Former Republication presidential hopeful and longtime loudmouthed buffoon Alan Keyes. My number 1 enemy of 2013 Jesse Merlin sent me an online article in which Mr. Keyes is quoted as writing that gay sex does not qualify as "sexual activity" because it is not between a man and a woman. He wrote "We call it sexual activity because it involves bodily organs and feelings associated with the activity for which the different sexes appear to exist. Yet, in the strict sense of the term, it is not sexual activity at all." I was intrigued by Mr. Keyes' statement and did my best to prove it in the context of one of my favorite erotic scenarios where I am enjoying a three-way with two hot chicks (preferably Mara Marini and either Lynda Carter as Wonder Woman or any of the three original Charlie's Angels). According to Mr. Keyes, this can only be added as a notch to the cosmic Sexual Activity bedpost while the chicks are servicing me or I am servicing them. If the two women decide to break away from me (which they inevitably would) and concentrate on each other, what they are doing becomes an entirely different kind of activity altogether (Mr. Keyes didn't specify what, but I guess it would be something akin to practicing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation where one of the young lady's vaginas is standing in for a water-logged swimmer). What makes the scenario even more confusing is that (unless hell has frozen over or I've won the lottery) the three way is taking place in my head so that the only sexual contact is happening between my penis and my hand and/or plastic sex toy purchased specifically for the ritual, which apparently Mr. Keyes says doesn't count either. It's all too complicated for my feeble mind but it does seem clear that Mr. Keyes (whose only real purpose in making the statement is to classify gay people as second class citizens without actually having to come out and say it) has mandated that anyone who fucks an asshole can't be counted as having enjoyed sexual activity. And that makes me sad, because it applies to every woman who's ever had sex with Alan Keyes.
Ja'Son Fogelson, who sent me a link to a play about Buster Keaton and suggested that we attend it together. What Mr. Fogelson fails to consider is that I am a very busy man who doesn't have the time to read an entire Facebook post, so I only registered that he was simply telling me about the production and I immediately bought the last ticket available for this Saturday's performance. Only after the purchase was complete did I realize that he was actually suggesting that we attend it together and since my ticket was nonrefundable, I had no choice but to snub him. I felt pretty bad about that but in my defense it should be noted that no one ever asks me to go anywhere with them so I wasn't expecting that precedent to be broken this time. It's exactly the kind of misunderstanding that launched many of Mr. Keaton's beloved comic routines although it should also be noted that after starring in the movies, he became a destitute alcoholic. That is a lifestyle I have some experience with, which could explain why so few people ever invite me to join them anywhere. I hope Mr. Fogelson takes note of that so that the next time he extends an invitation to me for anything that he uses a less subtle approach to get my attention, like throwing a pie in my face or having the Keystone Kops pursue me in a clown car-like paddy wagon. If it worked for Buster Keaton, it just might work for me.
My college buddy Robin Greenspan, who wrote a musical entitled Beguiled which I attended the premiere of last Sunday night. While the show was highly enjoyable, Ms. Greenspan's giant fan base was packed into a tiny theatre as if we were playing out the stateroom scene from A Night at the Opera. Ms. Greenspan's obsessive legion of admirers (or "Greensfans"as they like to be known) were so enthusiastic about seeing the artistic handiwork of their idol that most of them didn't mind that we were so closely packed together that I left with the imprint of someone's ass cheek burned into the side of my face. Mind you, I'm not complaining because the show was funny and I've been known to pay good money for someone to burn the imprint of their ass cheek into the side of my face so nobody was all that put out by the sardine-like surroundings. So great was the demand for tickets that I'm told they'll be adding performances, and I so enjoyed the show that I just might see it again. Only this time, I'll try to get a seat on the opposite side of the stage so that I can get another butt cheek imprint burned into the other side of my face to be symmetrical. One does go to the theatre to be seen.
Speaking of theatre, Tom Ashworth, who I informed you last week is directing me as Thomas Jefferson in a short play called Three Really Offensive Scenes About the Founding Fathers, part of Eclect-a-Fest at the Eclectic Company Theater. We had our first rehearsal last night and as Mr. Ashworth was introducing the actors to each other, he informed the cast of the brilliance of my Enemies List. This wasn't news to me but I was taken aback that someone as nimrodic as Mr. Ashworth is was aware of my magnificence. At first I thought that I may have misjudged his idiocy but as the evening wore on and he was just as irritating as he ever was, I began to doubt myself. If I am appealing to the intellectual lower depths like him, could it be possible that I'm not the cutting edge genius that I always knew myself to be? That would have been unthinkable to me only a few scant hours before but after hearing Mr. Ashworth's praise of my work and then listening to him rant on mindlessly about glottal stops and lowbrow slapstick, my whole world was shaken. It was like one of those brain teasers Captain Kirk used at the end of a Star Trek episode to make an alien robot's head explode. I managed to make it through the rehearsal with my sanity intact but I don't know if I can maintain my hold on reality if Mr. Ashworth continues to heap praise on me. This is the kind of thing that usually results in the destruction of the USS Enterprise.
Jeebus Burbano. I made another delightful illustration to charm my admirers on Facebook, this one depicting the animated classic Beauty and the Beast if it was made by Jonny Studios. That means that the Beast would be played by my beloved pug Winston, Belle by Enemies List favorite Mara Marini, the hunky Gaston by myself, the candlestick Lumiere by the appropriately burned out Jesse Merlin, a soulless gargoyle by Glenn "Piece of Shit" Simon and Mrs. Potts by Ms. Burbano. In the Jonny studio version, Belle ends up with Gaston (because her hooking up with the Beast is bestiality, which I personally find hot but according to my market research isn't appropriate for a family film) and the story finishes with a graphic sex scene between the two, animated in high definition 3-D. Ms. Burbano took exception to her representing the beloved Mrs. Potts, claiming "I have devolved from being a fantasy girl to being a fat teapot. I see how it is." Her whining fails to take two things into account: one is that I have a fetish for chunky teapots and there isn't a piece of crockery in my home that hasn't spent some time with my penis inserted in it, so she continues to be a fantasy girl in my dark world. The other thing Ms. Burbano fails to add is that she registered the complaint after she had made the picture of her as Mrs. Potts her Facebook profile picture, making her stated offense at the image nothing more than hollow puffery. When I confronted her with the inconsistency, Ms. Burbano sputtered an ineffectual "FU, to coin a phrase" which is inevitably what a desperate yenta always tells me when she has lost an argument and is on the verge of cracking.