Earlier this evening, Alex scarfed down a packet of food; not long thereafter he threw it all up on one of the few remaining spots of carpet where he hadn’t previously vomited.
When I was recruited into the homosexual lifestyle, my copy of the gay agenda promised nights at the opera, spring in Paris and summers on Fire Island. I was to have sex with thousands of gorgeous men; enjoy scintillating, witty conversation over martinis and cordon bleu dinners with my well-dressed friends; and find my immaculate, tastefully furnished mid-century modern home featured in Architectural Digest.
But here I am in my mismatched, Ikea-furnished Arlington condo, quietly reading the latest Harry Potter novel while enjoying a dinner of granola, Diet Dr. Pepper and microwave popcorn, when I hear the telltale signs of a cat in gastronomic distress, leaving me to clean up yet another pile of kitty vomit.
So what precisely is it about this gay lifestyle that so threatens Falwell, Santorum and Scalia?
From Arlington, Virginia, this is Thom. And you’ve been listening to Elf-Indulgent Radio.