You're Not One of Those Extreme Makeover Home Improvement Fags...

...although your body could certainly use a few nips and tucks from Ty Pennington. Not to mention a good screw. However, you are a bit shocked when the wholesome, practically pigtailed Surgeon that your Primary Physician recommended turns out to be named Mary-Ann. Couldn't you at least be discussing your crotch related issues with a Ginger? Anyway. You find yourself standing in her office answering questions about your Hurtful Hernia when Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger reaches down into your cutest, tightest pair of Diesel underwear (which incidentally you got on sale for 50% off), and becomes the first woman *ever* to touch your Junk (which, of course, instantly shrivels into insignificant nothingness). After Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger asks you to cough, she says, "Oh my! You definitely have a hernia!" and then she retrieves her hand from your Never-Netherlands and removes her glove with a snap while you are totally freaking out about going to Third Base with a Girl. However, the fact that you she was wearing latex gives you some sort of safe-sex comfort.

Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger schedules you for Laparoscopic Surgery next week and explains all about how she's going to take your Straight Virginity by entering you through your belly button, yadda-yadda-yadda. She keeps yapping but somehow you're too busy shuddering from her girl cooties to pay much attention. For some reason Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger laughs when you ask her about killing two birds with one stone and giving you a Tummy Tuck while she's fumbling around down there, even though you are definitely not joking. You are well beyond Gay Fat at this point and Swimsuit Season is right around the corner! Meanwhile, since you've gotten this damn hernia, you haven't been able to go to the gym (which, ironically, is where you got the damn hernia in the first place).

You are completely shell-shocked after your doctor's appointment so you get on the Bat iPhone to call an Emergency Meeting with the Boy Luck Club. You definitely need a Gay Cocktail to help you black out those skinny manicured girl fingers going down on your Junk but, unfortunately, G is already packed and, thanks to your Hurtful Hernia, you can't stand for more than two minutes at a time. Luckily the Boy Luck Club accommodates you and you all end up sitting on the banquette in the back corner which is, unfortunately, located directly next to the doorless bathroom. Your waiter quickly fills your shaky, detoxing hands with a few Stoli O' and Sodas, and the next thing you know you have agreed to go on an Atlantis Cruise to Mexico next October, which, of course, you can't afford. But, after all, isn't that why they invented Credit Cards? However, somehow G Lounge hasn't yet heard of this new-fangled invention they call Visa, so when your wallet runs out of Williams (which apparently some people refer to as Bills, but only by those who are much more familiar with them than you are), you decide that it's time to stumble home.

Only when you hit the street you realize that you have a text from Blonde Beard who is apparently skipping his class because he isn't feeling well. Somehow your index finger texts back something sickening like, "Do you need some healing kisses?" without somehow jamming itself down your throat in order to make you gag. Have you really become that sappy guy? Hopefully it's just the liquor talking... Meanwhile, Blonde Beard writes you right back and tells you that he's just ordered way too much Chinese so you should to come over to his place. You stumble your way toward the West Village and Blonde Beard buzzes you up to his place which he has all to himself because his Jealous Roommate is apparently out for the evening. After a simple peck on his hairy lips, Blonde Beard says, "Someone had a cocktail," to which you immediately lie, "Only one..." but you smirk so he knows you're lying. Then you immediately make a bathroom run and attempt to push your bulging intestines back into your body with your free hand while you pee. You cringe when you hear Blonde Beard's Jealous Roommate come back home while you're busy spiking the New York City Sewage System with your Vodka infused waste, but you put on your big fake happy smile when you and your over-worked liver come out to join the sober people.

Now, at this particular point in the story, it is important to point out that this little two bedroom, rent-controlled apartment has been completely renovated by the Jealous Roommate. Several times over. Although there are certain original details that have been left in place (like the Clawfoot Tub and the Black & White Hex Tiled Floor), practically everything else has been replaced or re-engineered to the point where the place feels more like an Ikea Showroom than some Slum Lord's neglected Cash Cow. Not an inch of space is wasted and the thought that has gone into this Pre-War Walk-Up is mind boggling. It definitely feels like the After version of an episode of Queer Eye. The Jealous Roommate is like Martha on Meth, and every time you come over for a visit you always notice something that has been rearranged or redecorated or renovated in some extremely practical, yet (usually) tasteful way. Several times during your over-nighters you have lulled yourself to sleep over the hum of Power Tools which never seem to get a rest. Capiche?

Now where were we? Oh yes. So you press your small intestines back into the bulging hole emanating from your groin and rejoin the sober people. You sit down and try to follow the conversation while munching on some Chicken Chow Fun. But you all look around in surprise when the most awful screech comes through the recently re-plastered walls which sounds vaguely like a number from A Chorus Line, even though the talent behind the wall sounds much more more like he should stick to his day job of hanging wet garments on A Clothes Line. This is when you open your big mouth and tell the boys that if they want to put a stop to their Karaogay Singing Neighbor, then they should just go bang on his door. That's when the Jealous Roommate informs you, "We can't do that! At least not until I'm finished renovating the apartment. Because if he starts a war and tells the landlord that I've been doing work in a rental apartment then I'm the one who will get kicked out."

This makes you laugh. Not because it's particularly funny, but the idea of the Jealous Roommate ever being satisfied with These New Cabinets or with Those New Towel Racks to the point where he puts down his Power Tools seems highly unlikely. So you laugh. Out loud. Perhaps some would even describe it as a guffaw. And that's when your drunken lips end up slurring, "Oh come on! That'll never happen because you'll be renovating this place forever!" And then, as if on cue, the Karao-gay singing comes to a grinding halt and the crickets begin to chirp. It is dead silent long enough for Barbra Streisand to make a complete costume change which includes a Mani-Pedi and a facial. And then the Jealous Roommate gives you the Evil Eye while he gathers together his Take-Out and says, "Excuse me, I'm going to go into my room now because I really can't take you anymore tonight..."

You are shocked and dumbfounded. Although you know you were being a bit snarky it's not like you said something like, "I know you're really in love with your roommate but he's too busy having phenomenal sex with me to give a shit about you and your new cabinets." The Jealous Roommate gets up and stomps into his bedroom like a big Nelly Olsen having a tantrum over being nothing but a recurring character in Blonde Beard's life when all he really wants is to be re-cast as Laura Ingalls so he can have Almonzo all to himself. But you digress. Even though this was not your intention, you have obviously touched upon something deeper than the Grand Canyon and since you're not The Brady Bunch you don't have the time to make your way all the way down to the Colorado River traveling on the back of a stubborn Mule. So you actually find yourself trying to Stop The Insanity by, get this, apologizing. However, instead of forgiveness, your kind words are actually met with a slamming door by a man who's acting like he's pushing fifteen instead of fifty.

You stand there in absolute shock. You haven't been treated so inappropriately since you were in Junior High School. And that was obviously a long time ago since they abandoned the term "Junior High" sometime during the first Evil George Bush's Presidency and began to call it Middle School. Your jaw is still ajar when Blonde Beard begins to explain that you just touched upon all of his Jealous Roommate's Emotional Tissues. Apparently the idea of living above the Olsen's Mercantile in a Two Bedroom Rent Controlled Apartment on one of the best blocks in the West Village is somehow irksome to Nelly Oldsen since she obviously feels like she deserves better than everybody else in living in Walnut Grove.

At first you think the whole situation is just plain silly, but after it actually sinks in you realize how awful it really was. You haven't been treated this insanely badly by anybody since long before you had pubic hair and it really begins to shake you up. So you and Blonde Beard retire into his bedroom to lie down. You keep waiting for your Non-Boyfriend to comfort you in some way. To touch you in a reassuring way while he informs you that his Jealous Roommate is insane. But he doesn't. He just lies there and isn't helpful in any way shape or form. You really don't know what to do, but the one thing that you are pretty confident about is, even though the last thing you want to do is spend the night, that you should not leave. Leaving the apartment now will somehow justify that this crazy person has a valid reason to be mad. And leaving would also somehow enable the Jealous Roommate's ridiculously childish behavior and allow it to blossom into an even bigger drama. So you stay. And you don't have sex. And you don't talk about it. And you do have trouble falling to sleep. And Blonde Beard barely touches you the entire night. Anyway...