‘Twas the month before Pride Day when all through the clink
Not a lezzie was stirring, not even a twink
The Havainas were hung by the free weights with care
In hopes that St Getmesome soon would be there
The streets seem so quiet, so devoid of homos, which is strange given that the sun has finally peeked through and we are smack-dab in that four-day grace period known in Canada as “spring,” and yet there seems to be a thinning of the herd. First I thought maybe Cher was signing something somewhere.
Then I walked past the gym, and there were all the gays! The place was bursting forth, like Stephen Harper trying to get into his skinny jeans.
Of course! Best face forward, people. Pride is a month away, and there is lots of work to do. Those hot pants, Speedos and Lycraed T-shirts won’t stuff themselves. Ah, Pride! Toronto becomes a gay “It’s A Small World,” where travellers and revellers from all over the world descend for what has become a weeklong frolic. We’ve got to get presentable.
Right now, think of us as one of those National Enquirer special issues: What The Stars Look Like Without Makeup. We are the horror that is the sighting of The View’s Elisabeth Hasselbeck, unmade-up, bent over a grocery cart, Republican babies hanging off her like monkeys and an un-Maybellined face that says, “Judgment makes you look wan and tired.”
Let’s start the tidy-up. Here are some suggestions for how we can get spiffy in body and in attitude, complete with my thinktank-like, patented and trademarked five-point solution.
* Body issues. Well, those are easy! The gym, as I mentioned, the Botox needle, the waxer, the coffee enema. Oh, sorry. One too many? Here is my five-point solution: You. Look. Great. As you. Are.
By the way, that Botox billboard drives me bonkers. The handsome guy with no lines and the “Level The Playing Field”? Offensive. Gross. Older fags looks fab! Lines and all. I know you’re like, “Oh, Jane, what do you know — you’re a lezzie lady! You don’t know our playing field!” This may be true. But I would also say that in the same way you fellas can pick Miss America blindfolded from the kitchen with the sound off, I’m a big fan of beauty, in all its forms. A baby’s face on a person who has lived life, overcome shit, learned stuff and been places shouldn’t be the marker of beauty. I say, why not find youth by having something to live for and work toward and look forward to?
Oh, and hire hookers if you can’t get laid with your new refreshing attitude. See? I have a solution for everything
* Restaurant misbehavers. By this I don’t mean revellers or good-time guys and gals. I think, quite frankly, that drunks can make excellent tippers. They’re often jolly and what with the seeing double, your tip can skyrocket.
No, I’m referring to the snipsters and crabby appletons who appear like haunting apparitions in seats with menus and make one’s life a misery. I’d say you know who you are, but apparently you don’t. So, let me help. Allow me to illuminate.
Let’s start with the gals. If you’re a gay lady, you sense that you might have an unpleasant streak in your personality that seems to come bursting forth in the presence of an unsuspecting, well-intentioned restaurant server. For example, if your friends have ever said to you, “Patty, you look like you’re sucking a lemon,” or “Darlene, Sometimes, your brusque manner makes me not want to come to the softball dinners at all,” then you might think about spending more time practicing random acts of kindness, My five-point solution: Look. Patty. Swiss. Chalet. Delivers.
Or with the guys: If you think you might be a snippy, snappy brunch fag, if your friends say to you, “Todd, your mouth looks like a dash,” or, “Kevin, I’m scared. You make brunch an unpleasant stomach-churning house of horrors and, quite frankly, more than once your snippy quippy snarkiness has given me the trots,” then try this five-point solution: Maybe. Eat. Eggos. At. Home.
What slays me is the restaurant meanies who think they’re also sexy. Not so sexy, my friends. Doesn’t matter how hot you think you are. If you’re mean you make Quasimodo look like Brooke Burke. (For anyone not familiar with those two, replace Brooke Burke with Sophia Loren and for Quasimodo, try Elisabeth Hasselbeck.)
Happy pre-Pride month, my friends. Now stop the prep, leave the gym, go sit on a patio, laugh with your friends and get a line on your face. Take that, Botox!