First things first. Congratulations to Andi and Perplexio--you're the lucky winners of the Bastard Husband: A Love Story giveaway, just in time for Valentine's Day. Please email your contact info to email@example.com and I'll get your books right out to you. (My Aussie gals Carol in Perth and Linda Twaddle--would you kindly email me as well?) Thanks to all who entered!
So tomorrow is Super Bowl Sunday, and for once I actually know who's playing: the New Orleans Saints and somebody else. I know that only because I love New Orleans. Anyway, yesterday on the radio they were talking about Super Bowl parties and people who double dip. They said there’s like a billion bits of bacteria that get transmitted that way. Disgusting, right?
Then somebody called in and said the solution is to break the chip in half and then dip each piece separately. THAT’S EVEN WORSE!!! In my way of thinking, the billions of germs festering on the person’s hands when they broke the chip have now made their way into the dip, which means the dip is now full of everything everyone has touched and don’t even get me going on those people who leave the bathroom without washing their hands. Call me crazy, but this is why I eat at home before I go to a party. (My own germs are friendly fire.)
Anyway, since tomorrow’s the Super Bowl, I thought I’d dig up this post from last year. Have a great weekend, and NO DOUBLE DIPPING!
Repost: "It's okay, I like men, too"
Anyone who knows me also knows I am a BIG proponent of gay rights. I have a beloved and quirky lesbian aunt and half my girlfriends have real-life girlfriends. Don’t forget my long-standing celebrity girl-crush on Beverly d’Angelo—how many times have I said I’d make the perfect (lipstick) lesbian?
I’m the first to admit I’m one of those super-annoying girly girls. I wouldn’t be caught dead without nail polish, and my toes are always painted a pretty shade of pink, even if no one sees them all winter. I put on lipstick just to get the mail. I mean, look at my picture—I’m wearing a freakin’ tiara!
So never in a million years would I think I’d talk about football on my blog. In my opinion, there are only two sports: figure skating and gymnastics. And unlike the rest of the world, I sure as hell didn’t celebrate Super Bowl Sunday because football is so not me. It’s loud and, frankly, I just don’t get it. At least in basketball, when you make a basket, you get points. Baseball—you round home plate, you get a run. But football, with all those first downs and everything… I’ve had it explained to me, but it just never sinks in.
To me, the most puzzling mystery surrounding football is why so many super-manly macho men are into it in such a big way, especially since, well, obviously… Football is gay.
Oh, pull-eeeze… You have a bunch of guys making passes at each other in skin-tight pants, for Christsake! And what could be more gay than huddling?
Oh, I know: tackling. (You realize they’re tickling each other while they’re down there, don’t you?) Even after the player’s already on the ground, there’s always the guy who still has to jump on top of everyone, just for the sheer pleasure of diving into a pile of testosterone. (Not that I blame him—I probably would, too.)
Don’t get me going on all the hugging and ass patting that goes on in the end zone.
Of course, after the game they all take naked showers together and, to soothe those aching muscles, rub each other down with what else but Ben-GAY.
Even the names of the teams: the Rams… the Packers (ouch).
No doubt the Oilers left town and changed their name to the Titans for fear of being outed. Even the Cowboys and the Chiefs… tell me that doesn’t sound a little "Village People" to you.
It’s okay, guys. Women love gay men! Yeah, yeah, I know… most of you don’t play yourselves, you just like to watch.
Eeew… that’s just sick.