Is that racist if he's Mexican?

Your intrepid American Citizen,

Holy Frijoles

Caa Caa Saturday Night

I’m a nanny now. Live with it. So I’m giving the baby a bath and she starts splashing me. So I pick up a bucket and fill it with water and I’m about to throw it at her, hoping to knock her down so she’ll learn not to fuck with me, when she tries to get out of the bathtub. I push her foot back down off the edge and tell her that we need to take the toys out first and she starts screaming like I’d punched her or something. I would never do that by the way. She picks her foot up again and puts it on the edge and I push it back down and tell her that she has to pick her toys up first. So then she screams, “Caa Caa! Caa Caa!” I look in the tub and she’d shit a month worth’s of food in the tub. So I take her out and of course she gets shit all over my jeans. Together, we pulled the plug and watch as her feces went down the drain. Then I had to hose off her as there was still Caa Caa dripping down her leg. It’s Saturday night. Who the hell am I?

Resurrector Set

Hi Lavurn!

I'm watching the torture and crucifixion scenes of "The Passion of Christ" while eating jambalaya and drink blood red wine. This might not seem like the best way to celebrate Easter, but as a recovering Catholic I never enjoyed the more traditional Easter bonnets and weird-tasting Cadbury chocolates.

One of my Jewish friends asked me yesterday what the Easter bunny had to do with our holiday. I was at a loss, so I confused her by making up a passage in the Gospel of Matthew which says that Jesus laid twelve eggs while on the cross and Peter Rabbit denied the eggs three times before they took them away. I added lots of Old English in my quotes like "Lo, though the bunny walketh through the shadow of death, it layeth eggs covered in chocolatey goodness." I figured no one reads the Gospel of Matthew anyway. The dirty secret of the New Testament is that Mark and John were much better writers.

Comparing Passover to Easter is like taking a semester of religious study at Bennington College. In Passover, Jews get to celebrate NOT being persecuted for once. Great idea, but if you were going to celebrate being spared from the wrath of God, I think they should break out better food than unleavened bread and gefilte fish. For the Holy Week surrounding Easter, Christians praise someone else for doing their dirty work and absolving them of sins, much like Enron, which I'm sure was full of Christians. Christians eat spiral ham and jelly beans, which of course, haveas much relevance to the Savior as the Peter Cottontail, but there's no denying tradition!

Ugh, this movie Mel Gibson made is disgusting! Skin is being ripped from Jesus as he's being whipped. I can't even finish my jambalaya now. Remind me NOT to go to S&M night at the Cock this week. Well, unless of course, this guy is here. I might be willing to shed a little blood for those legs.


Anyway, kitten, I hope you're looking forward to our upcoming trip to Espana. I know I am. Hallelujah!!!

Won't You Be My Friendster?

I, Shirlee Spew Liquor, have been embarking on an Erin Brokovich-style investigative journalistic expose of the underbelly of new York. First, I uncovered the secrets of the fashion world by experiencing the cheap thrills associated colored AA underwear. Today, I want to bring to our readers attention an issue that is vastly more pervasive and insidious in our community, the world of online chat rooms.

Wondering aloud why I haven't had a real date in months, my soon-to-be ex-roommate encouraged me to try the Connexion website. I had heard of this site once before, but honestly it seems like a lot of work to log on, upload pictures, scan others. I mean, I have important couch potato-ing to be doing. Who has the time to multitask more than drinking and channel flipping during entertainment hours, I ask?



Anyway, I took his advice and created myself a profile. I think it blends my style of sexiness and humor in an appealing way, but I wasn't getting anyone to nibble, so I went into the chat rooms. Now, to be honest, Vurn, I'm a much better chatter in person when I've had a few cocktails. I can't seem to get the rythyms of online chat, let alone those GDF acronyms! LOL.

So, I looked through the pictures of the local boys currently on Connexion, which unlike Friendster, doesn't announce who you've been snooping on. I found one who looked appealing, read his bio and found out he liked Felicity. Perfect! I'm in! I think I can quote half of the scripts. So here's a snippet of the transcript which I've conveniently saved for further embarrassment:

ME: Hey.
Hot Guy #1: Hi.
Me: So you're a fan of Felicity. I live by her college years.
Hot Guy #1: Yeah, it was great. You're kind of cute.
Me: Do you know that Keri Russell works out in my gym?
Hot Guy #1: Oh, are you at Equinox?
Me: My roommate told me she's a coke head.
Hot Guy #1: She's not a coke head!
Me: Not that it's any of my business. You know you're kind of hot yourself.
Hot Guy #1: Where did you hear this?
Me: Oh god, you're her best friend, aren't you. Or her agent. Look, it doesn't bother me. Some of my best friends are coke heads! Can we get back to us?
Hot Guy #1: She's NOT a coke head!! [Hot Guy has closed his window. Actually he's slammed it shut on you.]


Me: Wait! Come back! Sigh! Why did I sigh online to no one? Why am I still typing? Sigh.
[Ugly Guy #1 has opened a new chat]: Hey.
Me: [Shirlee has closed and locked her window].


I don't know what to do, Vurn. I've tried Friendster, but you know, the weird thing about the people who invite me to be there "friendsters" is that they don't actually want to be friends. I'll see some of them out, one of who had invited me to be his "friend" only hours earlier, and he actively ignored me. What's that about? I think they just want to be linked to as many 2nd degree people as possible because it helps bump up their monthly profile views.

L, living a 21st century social life is too confusing. I think I need to go back to the old-fashioned method of passing out at a bar and waking up in the home of a stranger. At least all the chatting is dispensed with. In my next journalistic expose, I shall delve into the world of subletting.

Your two-faced blogging partner in crime,

Shirl

LOL!
xo
MSM

American Apparel's Secret

Lavurn, so sorry that I have been away from Gabby Gays for a while, but I must confess that I have been busy doing research for our upcoming musical, "Bloggin'!", which may star Hugh Jackman if I can drug him long enough to sign the contract.
Among the interest findings that I have uncovered since my last entry is colored panties. Victoria has been divulging her Secret long enough to the delight of straight men, so I figured that gay men must have an underwear secret of our own. Last week I found the Holy Grail of briefs in a store called American Apparel.

Now I know what you're thinking, Vurn. Come on! Gay men have been overpaying for undies for a decade, ever since Marky Mark giggled as he tugged on his CK boxer briefs. But this is different. Sure! Calvin Kleins show off the derriere, and 2xist have a package-enhancing design, but I'm talking about is something more important because other than the gym locker room, objects of your affection don't get to see those benefits until you're undressed. I'm talking about using the Power of the Panties to get you laid. It's had 100% efficacy for me so far! I swear gurl, it's like wearing rohypenol!

I'll just give you a small sample of what has happened to me since I have been purchasing my baby blues and kelly green AA briefs (I like using the acronym because it makes me think I'm getting professional help). A week ago I spent some time at a popular new club here in the East Village of New York City. The club was packed with hot guys, some drinking, others dancing, and there were quite a few boys whom I've unsuccessfully flirted with--the hot doctor, the young writer, the slutty bartender. You get the idea. A bunch of adjectives and professions--HOT. At one point I left my friend to go upstairs to dance. I luvs me some dance music, so I was gyrating around when suddenly I was circled me like carrion for vultures. There was the tattooed butch guy on my football team who hadn't give me the time of day all last season.

But I'm telling you, Lavurn, this guy could smell my baby blues smoldering under my jeans. He had to have me right then. And so, to make my blog entry PG-13, I abandoned my friends and had a night of passion with one of my fantasies. Two nights later, I wore my green AAs and had an even wilder time with even more men (and one drag queen).

So, this is what I'm saying to you. Don't let it out, or we may have work stoppages by the gay community which could wreak havoc in the florist/flight attendant/interior design worlds. But get thee to an American Apparel store soon and you will never have to worry about where your next bed partner is coming on, I mean, from.


The END

Pot Wet Dream

Shirl,

Last night I had the strangest dream. I didn’t sail away to China, in a little row boat to find ya, but it was pretty close. You see, I was hanging out with these two French actors, I forget their names, who decided to steal some flowers. Well, they got caught by The Home Depot. So The Home Depot made them install some faulty fire alarms in my house. Well, I started crying and crying and was so upset by this. The Home Depot told me that if I gave them $500 or a bag of pot, they’d remove the faulty fire alarms. So I go to my sister’s house, who is a drug dealer and apparently Claire from Six Feet Under. So we decide that I should smuggle the pot on a bologna sandwich. So then I get high with Claire and some other people and decide to buy two more bags of pot. Well, Claire’s apartment is also a van. And it stops and suddenly is filled with all these people. And then this guy tells us that we’re going to be drug tested. So we’re standing in line to pee in a cup and one of the doctors starts flirting with me. So, once Claire, our two friends and I get in the doctor’s office, I lock the door and make a deal with the two doctors that I will give them blow jobs if they pass us on the drug test. Then I woke up because the baby I live with fell off her high chair.

So I can understand Claire, because I’ve been watching a DVD of the third season of Six Feet Under. And I can understand the two French actors because I saw a movie poster with them last night. And I can understand the pot because last night we passed a store called Indico Chico that had pot plants growing in its window. And believe it or not, I even understand the bologna sandwiches but that’s too weird to explain. Blow jobs are a recurring theme in my dreams so that’s cool. But where the hell did the Home Depot and faulty fire alarms come in? If dreams are made up of things you’ve experienced, what is all the other stuff you didn’t experience about? Are those premonitions? And most importantly, why hasn’t Claire, who was fantastic in the hit teen Jennifer Love Hewitt movie, “Can’t Hardly Wait,” and was mesmerizing as the depressed, dark, sex symbol with a weight problem funeral home daughter in, “Six Feet Under,” gotten bigger parts?

By the way, my assignment for today is to uncover what Indico Chico really sells. And the picture has nothing to do with the story. I'm just trying to use photos and I thought this was a cute picture of us when we did that Gary Marshall sitcom about the fifties (until we moved to California and it was the sixties) in the seventies.

Lavurn