When it comes to huge openings, a lot of people think of me.

Today, I'd like to talk about cocksuckers.

There will be two distinct categories of cocksuckers: those who are actually sucking cock and who will not take this as an insult, and those who are just cocksuckers because they're hateful, and are called cocksuckers because that is something else they would hate.

Let's start with the hateful noncocksucking cocksuckers first.

Unbeknownst to me, disciples of the wretched, hateful, and syphillis-covered Fred Phelps were right around the corner from me yesterday afternoon. In case you hadn't been scarred by the knowledge yet, Fred Phelps runs a "church" in Topeka Kansas (Westboro Baptist Church, home of the hateful noncocksucking cocksuckers) which specializes in hate hate hate, all in the name of God. The "church" is mostly made up of his extended, in all probability inbred, family. Why would these soulless, inbred, chicken fucking, noncocksucking cocksuckers be in my neighborhood, you ask? Why, to stand across the street from a church and protest the funeral of an American soldier.

Yeah, I said they were protesting the funeral of an American soldier. Apparently, these inbred noncocksucking cocksuckers have nothing better to do than travel the country and protest soldiers' funerals, and to stomp on American flags, and to hold up charming signs like these:




Why do I get the feeling that this is not what Jesus had in mind at all?

And why would the inbred, noncocksucking cocksuckers feel the need to protest the funerals of American soldiers, and to remind us all that God hates us? Why, because we live in a country that caters to and coddles homosexuals (in other words, allows them to continue breathing). Because, you know, it's the fags that are destroying America, with their brokeback leather, and their toned, well-oiled bodies, and their evil neighborhood gentrification schemes.

I saw this on the news when I got in from work yesterday afternoon, and you can't imagine the hissy fit I threw when I realized that these inbred, noncocksucking cocksuckers were right around the corner and I had completely missed the opportunity to drive past and heave a shit-filled diaper at them. Or give them a puppet show with Quasimodo offering his big, blue Play-Doh dick to the Gargoyle. Or park behind them, open my car windows, and sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow in falsetto until their brains melted and their bodies fell limp, no more evil instructions to perform, their carcasses nothing more than smoked sausages under their spiteful placards.

Come on, people. Even a sick fuck like me has a threshold where I feel like basic human decency has been violated. I believe in freedom of speech - look at the bullshit I write here every day! - but protesting a funeral, especially the funeral of a soldier who had nothing at all to do with the issue stuck like a burr under these noncocksucking cocksuckers' saddles, makes even a four-eyed libertine freak like me say "Shame on you!" Whatever your politics, whatever your religious beliefs, to attempt the disruption of a funeral for someone who did you no harm is just an awful, pointless display of hate that I cannot fathom.

Really, when I see people like this, it just makes me feel really bad for my Christian friends, all of whom I believe are what I would consider real Christians (you know, all that loving your neighbor crap that pansy-lovers like me go for). Don't think that I believe these people represent you, because I DO NOT. So, hugs to you guys. I know y'all get it.

Alrighty, then. Stepping back now, and amusing the fuck outta myself by posting about another subject Fred Phelps would likely despise. Rubbing my hands together with childish delight. And on a side note, how does this make me any different from my dear mother, who regularly fires off sassy liberal letters to the editors of several local papers? I'm turning into my mother, right in front of the Internet as a Whole! Beware, as the flowery descriptions for animal body parts shall commence soon. I would explain that last remark, but really - it deserves its own post.

On to lighter, fluffier matters. Like whipped cream for the eyes. Or something. Anyway, here are the cocksuckers who smile while they do it!

Sometimes I see a movie or TV show that I like while I'm watching it, but then the more I think about it, the more I begin to love the movie or show, and then before I know it, I am obsessed (let's save my childhood obsession with Broadway musicals for another post, m'kay?).

I knew this had happened to me the day I held a serious half-hour conversation about the motivations of the characters on The Sopranos, found it had happened when I began to speculate about what might occur next on General Hospital, and I just realized it has happened to me again as I listen to this damn song about a wig for the 25,372nd time.

It's true. I have the biggest crush in the world on Hedwig, angry inch or no.


"I scraped by with baby-sitting gigs and odd jobs - mostly the jobs we call blow."

If you are like I was until just recently, and you haven't seen Hedwig and the Angry Inch, stop reading this and go rent it. Right now. And if you are one of those people who will immediately counter with "Waaaaaah, I don't like musicals, and I don't like movies about fags!" then you should go away now and not come back here. Especially for this post, because from now on, this post is all about musical fags.

It's not like this is a new show, and plenty has already been said (better) about it. But I saw it for the first time recently, and I have to tell you - I can't believe I missed out on it until now. So much time, Hedwig, that you and I did not have together. Not to give too much away, it's a story about a sex change gone horribly...well, nowhere distinctly male or female. Hence, the "angry inch." It's also a story of trust and betrayal, and it's sidesplittingly hilarious, and it's weird, and it has some killer songs (it was originally a stage show, but I have only seen the movie), and it is just wrong on so many levels.

I just can't count the ways I love this movie. Watching his East German mother throw his American GI father out, yelling "That's focked op! That's focked op!" or the whole oven bit (I would love to say more, but it's even funnier when it's a surprise), the picture of Luther in the trailer, having my suspicion confirmed that putting a bra in the dryer warps it...and when Hedwig utters the line I used as the title for this post, I knew we were kindred spirits.


More fabulous than Fred Phelps? Survey says....ding ding ding ding!

And how, I ask you, how exactly am I supposed to resist a show where Hedwig's (small) band of devotees wear foam wigs in Hedwig's honor?


I really need to have one of these. Kitschy kitschy ya ya da da.

I went to iTunes earlier this week and downloaded a couple of songs from the show, and I'm sure the guys in the office across from mine would really like to come over and slap me right off my chair if they have to hear Wicked Little Town or Wig in a Box one more fucking time.

Sorry guys, but that wig is a character all in itself, and I will hear its praises sung, over and over and over and over...

Here, give it a listen. It starts out slow, but give it a second, it builds up steam. Guaranteed you'll catch yourself later humming "I put on some makeup, turn on the eight track..." You will love me or hate me for it, but it will stick in your head.