The Real Faggots

It’s an ugly word, I know. But I’m still attached to it.

If god is the supreme decider, why do the self-righteous dogma thumpers have to ride everyone’s cases? “Judge not lest ye be judged yourself”? Bullshit. More like: Judge not, and you risk being judged yourself. Amen.

It didn’t take long for me to reject the christianity with which I was raised. My parents were good to me, but the religion wasn’t. Even if its rigid and paranoid ideology had been a good fit for me, the “scene” wasn’t.

I spent too much time in catholic school as the target for the insecure, ass-kissing tattle tales; as the fall guy for the nuns desperate to make an example of someone; as the pariah who dared ask the reasonable questions of the cryptic and nonsensical passages. I’m over it...all of it.

So...the real faggots? The christians and other myopic, desperate zealots who want to misquote a political volume passed off as a spiritual text in order to stamp out everything pleasant about human existence.

Gays getting married? Not on the real faggots’ watch. But, it’s the real faggots who have our country’s divorce rate at about 50 percent. If they really hate the gays, they should let them marry and at least 50 percent of gays would be as miserable as half of the rest of us.

Or maybe it’s about semantics. Maybe those people don’t like “gays” because by name they’re gay, happy, jovial or just enjoying life. If I were stupid enough to be religious, I suppose it would piss me off, too.

And the zealots think they’re the experts, that they’ve got all the answers. Yeah—they’re experts...on being real faggots. Fuck them. Fuck them brutally hard. And fuck them without remorse or mercy.

This is what I was thinking about, stewing in and fuming over, as I listened to the radio news while driving to another job interview.

I was just glad I put on clean underwear; it’s more important than showering. The elasticated cotton of my boxer briefs was tight around my thighs and dry beneath my balls. As I stewed in frustration over news of the real faggots, my ball sweat was neatly wicked away from my skin, preventing bacteria and the subsequent odor—but more importantly, it kept me comfortable.

And comfort is paramount. Discomfort can drive a sane man to the sharp edges of his own soul. I’m pretty sure Hitler suffered from foot and ball sweat—serious foot and ball sweat. Wet feet and wet balls, like wet shoes and wet underpants are enough to turn a harmless German art student into a fucking murderous fascist. Well...that, and sucking at art.

Hitler's shitty art and writing aside, sweat would, have in the least, ruined my job interview at a local restaurant.

Last month, the adhesives plant where I work cut my crew's hours back from five days to four days to three. I can see the writing on the wall and I’ve got cabin fever. I don’t enjoy time off. It’s just another chance for my brain to work me over like a sadistic, lobotomized prison cell mate. It’s a wonder I don’t drink more than I do. Hell, it’s a wonder I don’t just hang myself.

I'm desperate for professional vitality. I’ve sent out so many resumes and cover letters that I don’t know who I am any longer. I’ve tweaked myself for every job; I must have 30 different resumes. They’re all accurate, but each spins the information a bit differently.

It’s no different than how people are during the interviews or—if they get the job—at work. At work, we’re all tweaked versions of ourselves. We pass to get paid. We sell out.

“What is something you feel you need to work on, professionally speaking?” The woman asked me. She’s a manager of some sort, but not important enough to be anything other than the “weeder” for these corporate interviews. “If I can get past her,” I thought, “I might have a chance.”

“I work too hard sometimes,” I said thoughtfully, as if revealing a private sentiment and not simply saying what I know she wants to hear. “I try to tackle too much at one time. In fact, I have trouble leaving work because I know there’s always more that can be accomplished, and accomplishment makes me feel good because I’m helping the ‘team.’”

I offered her a little smile, raised eyebrows and a shrug as if to add “I’m just a company man, m’am.”

What I should have said is “If this company wants me to eat shit with a big fucking grin, sign me up. If you want me to slice the tires on your competition’s manager’s car, I’m your man. If you want me to fuck up the guys delivering food to the diner next door, I gotcha covered.” But, I thought better of it and just kept reading my script.

“I would absolutely travel.”

“I would be willing to relocate.”

“There’s always another way to cut costs.”

“I’m a manager before I’m a friend.”

“Blah blah blah fucking blah fuck fuck blah...” is how it sounded to me. I could spew this crap in my sleep. I should teach a seminar on how to apply for jobs, handle interviews, and then pick yourself up when they never call you. I’m great at that last part, but it usually involves a tranny hooker, some tainted hash and a lot of cheap whiskey.

I was trying to forget about the interview when I got home. I took off my shirt and tie, and checked the fridge for booze.

Marcy’s sister was in town, and the two of them were out somewhere. Though this sister is the older sister, she’s still not old enough to buy alcohol. As usual, she had drunk all my whiskey and beer. All that remained were the ingredients for Marcy’s drink of choice: a “Calimosa,” as she calls it. It’s the gayest drink I’ve ever halfway enjoyed.

I filled a pint glass half with ice, poured in about 4 ounces of Dr. Pepper and about 6 ounces of crappy red wine. I rummaged through Marcy’s sister’s suitcase and found a couple airplane bottles of vanilla vodka. I floated an ounce of that shit on top.

It worked. After three of those, my brain was pretty quiet. But I couldn’t watch the news; that shit would set me off again. I set the clicker beside me on the couch while Judge Judy gave the third degree to some poor sap with a shitty necktie. They were passing around Polaroids of his dented Tercel when I was fortunate enough to fall asleep.