You’re Not One of Those Anal Retentive Fags…

...but you haven’t produced anything beyond the odd rabbit pellet since you left New York, even though you’ve been eating like one of those French truffle pigs. So before you go to your très expensif dinner with the Ski Fags at a pretentious Two Star Michelin Rated restaurant you can’t afford, you and your BFF decide that you need to be lubricated for your upcoming financial rape. You decide to make a Gay Cocktail with the Duty Free liter of Absolut you bought on autopilot as you slept walked through the Geneva Airport. Unfortunately, both mixers and ice are extremely scarce commodities in France, so it’s time for some good old American ingenuity.

Luckily you’ve been storing the Duty Free Vodka outside on the patio so it’s perfectly chilled and doesn’t melt your ridiculously inadequate ration of three miniscule ice cubes per fag. These French ice cubes are so petite that they remind you of a pair of Chelsea testicles that have been juiced up on steroids since the dawn of Gay Man. Since you and your BFF are both on a budget (on your free vacation no less), you decide to share one teensy little €6 bottle of warm Perrier from the Mini-Me Bar. For some reason everything is much, much smaller in France, except for the Americans, of course. Being in France is like looking at everything through a side-view mirror, even the gay New Yorkers appear much larger than our French counterparts. Anyway. You are a terrible bartender so the cocktail is much too strong (even for your Irish liver), but you and your BFF are too cheap to open the other teensy bottle of Orangina. But that’s when your Fat American Ingenuity kicks in and you rush into the bathroom to ransack through your toiletries. Your BFF is confused when you return with a plastic spoon and a Ziploc bag of mysterious orange powder, but before he gets a chance to protest, you mix a spoonful of octogenarian goodness into each of your tumblers, et voilà! You have invented a brand new Gay Cocktail! A Doody Free Vodka Soda with a splash of Metamucil!

Some of the fancier Ski Fags have hired a car to Chamonix, but your cheap ass decides to take the free l’autobus. Since you’re still Jet Fagged and running on Gay Standard Time, you and your BFF are, bien sur, late for l’autobus and you start yelling “Vite! Vite!” to him but he refuses to do anything but stroll in his new Pradas which will surely be beat up and out of fashion long before he ever pays them off. Luckily l’autobus is also running on Gay Standard Temps and you make it to the fancy restaurant (that you can’t afford) on time. When you arrive at La Maison Carrier all the Ski Fags are busy playing runway and complimenting each other about how très fantastique everybody looks in their après ski-wear. Meanwhile, all you're concerned about is getting your €120 worth of booze. You begin to salivate when the waiter pours you a glass of champagne for your all-inclusive, prix-fixe dinner, only as he offers it to your greedy little, manicured hands, one of the Ski Fags tells you that they are charging €17 extra for the Champs! Quelle Horreur! Your face drops faster than the American Dollar and your hands begin to shake with the D.T’s as you reluctantly return the flute to the waiter’s tray.

Dinner turns out to be absolutely lovely. You and your BFF decide to split up and sit at different tables because, let’s face it; you haven’t been all that social with the Ski Fags. It’s mostly because you’ve had to decline several fabulous invitations, not because you think you’re too good for them (only some of them), yet mostly you have to decline because you can’t afford to keep up with the Triple A-Gays. However, you are beginning to sense a chilly attitude in the air that has nothing to do with the altitude in the French Alps. So you both decided to blow your dwindling wad of credit (with a 3% international transaction fee, merci beaucoup) on this one particular dinner. Although the portions are quite petite, this works in your favor because a) the food doesn’t dilute the effect of the bottomless wine glass, b) you have already gotten a bit fat with all this rich French food (gay fat, bien sur, never straight fat!), and c) you are completely and utterly constipated. The entire gourmet experience turns out to be absolutely lovely (even though it could have been a bit disastrous since you once had a little kissy-fest a few months ago with one of the Ski Fags at your table. Or was that twice? Anyway.

After dinner you and your BFF direct your little group to Le Non-Gay Gay Bar, only when the Ski Fags arrive there is nothing Non-Gay about it anymore! You check your coat and descend into the less-than-glamorous basement venue, and for some unknown reason the heat is pumped up to about 95◦ Celsius, however the hellish heat wave all becomes clear when your foot leaves the last step. Instead of sticking to the dried up puddles of spilled beer, your feet sink into a pile of sand. Your irritated BFF looks up from his polished Pradas and says, “Ugh. It’s a beach party,” with a copious amount of disdain, probably because he forgot his cute Speedo. The two of you make a bee-line for le bartender and order €6 domestique beers, which luckily seem extremely foreign to you since the current exchange rate makes the draft beers $9 a piece. You toast each other’s liver health and take a sip. That's when you finally begin to feel moved.

Your Doody Free Metamucil cocktail has finally kicked in and you are finally ready to relieve yourself of that binding bagel you had in Newark Airport, days ago. Only you’re in a dirty gay bar. Underground. Trudging through sand. In the French Alps. But nature is calling so you decide to check out the bathroom, just in case it’s nice. Or clean. Or possibly has toilet paper. You tell your BFF to hold onto your priceless draft bière as you race through the crowed bar toward the stairs. However, when you pass by the Kiddie Pool some Drunk French Boy in board shorts hops into the pool and begins to splash everybody as if he’s Jennifer Fucking Beal from Flashdance. The Non-Gay Gay Garçons clear the center of the room as quickly as paint on a Spin Art board, and you race your wet ass up the stairs toward la toilette. You cross your fingers as you pass by the coat check and open the bathroom door. What you see before your pansy eyes is worse than anything you could have ever imagined. Besides being filthy (and not in the good way) and smelling foul (that's never good), you are completely confused as you scan the room for the missing porcelain. The tiled room (which has never, ever seen a bottle of Tilex) has no toilets and no urinals. There is, however, a small tiled hole in the floor with a drain at the bottom. You don’t quite comprehend the whole confusing situation until you notice the roll of toilet paper hanging on the wall. You stare at the tiled hole in the floor for a moment or two, while you actually consider squatting over it. Only some Coke Head is already banging on the door and screaming “Dépêches toi!” as you happily realize that your window of oppor-number-two-nity has closed and you no longer have to go anymore. So you go back downstairs and decide to order a Binding Banana Daiquiri no matter how many fucking euros it costs. Anyway...