You're Not One of Those Judgmental Fags...

...but the State of New York tends to think otherwise since they have called you for *gasp* Jury Duty. So somehow you wake up early enough to get to the downtown Courthouse at 100 Centre Street by 8:45am, and you are absolutely shocked by the amount of people that are not only awake, but are actually out and about at that horrid hour. And as if Jury Duty wasn't bad enough, to add insult to injury, some lovely Civil Servant just had to go ahead and schedule your call immediately after Daylight Savings just stole an hour of your sleep-time! Talk about Cruel and Unusual Punishment.

Luckily a lot has changed since the last time you were called for your Civic Duty. Like the fact that you only need to serve two days unless, God forbid, you end up on a jury. And they have also installed free WiFi so you get to surf gay porn on the Internet using the tax-payers' dime! However, instead of surfing porn, you decide that you'd much rather be looking at Blonde Beard's smiling mug so you surf on over to Match.com to look up your boy's profile. Only when you search for his username you get this annoying message, "Oops! Was that username spelled correctly? Try again, and if you still receive this message, the member you're searching for may have a hidden profile or new username." So you do a search because you may have messed up the spelling since it's been a long time since you've been on this irritating website. You search by age and location and sort through all of the Beardless photos for your Hairy Boy's smiling mug. Only it isn't there... And then, after a moment or two of being both dumbfounded as well as just plain dumb, you realize that Blonde Beard must have hid or possibly even removed his profile! You, of course, hid yours soon after you met, but that had more to do with hating the entire irritating process of online dating than with thinking you had met Mr. Right. Even though, just about now, you are actually wondering if maybe you have met him? And the fact that Blonde Beard has recently pulled his profile makes you wonder if Mr. Might-Be-Right could be thinking the same thing about you?

And thanks to the free WiFi, that's when an email from Blonde Beard arrives in your inbox: "i just got a notice that YAZ is going to be performing in July in the city. want to go? i know that's a long way away, but alison moyet!" And forget the fact that you would cut off your right arm to see Yaz perform live twenty-five years after they broke up to form Erasure! Your jaw slackens while your heart simultaneously warms from Blonde Beard's confidence and assuredness that the two of you will still be together four months from now. Hell, during the past several years you haven't even dated anyone for more than three months! And had the tables been turned and you noticed that Yaz was reuniting for a tour before Blonde Beard did, you probably would have played it much safer and bought two tickets and waited till the time got closer to invite him. After all, you know from experience that there could be a lot of boys wandering through your slutty revolving doors between now and July! But you are duly impressed, so you accept his magnanimous offer (which is especially generous in spirit) with the full expectation that you will be together in July. And that's when they call your name to report to a Courtroom for fucking Jury Selection.

However, when Judge Judy starts describing the case you begin to have the full expectation that if you get selected for this case then you might actually miss the Yaz concert because you may still be sitting on this damn jury in July. Apparently some Rapper from the Bronx named Remy Ma has been accused of shooting her childhood friend in the Meatpacking District and then leaving her to bleed to death on 14th Street. Then (as if that wasn't enough) Ms. Ma has also been accused of threatening the witnesses about a month or so later. Judge Judy explains that this case should last about a month, and then she asks if anybody has any medical issues that would prevent them from being a Juror so your hand immediately goes up and luckily you are excused without question.

After Jury Duty you end up meeting Blonde Beard at the Rouge Bar, downstairs at Paris Commune, which seems awfully close to the scene of Ms. Ma's Attempt at Murder, so you make a bee-line to the bar to order a Gay Cocktail to calm your judicially frazzled nerves. Only when you walk into the bar you are accosted by just about everyone in the bar because they all seem to know, and love, Blonde Beard. For a moment you feel like you are in some parallel Gay YOUniverse so you begin looking around the gay Cheers for slimmer, bitchier versions of Cliff and Norm. Only Blonde Beard's friends aren't bitchy. At all. They all seem to be as thrilled to be meeting you as you are to meet them. But more importantly, they all seem not to be drug addicts.

When you finally make it downstairs and order your Gay Cocktail, you ask Blonde Beard how he knows absolutely everybody? And he explains that he is friends with the man who painted the amazing Moulin Rouge-y mural that surrounds you. Blonde Beard starts pointing out the famous caricatures of Karl Lagerfeld and Marc Jacobs along with other Fashionistas and one of the Lounge Singers who used to work at the bar. When you ask him why he knows so much about the mural he explains that he assisted the artist who painted it. And that's when he points out one of the characters in the mural and says, "Recognize him?" It takes you a moment, but you quickly realize that the Hot Hustler painted on the wall behind Blonde Beard is, in actuality, a beardless Blonde Beard!

After a few Gay Cocktails you end up closing your tab (which Blonde Beard insists on paying for) and you head down the block to grab some Chinese. Since you drank cocktails through the proper dinner hour, you are the only two boys in the entire restaurant, but it's nice because a) you're drunk, and b) nobody is breathing down your neck to hurry up so they can turn-over the table. Somehow you get onto the topic of ex-boyfriends and Blonde Beard starts talking about a really, really messy break-up. This, of course, piques your interest and you begin playing Twenty Questions. "Why was it so bad? Why did you break up?" And when Blonde Beard answers, "Drugs," you quickly find yourself smack in the middle of the conversation that you've been dying to have but were too terrified to broach. And for once in your life you decide to shut your trap and just listen. Blonde Beard explains, without any prodding from you, that the ex-boyfriend was a big Crystal user and he was the one who initially got Blonde Beard to try the drug because he wanted to share the experience with him. And although he doesn't give you the gory details about the downward spiral, Blonde Beard definitely offers up the fact that it got bad enough that they had the discussion about "quitting" together. Apparently they kept trying to stop, but the Ex wasn't able to. Eventually Blonde Beard was basically presented with an all or nothing situation and, four years ago, he chose to walk away from both the drugs as well as the relationship.

You end up spending the night and, the next morning, thanks to your never-ending Jet Lag, you wake up about an hour before the alarm goes off for your second day of Jury Duty. But instead of being annoyed by your lack of sleep, you end up savoring every moment as you hold on tightly to Blonde Beard and continually kiss the nape of his neck. For the first time since you met, the jury is finally out and you finally feel like you can trust your heart and move forward with your feelings instead of being bogged down by the fear of falling in love with a drug addict. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fancy Fags...

...but you do tend to naturally gravitate toward the finer things in life, like, for instance, Hot Water or Cottonelle Flushable Moist Wipes. Yet when your bowels wake you up on this particular jet-fagged morning, you are extremely irritated to realize that you are out of both. However there is a small Post-It Note on top of an unrecognizable white tub that is now sitting in the same space where your Cottonelle Flushable Moist Wipe Dispenser used to live. The note reads, "Sorry. I used your Cottonelle wipes while you were away but couldn't find any when I tried to replace them." And this note is sitting on top of, get this, a lifetime supply of Huggies Baby Wipes. Which aren't even septic-safe. And they have little Bears imprinted on them. And these Bears aren't hairy nor do they have anything to do with The Eagle. To top it off they smell like fucking babies. And you hate babies. Ugh.

The hot water in your Home Sweet Hovel never seems to emerge and there's absolutely no way that you're going to take a cold shower, so you end up getting down on your knees in order to wash your hair and face under the cold bathtub faucet. You figure you can shower later on at the gym. So you end up spending your day in fear of emitting offensive body odors while obsessively sniffing your armpits. You also spend an inordinate amount of energy avoiding inane conversations with outraged women about Eliot Spitzer and his trusty Ho. After all, the only one who should be outraged is Mrs. Spitzer, and for whatever reason she seems to be happily entrenched in a Tammy-Wynette-Stand-By-Your-Man state of denial, albeit with deep, dark Tammy Faye-esque circles beneath her eyes. You could really give a shit about a Politician's boring-ass sex life, however you do find yourself wondering if Spitzer's Ho voted for him or John Faso?

Around 5pm you start getting emails from the Boy Luck Club about meeting at Zanzibar for some random Gay Networking Thing for The Men Event. It sounds rather imposing since you're a starving writer, but you quickly realize that it's actually just another way of saying "Gay Cocktailing Thing," with an emphasis on the cock. So of course you skip the gym and take your smelly, unbathed armpits uptown to meet the Boy Luck Club. You find your Rice Queen friend almost immediately, and, surprise-surprise, he is surrounded by an array of Asian Take-Out with names that you'll never bother to remember because the next time there will surely be an entirely different exotic buffet surrounding him. Rice Queen informs you that your anorexic friend, Fat Albert, is on his "Way, way, way!" That's when Half-Share (who upgraded to a Full-Share in The Pines next summer, only in a less glamorous house) begins to berate you both about finding a Fire Island Share for the summer. Rice Queen informs you that he's been chatting with a Realtor about a Quarter Share that will cost over $4,000 per person for once a month privileges. Your eyes pop out as if you were just bonked on the head by a cartoon mallet, and you realize that this is exactly the problem with having such fancy friends. Although you love them to death, you just can't keep up financially with the Grace Joneses and all of their fabulous, yet costly, shenanigans. And, as if on cue, that's when Fat Albert appears out of thin, anorectic-like air, in a handmade suit he purchased on Savile Road in London. He looks absolutely gorgeous until you realize that he probably spent more on that one suit than you spend on booze. In a year. You briefly consider knocking off your friend and pawning his suit in order to pay for your Fire Island Share, until you realize that the only person thin enough to wear it is the one who had it commissioned in the first place. Ugh.

After a few more cocktails you find yourself teetering along that fine line of either having dinner or staying out all night and drinking yourself into oblivion, but when Fat Albert offers to take his out his favorite charity case out to sushi at Kanoyama, you gracefully agree with a not so subtle, "Hey, Hey, Hey!" The two of you haven't hung out alone in a while, so you catch him up on the whole Blonde Beard situation. You tell him how much you really like this guy even though you do have a slight hesitation over falling in love with a possible Crackhead. Since Fat Albert's been in a stable relationship for over twelve years and always gives excellent advice, you ask him what he thinks is the best way to broach the subject of "Are you or are you not a Crackhead?" Fat Albert suggests that if you really like Blonde Beard and don't want to scare him away, then you shouldn't ask him about it at all. And you find your overly-loquacious self especially intrigued, "Don't say anything?" Fat Albert explains that if you start badgering him with drug-related questions then he will either resent you or retreat into lies. However if you don't ask him anything, and your relationship ends up blossoming into something more long-term, then all the answers to your questions will eventually present themselves on their own. More specifically, if Blonde Beard is a Crackhead then eventually this information will present itself because, as you get closer, he won't be able to hide it from you, "Unless, of course, you're in total denial like Spitzer's wife..."

Even though you leave the Sushi dinner with food for thought, you end up making a pit-stop at Pommes Frites Authentic Belgian Fries because you're already hungry again. You think about Fat Albert's advice while munching on your yummy Frites as you walk down Second Avenue toward your Home Sweet Hovel. But eventually your wine-drenched bladder starts to demand that you pick up the pace and by the time you race up the six flights of stairs you are practically holding your crotch like a seven year old in order to avoid an embarrassing accident. Luckily you make it to the toilet in time, and while you are relieving yourself you notice that the little Post-It Note is missing from the damn Huggies Baby Wipes. You also notice that the little dispenser lid has been left open. And this is when you realize that your Hobosexual Roommate is actually using the damn Baby Wipes that he bought to replace the Cottonelle Flushable Moist Wipes that he wasn't supposed to use in the first place! And suddenly you begin to wonder if living with a Crackhead could possibly be any worse than your current living situation? Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Sentimental Fags...

...although you have been known to cry during Massengil commercials, but that probably has more to do with your general fear of female genitalia than anything else. Anyway. You are so happy to be back in New York even though you actually just landed in New Jersey. After seventeen days of $5 Coke Lights, the first thing you do when you land at Newark Airport is buy yourself a delectable Diet Pepsi and your savor it during your train ride to Penn Station courtesy of New Jersey Transit. Once you reach the station, you and your BFF can't say goodbye fast enough. After seventeen nights of sharing a room with twin beds, both of you seem to be in a huge hurry to go home and masturbate in the privacy of your own bedrooms.

However, by the time you lug your giant suitcase, backpack, skis and ski boots up the six flights of stairs to your Home Sweet Hovel, you realize that there isn't enough time for you and your right hand to get reacquainted with each other since you have a Fresh Direct grocery delivery on it's way. The only cash you have on you is in Euros, and even though your tip would be much more generous in the foreign currency, you decide the Delivery Man would probably prefer US Dollars. However, when you throw your luggage down in the living room you are instantly struck by the horrible state of things in your Apartment. Filthy doesn't even begin to describe it. It basically looks like your Hobosexual Roommate decided to sublet your half of the apartment to a Homeless Crackhead who threw Rave Parties in your Home Sweet Hovel every night. But you don't have time to do your White Glove Treatment right now, so your feet attempt to make their escape toward the front door, only they're sticking to what feels like the floor of a Movie Theater. More like a Porno Theater. But just as you unlock the door you notice a card on the top of your unread mail pile. And you never get cards, unless of course it's your birthday, which, thank God, it is not.

Upon further inspection you realize that the card is from Blonde Beard. Needless to say, you are more than intrigued. And there's even a little hand-written note on the envelope which helps draw your attention to the Super Special Star Wars X-Wing Fighter Stamp that he chose for you. You quickly open up the Amy Ruppel card which has an animated Owl on the front, and when you flip it open, Blonde Beard has written in all caps, "WHOOO MISSED YOU? I DID DUMB-ASS. HOW CAN YOU EVEN ASK A QUESTION LIKE THAT? WELCOME HOME!" which instantly warms your dumb-ass, overly-sentimental heart. Of course you call him on your way to the ATM so you can gush about his thoughtfulness and firm up your plans for the evening (which you've had since before you left for Europe).

You end up meeting Blonde Beard at his place in the West Village and when you knock on his door it mysteriously opens even though nobody is there. You walk in and hear someone washing dishes behind the open door and are about to jump into a kiss until his Jealous Roommate with Dishpan Hands grunts an unwelcoming "Hello" to you. But then from behind you hear, "Hey," and you turn to see your smiling Blonde Beard, standing there and looking sexier than you remember. You greet him with a subdued kiss since the Jealous Roommate is busy ogling, but even that is probably crossing a line. Both of you want to escape his roommate's judgmental eye, so you decide to go out for drinks at Shag before grabbing an early dinner.

Yet when you get to Shag and walk up to the bar you quickly realize that, gulp, you made out with the Bartender last summer and you feel super awkward even though you didn't do anything wrong. Well, you did stay after Shaggy closed the bar and then hid in the back corner by the tiny bathroom so you could make-out without being caught in a compromising position by the nosey lens of Shag's security camera. However, in hindsight, that particular position seems much less compromising than the one you find yourself in now, so you quickly excuse yourself to let Blonde Beard order while you escape under the guise to secure a table in the empty bar. You go as far away from both the bartender and the security camera as you can possibly get without seeming too suspicious or guilty.

Next you share a romantic Stella Artois while telling Blonde Beard all about your Misadventures in the (011) as you knock knees and take lingering glances of the boy you imagined yourself cuddling with in each and every country you visited. However, when you eventually finish your beers, unfortunately it's your turn to get the next round. The Bartender you kissed is smirking at you from behind his bar (or perhaps that's just your perception of the embarrassing situation). You return the empties to him and order another round as you attempt to diffuse the situation with a friendly "Hey!" You start asking Shaggy about the touring production he was in last summer, only he tells you that you must have gotten him mixed up with another bartender at Shag? Could this be possible? How many bartenders did you actually make out with in the Security Camera-less corner anyway? When his friends at the bar start snickering at your Swiss-cheese of a memory, you decide to finish up your beer and hightail it out of Shag.

Afterwards you head down the block for a quick bite at Miracle Grill before your Jet Lag kicks in and your fall asleep in your Tortilla Soup. Unfortunately the waitress likes you boys much too much and she ends up giving you free Margaritas, and, of course, you run into a slew of boys that you almost did a Fire Island Share House with until you realized their hobbies included copious amounts of Cocaine with a splash of Fisting, both of which would have seriously infringed upon your peaceful Blackouts. Anyway.

Between the Jet Lag and the free Margaritas you are definitely a bit buzzed, so you race back to Blonde Beard's place to get reacquainted with each and every one of his hair follicles. You quickly excuse yourself from his Jealous Roommate and barricade the door closed with a shoe so his kitty won't mistake your moans of passion for a cat in heat. And, as usual, he's amazing. Both hot and simultaneously tender which is such an intense combination. After kissing his face for an extended period of jet lagged time, you end up putting your finger in his mouth and stare intently into his blue eyes as he sucks on it. It's so hot that you begin to explore his mouth with your index finger and you are getting so turned on that you have to hold yourself back from whispering in his ear that you are falling for him. However, the only part of you that actually ends up falling is your erection, because when your finger moves toward the back of Blonde Beard's mouth you end up discovering a gaping hole where one of his molars used to be. "Oh my God," you say. "You're missing a tooth..."

Blonde Beard explains a long drawn out story about his misadventures with a bad dentist, but you're not listening because you're too busy remembering that 60 Minutes special on Crystal Mouth where incarcerated addicts were losing all their teeth years after they had last touched the drug. You want to talk to him about it because you are, indeed, falling for him. But you're nervous that you might scare him away, or worse, put him on the defensive so he winds up lying to you about it. You really have to think about this one because you want to handle the situation in the best possible way so you can learn the truth. Most of all you want to trust the man that you are falling in love with. Unfortunately you're way too caught up in your own paranoid, guilty-until-proven-innocent judgmental bullshit that is based on unsubstantiated evidence, when what you should be doing is talking to Blonde Beard, non-judgmentally, about your fears. Instead, you end up feigning sleepiness and blame your Jet Lag. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Likes to Go Antiquing...

...although you must admit that every once in a while you can definitely find yourself attracted to a Silver Fox. Or two. Especially an Italian one. However, now that you've arrived in Rome and find yourself surrounded by Hot Boys and Ancient Relics, somehow you find your short attention span constantly turning back to New York and Blonde Beard. You've been emailing back and forth since you left, and now you've really started to miss your hairy cheeked boy. Even though his hair has yet to turn gray, you begin to wonder if perhaps he's the one who you'll grow old with and help dye his beard with Just For Men hair coloring products?

But you realize you are being ridiculous because you and Blonde Beard haven't even had your six-weekiversary yet, and, after all, you are in fucking Italy for God's sake and there are Visa cards to be maxed and Italian boys to be kissed! Since your sappy thoughts are sapping your Jet Fagged libido, you decide to put them on the back burner. After all, how does that age old saying go again? "When in Rome... fuck a Roman!"

Thanks to your 5:10am Wizz Air flight, you and your BFF arrive at the World's Shittiest Hostel before 8am (hungover and still a bit drunk from Gay Hungarian Karaoke) and you are immediately welcomed by a sign informing you that the elevator is broken. You curse yourself for bringing too many cute outfits (that you have yet to wear) as you ascend each flight, and you're definitely in a mood by the time you reach Reception. On the third floor. The Grazie Cunto at the front desk (who must be a distant Italian Relative of the Merci Beaucunt in Chamonix) seems to get pleasure out of the fact that your room won't be ready until 2pm, but she happily informs you that you can store your things in the storage hallway which has neither a lock nor a door, yet somehow, she assures you, is "Very, very safe!"

Since you have hours to kill you decide to leave the Hostile Hostel to do some touristy crap. So you sleepwalk around Rome and annoy your BFF by making him play Japanese Tourist and taking photos of you in front of the Trevi Fountain and the Colosseum. And wouldn't you know it, as you step away from the most famous ruins in the world, you find yourselves being drawn toward a nearby Rainbow Flag, almost as if you're in a some Gay Star Trek Tractor Beam. The next thing you know you're having brunch at a little gay restaurant/bar called Coming Out. You order an omelette and a glass of wine. (Don't judge! It's cheaper than the Coke Light and, besides, you could certainly use some Hair of the Dog). And thank God for the wine because you need something to soothe your stomach while you watch your BFF and the Hot Italian Waiter as they conduct some metallic gay mating ritual where they flirt shamelessly using only their tongue rings. Even though you made your BFF promise that once he finally turned thirty that he would remove his tetanus producing, oral steel girder, for some unknown reason unbeknownst to you, it still remains dangling from behind his pearly whites. The Tongue Knob, however, does double duty as a Built-In Breathalyzer, because once your BFF has had one too many Tanqueray and Tonics, his speech tends to degrade into something that sounds more like a thirsty Helen Keller. But you digress.

After the International Tongue Knob Fest, you do some more half-assed touring of the Spanish steps, The Pantheon, and ultimately you wind up at the Vatican where you end up gawking at the Fashion Challenged Swiss Travesties that apparently guard the Pope from Catty Homosexuals. You think they look much more like The Joker than the Pope's Armed Forces, but who are you to judge? Somehow the two of you don't burn in hell when you go inside (mostly so you can use the bathroom) even though your BFF is actually wearing one of his infamous teeny tiny t-shirts that he special orders from BabyGap. This one, of course, is about as gay as gay gets, and has a picture of a Rooster with the word "Cocky" written beneath it. You pray the Pope doesn't read English, even though you kind of secretly hope that one of his hot Swiss Jokers does.

Eventually you make your way back to the Hostile Hostel and check into your totally busted room that, get this, smells like sewage (even though your backed-up intestines have definitely not contributed to the foul odor). You're (shockingly) too tired to complain to the Grazie Cunto at the front desk, so you wind up taking a disco nap before you put on your skimpiest, most tight-fitting Toga to go out for, surprise-surprise, Gay Roman Cocktails. You felt much better after getting a few Z's, but now you feel much worse after bathing in the non-treated sewage water that sprays out of the Italian ciao-er (pronounced chow-er for the linguistically challenged). You have a few minutes to kill, so you check your email from the Computer Room on your way out of the Hostile Hostel. A big smile takes over your face when you read a sappy email from Blonde Beard who was thinking about you and just wanted to say hi. Meanwhile, that's when your BFF lets out a big girly scream and you practically jump up on top of your chair while looking around for cockroaches and/or Roman Rodents. The Grazie Cunto at Reception gives him the Evil Eye (as if she's running some "Silencio!" library or something) and you ask, "What's wrong?" Your BFF says, "Nothing's wrong! I just got accepted to Graduate School! In Rome!" You both jump up and hug because for years your friend has dreamt of studying International Affairs in Italy in order to perfect his Italiano. You are so happy and proud of your BFF! For about a nanosecond. Then you just feel sad and sorry for yourself because you can't imagine life in New York City without him.

You meet some of your BFF's Roman friends and try to keep a stiff upper lip throughout dinner, but mostly you just drink lots of cheap red wine to ease your selfish pain. Which, as usual, works like a charm! Before you know it, your BFF's Gay Roman Posse whisks you back to Coming Out for some Gay Cocktails and, since you're in a somber, depressive mood, you start chatting up some Cute Lesbians from Arizona (and yes, you know that Cute Lesbian is oftentimes an oxymoron, like Jumbo Shrimp or Deafening Silence, but these girls are cute!) The drunken Oxymorons end up dragging you over to the Colosseum in order to show you a weathered face etched into the ruins, much like the Man in the Moon or the Shroud of Turin, only when the Oxymorons point out the face to you, you all can't help but agree that this face is definitely not Jesus. It's Richard Nixon. You end up unloading on the Oxymorons about how sad you are about your BFF getting into school and they drunkenly promise that you will not be left alone. That you will definitely fall Head-Over-Heels for some Gay Boy (obviously a Belinda Carlile fan) and that eventually you will bring your new beau to Rome so you can introduce him to your BFF. And that's when you imagine yourself standing in front of the Colosseum, holding Blonde Beard's hand while pointing out Rome's highlights, such as the Colosseum's Famous Shroud of Richard Nixon.

When you finish your Peroni you head back to the bar with the Oxymorons to get a refill, and that's when the Gay Roman Posse introduces you to their latest 25 year old addition. It's almost as if the Shroud of Richard Nixon heard your whiny, woe-is-me pity parade, because this boy instantly starts chatting you up. In perfect English, no less. Which definitely helps you look past the bizarre eyebrow twitch. You are in shock when Twitch tells you about his recent trip to New York where he spent each of his ten nights at The Monster. This is shocking mostly because you've only been there once in the past seven years. You're about to say, "Of all the juice joints in New York City..." but you can't because Twitch is kissing you. You close your eyes, mostly to savor the moment, but as soon as you do, your mind begins to wander. And it immediately wanders to Blonde Beard, who, incidentally, is a much better kisser.

The next thing you know, you and Twitch are whisked away by your BFF's Gay Roman Posse to a mixed club called Muccassassina which, although on the outskirts of town, has a line that practically starts in Midtown. You stand there, shivering and chatting with Twitch about all the bars in New York that he should have gone to, although all you really want to be doing is chatting with Blonde Beard about all the dumb bars you went to in Rome. When you realize just exactly how totally dickmatized you have become, you pull out your cell phone and send Blonde Beard an international text telling him that you're waiting in line for a Gay Roman Disco, yet you're too busy missing him to enjoy it. You receive his response almost instantaneously, which says, "What a coincidence! I'm going to a Gay Roman Disco AND I miss you, too!" His text puts a smile on your mopey fish face and you decide, right then and there, that it's time to start following your heart instead of your dick. So once you get inside the club you end up blowing off the Twitchy Twink and end up spending the night standing in the downstairs corner of Muccassassina, drinking €10 Peronis while sending mushy international $0.50 texts to the Bearded American Antique across the Atlantic, who's much more age-appropriate for you. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Oddball Blogger Fags...

...but according to Michael Wood who has written a piece for Edge (and GayWired.com) entitled "Gay Bloggin’," you are! And, needless to say, you're pretty fucking thrilled about it.

"Written in the seldom-used second person, the narrative makes for what initially seems to be a very bossy blog. Then comes the moment when you think, "Oh right, ’2nd Person’, written in the second person . . . clever?" ... Overall, the [2nd Person] blog, in all it’s bizarre glory, proves to be a decent procrastination tool, which we all know was the original purpose for creating ’the blog’."

You're still in shock about being included amongst such a small group of elite Gay Bloggers, especially since your narcissistic blog is so new! Thanks again for the plug, Michael!

Now if all you Advertisers and Literary Agents would just form one single-file line, you'll eventually get to them after you've enjoyed your fifteen minutes! Anyway...

POLL RESULTS: Are You One of Those Anal Retentive Fags?

63% of You fags said, "It depends. I can go as long as there's a toilet seat cover and the bathroom is relatively clean."

26% of You fags said, "Oh yes! I race home from work during lunch whenever nature calls."

10% of You anal-repulsive fags said, "No way! I can poop in the middle of Grand Central Station in a stall that's missing its door."

0% of You said, "Poop? What's that? I'm on a strict liquid diet of Gay Cocktails."

Number of Fags who Voted: 68

You’re Not One of Those Cultured, Opera-Loving Fags...

...although you did enjoy Rent, but that was mostly because you had the good fortune to see that talentless, cultureless-vulture, Jai Rodriguez, humiliating himself and desecrating the character of Angel the Drag Queen. And luckily you didn't have to pay for that guilty pleasure! Honey, your wallet is tighter than a Gay Virgin's Clenched Butt Cheeks. However, now that you're in Budapest (for the correct pronunciation pretend you are a drunk, lisping fag who's just had oral surgery: Now that you're in Budapescht) you are, thank God, no longer hemorrhaging euros. Hungary has it's own currency and the exchange rate is so ridiculous (1 US Dollar=171 Hungarian Whatevers). You briefly consider dating an Hungarian Accountant just to figure out how much cash to withdraw from the ATM, but you end up withdrawing 30,000 Whatevers and cross your fingers that you haven't accidentally just caused the check you sent to Citibank Visa to bounce. Meanwhile, it feels absolutely fan-fucking-tastic to be stuffing 30,000 of anything into your threadbare wallet.

You leave your cute 7x24 Central Hostel, and, since your wallet is overflowing with Whatevers, you and your BFF decide to do a little shopping before taking a guided City Walking Tour. You wind up stumbling upon a store like H&M in Deak Square, ironically called, "The New Yorker," so you go inside for a goof, but are quickly entranced by a 50% off sale. Since it's super warm in Budapest (who knew?) and you only brought your down ski coats, you both end up buying lightweight jackets. Your BFF ends up spending 2,400 Whatevers on a super cute white sweater hoodie with a sheepskin lining and you plug the numbers into your cell phone calculator as you both prepare to cringe from another case of European Sticker Shock. But you are both slack-jawed when you realize it's only about $14!

Afterwards you race around Deak Square looking for the City Walking Tour which is supposed to meet on the steps in front of some Church, but, unfortunately for you, there are a gazillion fucking Churches and none of them seem to have steps. The Hungarian map is Greek to you, but your BFF seems to have some unexpected Wonder Twin powers and somehow takes the Form of a GPS. And before you know it, you stumble upon the Church steps. Luckily you are the only two who show up, so your 4,000 Hungarian Whatever Group Tour basically ends up being a private tour! And given the new Sweater Exchange Rate of One Cute $14 Sweater Hoodie = 2,400 Whatevers, you realize that your private tour will cost less than two Cute Sweaters!

The Guide is super nice and she takes you to lots of places that you're way too hungover to bother remembering, but you take a few photos just to prove that you didn't lie in bed all day waiting for the Gay Bars to open. Somewhere along the way your Guide takes you to a Hungarian Bathhouse and you and your BFF almost abandon the tour right then and there, until your guide explains that it's straight. And co-ed. The tour ends at the Opera House and during a highfalutin, yet surprisingly sober moment, the two of you actually end spending 1,500 Whatevers on Opera tickets in the nose-bleed section, mostly because, using the Sweater Exchange Rate, you can get two tickets to see Carmen for just a little bit more than one Cute Sweater!

After the tour you are both exhausted so you decide to go check out the Széchenyi Baths and you are convinced that Széchenyi must be Hungarian for Straight. You put on your scandalous Speedos and bop around the Thermal Pools that are heated by a Natural Hot Spring as you cruise cute Hungarian Széchenyi Boys. You are a bit self-conscious at first because you've gotten so damn Gay Fat. But that's when the Fattest Man in Hungary saunters by in a Speedo that's approximately the size of a California King-Sized Fitted Sheet. He's so fat that he briefly eclipses the setting sun. Meanwhile, his Speedo is pulled above his enormous swaying belly (which seems to keep time with his footsteps like a fleshy Piano Metronome), and upon closer inspection, you realize that his fleshy belly is actually peeking out from between the leg holes of his bathing suit as if it were his scrotum. You feel like barfing but the whole experience is just so damn slimming that you decide to follow Jabba the Hut around the Bathhouse for the rest of the afternoon. Actually, since you're in Hungary, make that Atilla the Hut.

After leaving the Bathhouse you feel refreshed and since you're no longer feeling Gay Fat, you decide to grab an early dinner before the Opera. You wind up at a restaurant called Arigato for, get this, Hungarian Sushi, and the shy Japanese waitress only speaks, get this, Hungarian. The only English she seems to know is, "Yes, please," although she seems to think it means, "Thank you." The whole experience is a bit surreal, and you, surprise-surprise, drink a bit too much saki and suddenly the last thing you want to do is go suffer through some Hungarian Opera. So you and your BFF decide to trade in Gay Culture for Gay Bars as you begin your search for Gay Cocktails.

Unfortunately this task turns out to be rather difficult. Your first stop is Action Bar, but there's a drink minimum and you are the first fags to arrive so you decide to move on. Next you stumble upon Club Bohemian Alibi, but either it's closed or you're just way too drunk to figure out how to open the door, so you keep moving along and finally you end up at a cute bar called AlterEgo, which is featuring, get this, Gay Hungarian Karaoke. It's too bizarre to pass up so you pick some songs as you simultaneously try to pick up some hot Bel Ami Boys who are also waiting to sing. Unfortunately the Bel Ami Boys are, of course, together.

You end up having so much fun singing Wham! and Madonna that you completely lose track of time. Your flight to Rome on Wizz Air leaves at 5:10am and your taxi is picking you up at, gulp, 2:45am. Not to mention the fact that you haven't even packed yet. Or slept. So you race back to the Budapest subway and neglect to buy a ticket because it's late and nobody is checking. However, when you get off at your stop you notice some poor woman searching through her purse because the Hungarian Subway Gestapo is checking for subway tickets on the way out of the station. You have visions of being detained in Budapest without Gay Karaoke privileges, so you race back onto the train and call out for your BFF who is lagging far behind you. He races toward the Soviet Era Subway as the doors begin to close. Most of his body makes it safely onto the train, yet the Iron Curtain slams shut on his right shoulder and, just like a Pit Bull's Jaw, doesn't seem to want to unhinge. Eventually your BFF yanks his lame arm back into the train and you complete your Getaway from the Gestapo. You wonder if his chiropractor bills will end up costing more than the subway fine would have, but you decide to keep this thought to yourself.

At the hostel you end up packing longer than you end up sleeping, and even though you're both drunk and simultaneously hungover, you somehow make your Wizz Air flight which is the most horribly uncomfortable coach seat you've ever experienced that you'd actually prefer to be Wizzed on. Anyway...

You’re Not One of Those Fags Who Drinks Bottled Water...

...especially when you're paying for it in fucking euros. However, your Diet Pepsi addiction is slowly burning a hole in your already threadbare True Religion jeans' pocket (you paid extra for that distressed feature). Meanwhile you technically haven't actually had a Diet Pepsi since you left New York, since all you could find in the Alps was Coke Light (which, incidentally, is a thousand times better than the swill called Diet Coke that they sell in the states). But now that you and your BFF have left the Ski Fag trip to join your Literary Lot of Writer Friends for a few days in Berlin, you were sure you'd be able to find a bottle or two of your favorite diet elixir. Unfortunately you've had no such luck.

Since there were four of your friends on overlapping European vacations, you ended up booking an amazing two-bedroom apartment at The Circus Hostel and descending upon East Berlin. After checking in, you find your Home Schooled Writer Friend sitting in the lobby, totally jet lagged and about to fall asleep. You give Home School a double cheek Eurokiss (even though he's straight), and then he immediately produces yesterday's Metro paper from his trendy Manhattan Portage Messenger Bag. You quickly scan the front page headline and realize that one of your Lit Lot friends (the male half of the Overly Affectionate Straight Couple that is sharing the Berlin Apartment with you) has somehow become The Most Hated Man in New York since you left! And all he did to deserve this title was to be poor enough to enter (and win) a New York City Housing Lottery. Four years ago. You burst out laughing mostly because not only is he the Nicest Man in New York, he is also the Luckiest. And his good fortune has much more to do with recently falling for your Straight Girlfriend than with winning the Housing Lotto and purchasing an Upper East Side Studio for $14,000 (plus $295/month maintenance). Anyway.

Eventually your Straight Girlfriend and The Most Hated Man in New York return from an Overly Affectionate bike tour of Berlin and you all go out to a super cute Vietnamese Restaurant called Manngo on Mulackstraße. You've been dragging all day from your Diet Pepsi withdrawal so you order a Vodka Red Bull and quickly become so giddy and wired that you almost get kicked out for laughing too loudly while telling explicit bathing stories about the horrible Bower in Chamonix. Afterwards you all head over to an amazingly fucking cool space called Tacheles, which is an old bombed (and only semi-restored) Jewish department store that was taken over by squatters moonlighting as graffiti artists after the Berlin Wall fell. Every floor has some new bar or gallery to explore, and despite the fact that it is, ahem, not gay, it is the coolest bar you've ever been to. Every once in a while the Breeders do get something right. But, as usual, you digress. You all drink lots and lots of German Beer as you explore each level of the space, and then you and your BFF break off from the straight Lit Lot in order to explore Berlin's dirty gay scene.

When you emerge from the U-Bahn subway, you are a little bit disoriented and a lot bit drunk (especially since it's not only legal, yet encouraged to travel everywhere in Berlin with an oversized open bottle of beer). You wind up asking some Persian Boy with an Abnormally Large Face for help with directions to Tom's. And just like everybody else in Germany, the Large Faced Boy speaks perfect English. He decides to personally escort you to the bar, and on the way he starts offering way too much information about how he just left Tom's after having sex with some Random Trick in the Downstairs Dark Room. When you arrive at the Tom's, the Large Faced Boy's Random Trick is still cruising Tom's (presumably for someone with smaller facial features) and when Large Face Boy introduces you to the Random Trick, he actually extends his hand which you reluctantly shake. You quietly pray to yourself that the Random Trick has washed his dirty hands after finishing up with Large Faced Boy in the Downstairs Dark Room.

After a few more beers, Large Faced Boy walks you over to a gay club called Connection and it's really hopping. The place is an absolute maze, and Large Faced Boy takes you and your BFF on a tour of all the different rooms and levels. However, when you end up downstairs and stumble into a Hot Mess of Dirty Boys doing Dirty Gay Things, you and your BFF instantly begin to giggle uncomfortably, and unfortunately your giggles soon turn into uncontrollable laughter. Which, needless to say, is completely inappropriate and extremely unwelcomed by the Dirty Gay Boys. Especially by the Bitchiest Old Queen This Side Of France who somehow manages to give you the Fish Eye from her very compromising position. So you quickly giggle your goodbyes to the Large Faced Boy just as you get a text from Home School telling you to come meet him at a mixed disco called Berghain.

You arrive to the club at 4am yet somehow wind up in a massive queue with Home School. He's now traveling solo since the Overly Affectionate Straight Couple has gone back to the hostel. Probably to do nasty straight things that you shudder to think about. Not that there's anything wrong with that. As long as they do their heterosexual business in the privacy of their own homes... Behind closed doors and sound-proof walls, of course... But you digress. Your BFF disappears briefly to find a place to pee, yet returns with German sized beers for everyone. He's just thoughtful like that! After an hour of standing in line and meeting adorable Swedish Girls who speak English better than any of the published Lit Lot, you finally get admitted to the club around 5am-ish. You and your BFF immediately ditch Home School and instinctively race to the gay floor. The next thing you know you are dancing on a raised platform to Calvin Harris and you are happier than a gay boy surrounded by Wiener Schnitzel (which you are, Blanche! Y'are!) You dance until the Wiener Schnitzel's shirts start coming off, and then you decide to slink off the stage because after a week of eating fromage in France, you have definitely gotten a bit too Gay Fat to be pulling off your Burqa and exposing more jiggly flesh than the Gay Koran allows any Gay Boy to expose in a Mixed Club.

The next thing you know it's noon and you are in your twin bed(wonder how that happened?) Only you don't wonder too hard because it hurts your throbbing head way too much. Eventually the five of you arise and head over to a nearby cafe called November to have a nice long leisurely brunch. But unfortunately the service is even more non-existent than it was in France (you actually got yelled at when you asked the Bitchy Waiter for tap water). You, ironically, Wait for your Waiter to bring the check for at least twenty minutes. Eventually you decide to embark on a mission to find him and ask for your check as well beg him for another thimble of tap water. Only when you locate the Waiter Who Makes You Wait, he instantly yells at you and gives you an all-too familiar Fish Eye (you obviously had trouble placing his face without the dick in his mouth). As usual, you are way too hungover to argue when he brings you a €4 bottle of lukewarm water (which he has already added to the check). You give him a snarky smile and, you guessed it, he gives you the Fish Eye. Anyway...

You're Not the Type of Fag Who Skis on a Ski Vacation...

...as usual, you'd prefer to pass out and wake up hungover after too many Gay Cocktails then to never have slept after a long night of powdering your nose. So, as usual, you wake up hungover and drag your lazy ass to the slopes so you can meet your International Friend from Buenos Aires for a day of skiing at Le Tour. You met Ricky Ricardo last October in Rio de Janeiro one day on the gay beach when your bladder was so full that you had to ask him to watch your full beer so nobody would steal it while you excused yourself into the ocean to relieve yourself of the previous five. You weren't sure if Ricky Ricardo was gay since he was sunning with a girl, but after a few more beach beers you realized that Lucy was definitely Ricky's Fag Hag. You all hit it off and since you were traveling alone, they took you in as if you were their Little Ricky. Ironically you all ended up on the same flight to Buenos Aires, where Ricky ended up taking you to the gay equivalent of his Tropicana Night Club, South of the Equator.

So when you found out that Ricky Ricardo was going to be in Geneva at the same time you were in Chamonix you decided to get together for a day of skiing so you could add another country stamp onto your International Friendship Passport. The only tricky part is that you signed a silly waiver promising that you wouldn't bring any non Ski Fags onto the Ski Fag trip. Oops. Your bad.

Ricky Ricardo turns out to be an excellent skier and you and your BFF can barely keep up. The three of you have a fantastic day, except, of course, when you run into the Ski Fag Trip Leader at the Lodge and have to pretend that you just met Ricky Ricardo so you don't have any 'splaining to do to. Afterwards, Ricky offers to drive you back to your hotel, the only problem being that he has borrowed his brother's two seater Mercedes SL convertible, and there are three of you and three pairs of skis. But it sounds much more glamorous than schlepping back on the free l'autobus so you put the top down and pile into the backspace after your BFF immediately calls shotgun.

Perhaps it's riding in the expensive car in the French Alps, or maybe it's the fact that you have the top down in the middle of February, or possibly it has something to do with the fact that you feel like a teenager hanging out of a two-seater sports car even though you're well into your thirties, but you feel utterly fabulous when everybody in the tiny village of Argentière looks your way as you drive down the mountain. The narcissist in you enjoys the spotlight until you find yourself getting caught off-campus by the Ski Fags' Trip Leader, a.k.a. Mrs. Garrett. Only it's like the very special episode where The Facts of Life Goes to Paris. Make that The Fags of Life. You wish you were Tootie so you could just rollerskate away, but, unfortunately for you, you are so cramped into the backspace that you can't even duck or adequately turn your head away from Mrs. Garrett's judgmental spotlight. Ugh.

After Ricky Ricardo drops you off at the hotel, you decide to unpack your laptop and try to work on a blah-blah-blog entry with the free WiFi in the lobby. Yet when you get downstairs, you find ten frustrated Ski Fags trying to get online with their fancy new MacBooks, only nobody can find a signal. So you march over to the front desk to have another fight with the Merci Beaucunt who claims it must be your American computers that are causing le problem. You're about to get all Carrie Bradshaw on her and say, "I'm not an American! I'm a New Yorker!" because suddenly you have the need to explain that just because you live in an country that elected George Bush, twice, doesn't mean you voted for him (actually, after that Florida Chad debacle you don't believe W was ever elected the first time, but the fact that he was elected for a second term? There's really no excuse for that). Anyway. Your BFF yanks you away before you get a chance to get all political and he quickly asks the Merci Beaucunt if there might be a place in town where you can go get some Freedom Frites along with some Freedom WiFi.

The Merci Beaucunt sends you to Le Rusticana and you sit at the bar amongst all the bizarre gay memorabilia in the straight restaurant as you begin to work on your blah-blah-blog entry. You order some Freedom Frites and a few Kronenbourg 1776's and and begin to write about Le Stalquer when your BFF turns to you with the biggest smile you've ever seeen him produce. "What?" you ask, completely confused. He asks if you would watch his stuff because nature has called and he wants to race back to the hotel to use la toilette. You agree even though you are insanely jealous because you still haven't sat your gay ass down to make any deposits at the European Porcelein Bank. After your BFF leaves you devour the rest of the binding Freedom Frites and wash it all down with his pint of 1776.

A few moments later you feel a hand on your back and say, "That was quick," only when you turn around, instead of finding your BFF, you almost do a spit-take when you find yourself staring at Le French Construction Worker (a.k.a. Le Stalquer). He's got a shit-eating grin on his face that somehow eclipses your BFF's recent shit-producing grin. Le Stalquer tries to tell you something in French that you can't understand, at all, and you are in absolutely no mood to parlez français so you end up navigating your way to the Babel Fish website for help with a translation. Le Stalquer types in one French sentence on your keyboard and when you hit "Enter," Babel Fish quickly informs you that, "The lady at the Hotel tell me I could fine you here!" Le Merci Beaucunt strikes again!

The two of you type boring sentences back and forth until your BFF finally returns and begins to giggle uncontrollably when he realizes your predicament. Since Le Stalquer can't speak a lick of English, you just look at your BFF and tell him that he needs to save you. The two of you yap about the best lie to type into Babel Fish until you lamely have it translate, "We need to go have dinner with the Ski Group now." Since Le Stalquer already knows where you live, you let him drive you back to the hotel while you bluntly tell your BFF that he better not leave anything in the damn Smart Car this time. At the hotel your BFF immediately jumps out of the car, allowing you to have another nice quiet au revoir with Le Stalquer. Since you don't want to lead him on, you try to give him a Euro kiss on each of his cheeks, but he isn't having it, and ends up attacking you with another unwelcomed French Kiss. You quickly pull the door open and spill out of Le Smart Car where you find yourself gathering yourself together in front of Mrs. Garrett. She's glaring at you with her patented look of disapproval as if you are some slutty Tootie holding a bong that you've mistaken for a candy dish. You realize that this is the second time today that Mrs. Garrett has caught you being driven back to the hotel (in a second car no less), and you briefly consider telling her that you decided to turn tricks in order to pay off the €120 dinner, but you just smile and race back into the WiFi-less lobby where you receive yet another grande shit-eating grin from the Merci Beaucunt. Anyway...

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...