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Blogoversary 2011 FINALE: Women I’m Not Married To (With Apologies/Thanks to D. Parker)

No matter where my path may go,
No matter where I lay my head,
There’s one thing I want you to know:
There are those I simply WILL NOT wed.

I see them dancing, in the bar
Or, more often, on the pole.
Fun is fun, but more fun by far
Is knowing I still own my soul.

My taste runs to the erratic;
Vapid; curvaceous; the less-well-bred.
I’ll admit I like a girl pneumatic
But you’ll notice I’m not wed.

My friends, they say I’m too closed off;
That scarring left me cynical and wry;
Which explains my tendency to boff
The Starrs; the Candis;, the Diamonds & Skyes.

Yet here’s a secret I rarely impart:
My tiny little charcoal heart…isn’t quite so very dead
But waiting on a that special lass ( who’s curvy AND  smart)
Unlike these girls I will not wed.

So if you know a lass who’s fair,
An exotic dancer with huge…brains under her ‘do
I trust you’ll  help us become a pair
The woman I would love to be married to.

Rhoda is a bisexual executive who “can’t afford” to come out of the closet. She sure is a barrel of laughs, though, provided none of your mutual acquaintances are within a five-mile radius. Why, every minute you spend with her is a precious one, especially since you never know if you’ll be making out in the park or being shoved right off the end of the bench because “the guy selling hot dogs looks like he might be my assistant’s brother.” She’s no slouch with the presents, either – you’d better have a separate cabinet in the garage behind all the stuff that no one would ever bother to move, because she will soon fill it with trinkets of her undying – if occasionally stealthy – affection. Why, one look in her big, dark eyes and you’ll know that this weekend will be the one she finally tells her family about you two.

You just know it.

Leslie ordered the “Fill-ette Mig-nown.”

“Really, you hardly notice it, once you get to know her,” say people of Marisol’s OCD. And, truth be told, it can be a little hard to notice, particularly when she’s doing that thing where she descends the “spinny” pole while hanging on with only one leg. But careful observers will be quick to note that Marisol’s pile of tips is the only one sorted by issuing bank and serial number. As quirks go, this can of course be forgivable, and even endearing, particularly if you’ve just made it back to the house and are (after carefully, albeit erotically, exchanging liquid hand sanitizer over the kitchen sink while she makes sure to use five squirts, and five squirts only) making your way to the bed, where you plan to discreetly wipe the excess Bact-B-Gone on a spare pillow so as to avoid gagging like a hyena. The sex is phenomenal, or will be, once she finishes straightening the coverlet and tapping the decorative lights above your bed in a specific pattern a few times. While you wait, may I suggest a light read, such as “Ulysses?”

Kristy isn’t quite sure about this whole lesbian “thing.” Sure, she doesn’t mind a bit of fun, but really, is this how the two of you should be spending your lives? What about children? What about the constant battle to be acknowledged by a society that is changing too slowly to bring true equality to our lives before you’re in your nineties? No, she needs some time to think. Unless, of course, it’s been a few weeks and she needs some “recreation.” But ultimately, she says, it’s best to find a good man to marry. A strong man. A man who will give her the life she deserves and wants. A man like her favorite singer, that talented Clay Aiken. When she leaves, it will be your fault, for not measuring up to this paradigm in several critical ways.

Then Clay will hold a press conference, and you will have to block her number to get a little peace.

After one drink, Vicki decided to show the girls on stage how to dance properly. After three, she was standing on the bar, offering conjecture about the parentage and sexual prowess of various patrons. After five, she was challenging the bouncer to a sword duel, holding a cocktail fork in a manner that can only be described as “feral.”

Cinnamon refers to TMZ as “the news.”


[This post should’ve appeared two days hence, but a scheduling conflict prevented its posting until tonight. I want to take a moment to thank all my guest contributors, as well as my readers, for being the MOST AWESOME IN THE WORLD. Without the Faithful Horde, my life wouldn’t be nearly so sunny. Although sincerity isn’t my thing, I have to say: much love to you all.]

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