To avoid confusion regarding the title of this piece, “Brokeback Swami” is not going to be a story about how I went to an ashram in India seeking self-realization and the next thing you know I’m fucking some fellow swami in the ass. This happened but that’s not the story I’m going to tell now. Let’s just say his name was Bindu and his ass was as tight as a 5-year old Arabic girl who can outrun her father.
I never saw the movie Brokeback Mountain but I quickly grew tired of closet queers praising the movie as a modern “War and Peace.” Now before you call me homophobic—I’m not. Homo comes from the ancient Greek, “Homonus,” which was the name of a tailor in ancient Athens who was famous for his ability to fix one’s cuff length with expertise, as well as sucking a mean cock, and means “faggot.”
Phobic comes from the Roman Phobiathus, who was a pansy who was scared of his own shadow—like the government-created pussies of today who if they see an unattended piece of toilet paper on the floor will throw their arms in the air and scream like they just saw a mouse until the Great Protector, the government, will come and not pick up the piece of toilet paper but make them go through toxic full-body radiation scanners and have TSA perverts look at the image of their naked bodies and laugh at the size of their penises or wack-off to the pictures of their young daughters—and means “afraid.”
So homophobic means “afraid of faggots.” I’m not afraid of them. I hate them.
I don’t hate poofs for what they choose to put in their mouth or ass. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about that. Speaking of rodents, I just rented Pretty Woman and, inspired by Richard Gere’s real-life antics, at the moment I’m writing this, I have a gerbil up my ass. I hate butt-munchers because they’re pussies.
When I say they’re pussies, I’m not referring to the fact that if you comment on their pink silk ascot not quite matching their red socks that they will burst into tears. That’s just funny. I hate them because if they valued expressing Authentically what they do—which is interior decorating, fashion designing, acting on film and stage, sucking dick and taking it in the ass—then we could all just get over it and actually see Who They Are, which is more than a collection of limp-wristed cocksuckers.
I had a personal training client who on our first session, almost nonchalantly said, “I’m meeting my boyfriend later and we want to go to dinner in the area. Do you have any recommendations?” He was not a total fembot and didn’t act like my non-obviously gay clients who never used pronouns when describing their social activities, “I went out with my significant other and when they saw the menu they didn’t know what to order so my partner then looked at me for a suggestion.” Nigga, please! With this client, it just was what it was and that was it. No ponderings, “I wonder if his ‘partner’ is a man or a woman…” because it was said straight up, pardon the pun, and not apologetically. And the result was that it was a complete non-issue, other than me wearing a bathing suit when we hit the steam room together.
Instead gayblades value their careers and social standing in a repressively phony society and so we have gay men like Tom Cruise jumping up and down on Oprah pathetically pretending to be straight. It’s fine to be an actor on film but, for god sakes, in real life it’s time to be you and not a fake character that is created and directed by society. [http://www.southparkstudios.com/clips/155090]
While the term “Islamo-fascists” was created by the New World Order Scum (NWOS) to further their agenda of, speaking of taking it in the ass, bending us over a table and having us cry out, “Thanks for the protection!” because we have become terrified of a term created by ripping off the candy Bit-O-Honey, there are still many who swallow the jiz of Muhammad with bad intentions towards the “infidels,” which they define as anyone who doesn’t wear a diaper on his head, abuse women and preach that the only problem with the world is Israel.
But where are the “moderate Islamos” speaking up and saying, “Yo nigga, I don’t know what the fuck these towel heads are practicing but it sure ain’t Islam”? We mostly hear silence from these “moderate” pussies. Why? “Oh, they’re scared of being killed.” Why? Then they can float right up and swim in the rivers of wine in Muslim Heaven. Of course they won’t get any of that young, virgin poon that is reserved for the ones who blow themselves up because being a brainless idiot is apparently rewarded in the Muslim faith.
In the same way, the whole “gay” issue, while created by Puritan hypocrites who slaughtered Indians, raped slaves and preach gospels that would have Jesus deresurrect if he listened to them instead of ignore them as the fools they are, is perpetuated by fruit loops hiding like rats from the light, instead of prancing around gallantly in their ballet tutus like they have a pair.
If all the fudge-packers came out of the bakery and said, “We’re here, we’re queer—now suck it!” what would all the straights do? Maybe a few would take the sticks out of their asses and put a dick in it instead. But when their lawyers and their doctors and their florists (no shit?) and their gyno (figures—only a gay man could enjoy staring at a fish taco all day!) and their friends and Tom Cruise boldly took off their masks and proudly showed their faces, the straights would have no choice but to suck it. And besides an increase in sales for the knee-pad companies, it would become a non-issue and we could move on and focus all that energy creating an issue out of nothing into finding a cure for cancer or, more likely, onto something else to hate and oppress.
I remember my annoyance in my theatrical days of what were considered the “gay plays,” how instead of being about real relationships—regardless of whether it was between a man and a woman or two men—they became about flamboyance and prancing and sex. How shallow. I thought gay men to have a lot more depth than the gay playwrights were depicting them.
I once got a role in a show called, “Cute Boys In Their Underpants” (I shit you not!) I have a feeling I booked the role more for how the directors imagined I would look in my underpants than from my ten plus years of training as an actor.
As irony would have it, I was playing the token “straight” role. But when I got the whole script, there was one scene where I would have a dildo shoved in my mouth and another where I would have to lick some brown substance off one of the other character’s fingers and I said, “Fuck this!” and quit. They were pissed, as they had already printed up promotion cards with my name on it. But while admission into the Actors Equity union was waved in my face, there was too much dick going around and the whole thing smelled like dick cheese.
"I'll tell ya', besides loving dick, the best part for me about being gay is the pants-optional parties!"
I would love to play a homosexual character in a play which is about a real relationship, with all its joys and struggles, it laughter and tears, and not about dicks and asses and dialogue like, “Oh, I’d like to see you wearing a thong, hot pants!” That’s just gay and I mean that in the “not cool” way. I like to believe there is more to being gay than just being carnal with people of the same sex. Maybe I need to write The Great Gay Play. If I do, don’t call me a sell-out if I keep in the “hot pants” line!
So now instead of going into a restaurant and making goo-goo eyes with the host and overdramatically throwing my napkin down and announcing that I am going to the bathroom, where he will meet me and we will proceed to blow each other like two leaf blowers, that is, if the “leafs” were Leif Garret, we instead have to wait until I leave with my date and clandestinely leave my card on his desk as I facetiously thank him for a lovely evening, the implication being that if he calls me later that evening, when we meet it will be a lot more memorable than an overcooked piece of dead, tortured animal and an overpriced bottle of wine sitting across from a woman that I am eating with to give the false pretense that I “fit in,” when the only thing I want to fit into is his ass. I would answer the hosts, “Table for two?” with, “To eat, yes. But the only straw I need is if you and me are felching later.”
LEIF GARRETT circa 1976, before going bald, being arrested and on VH1's "Has Beens: Where Are They Now And Why Do We Care?"
But this Garden of Eden will only be possible if we all grow a pair of testicles and live Authentically, not “asking” for our rights but demanding them and if they are not given to us—then taking them. I’m just waiting for the “fair and balanced”—which means fair-skinned and able to walk the police line test after downing a bottle of scotch—Fox News to announce, “The New Al-Qaeda—faggots.” At least gays won’t complain when they are given full-body cavity searches at the airports. Hell, they may even find a few lost golf balls up there and a statue of Dick Nixon!
This piece was intended to be about my broke ass, which is a stone throw away from eating out of garbage cans, but I have to go with the flow and apparently the flow took me to the fruit tree instead of the vegetable garden. But the “serious” part of all this, for those morons out there who either have no sense of humor or preach “laser love,” which means, “As long as you believe in the way I do I’ll love you,” until each one of us lives Authentically, we are always going to be subject to bullshit, whether imposed by government, employers, society, neighbors, family or ourselves. Of course it reads like a gay piece but, then again, so do I.
What has it been worth for you to sell your soul to the Devil? To the stupid Christians who believe in fairy tales, by “the Devil” I am not referring to the make-believe being that your church manipulators created because they couldn’t accept that God created it all—which includes not just “light” and “love” but “dark” and “evil” as well—but the lie that you live and pretend is real, which can only be a living Hell.
I don’t want to live in your Hell anymore, even if you powder it with perfume and call it Heaven. If I were a pussy I would kill myself but I’m not. So all I can do is devote myself to destroying this Hell that you have decorated with curtains and flowers. I will piss on your candelabra and revel in the smell of urine over the smell of false “light.” I will proudly show my scars, not as another ego trip to wear as a badge of fake honor like the generals who wear all those faggy colored ribbons and medals and pretend that they’re anything more than directing men and women to the meat grinder, but to show myself proudly—with all my imperfections.
But there really will be no “imperfections”—because that very term is defined on the lie of an ideal way of looking or being or behaving. I will proudly show my “perfect” disfigurements—because I am not a “moderate” who apologetically asks for permission to raise his voice. And I am not a pussy who needs validation for expressing my juicy Authentic Self from a bunch of plastic fruit.
If for no other reason, join the Rebel-ution for the sole reason that we can shut people up about Brokeback Mountain. In my fantasy future, people will walk out of a movie like Brokeback Mountain and say, “What’s the big deal, two dudes fucking each other? The movie blew—and I don’t just mean with its representations of fellatio. Let’s get out of here and blow each other.”
"Brokeback Mountain" released in Europe under the title "Brokeanus Mountain"
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REFLECTION:
Look at what the routine is you go through every morning—brushing your teeth, showering, putting on make-up, putting on your costume of the day, be it suit and tie or a maid’s outfit with French lace stockings. Why? Don’t give me the bullshit reason that others have told you. Why do you choose to do it? Most probably you think that you have no choice. “My teeth will fall out…my body will smell…I will look ugly…they won’t let me go to work in sweatpants.”
What clothes do you wear when you’re sitting in front of your television set being fed propaganda from either fake news or sit-coms designed to make you think that all guys are bumbling idiots and all women need to be strong and dominating? Is it your power suit or business dress? If your answer is no, then your daily outfit is just a costume equivalent to a clown’s. If your answer is yes, unless you are too exhausted from your daily slave labor to take off the day’s costume, you are beyond any help.
What would your morning routine change if due to a nuclear holocaust there were no other people on earth? How much do you do because you choose to and how much do you do because you think you have to?
MEDITATION:
Imagine you are a dog and living in a dog’s world. Look around you and notice how when dogs approach each other, they don’t care whether the other is fat, thin, big, small, male, female, itchy, dirty, black, white, brown, or what species they are. They just smell them and explore them for the essence of Who They Are.
Walk around and explore this world of dogs and don’t get spooked if someone sticks his or her nose up your ass. Remember, you’re a dog—this is what you do!
[http://www.hulu.com/watch/98486/family-guy-pick-up-my-poop]
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