Obviously, Gia has been slaying the sweetest, most precious, most gorgeous puppy game for a minute now, but I really couldn’t have dreamed up a more perfect creature to love, love, love ❤️❤️❤️ #NationalDogDay
Hey @edwardhansen, you’re drunk & famous. #drunkhistory
I love Drunk History so much/am a Madam Tussaud wax figure
Too Blessed to be Grotesque
I ate McDonald’s last week. That should be a deeply personal, shameful secret, but hi y’all! I’m letting you into my deep, dark, cerebral pool of shame. So please come for a dip!
The sad thing is: I’ve put on a few pounds lately, and I went through an entire week of not working out. Which is already bad enough. And then I go and eat McDonald’s, which we all know is like consuming the fatty, toxic, cutaneous layers of dead, feral chickens.
Excuse me, it’s like eating processed, dead feral chickens who spent their whole lives consuming cottony marshmallows innards, right before they were murdered (in the most inhumane way possible) and then sprinkled with high fructose corn shit for good measure. I mean, can you taste the diabetes??
And it’s sad, and I feel fat, but realistically; I’m only a tiny bit thicker than usual. On another note: I’m sorry, but I will use the word “fat” in reference to myself (if I so choose), because that’s my prerogative; and standing next to some 130lb twink, I am fatter. And that’s completely subjective by the way.
So if you’re one of those people who jumps down other peoples’ throats when they write about their own body issues and insecurities because a) you’re narcissistic and make everything about YOU, and
b) You’re own flagrant insecurity (and aforementioned narcissism) is so thinly veiled that you can’t allow someone to have their own public (internet) journey with physical insecurity that you need need to chime in and shame them, then you really need to FUCK THE FUCK OFF.
We live in the 21st century, and as humans — male or female — we all face societal pressure to have unrealistically fit, physical figures. Please see Exhibit A, or like OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES FOR ONE MILLISECOND and LOOK AROUND if you need further proof or evidence.
By the way, that’s not discounting anyone’s journey. It just drives me absolutely crazy when people make weight a “gender” issue, because while that was true at one point in history; we now live in a time where both men and women are both expected to have six packs and phenomenal asses and live up to unrealistic physical standards of beauty.
So please contain your easily deconstructable, antiquated notions of righteous indignation to yourselves because Mama gives less than two Rihanna fucks. And again, it really, really fucking sucks for ALL of us.
But that’s the society we live in, and you can cry about it; or you can learn to love yourself as you are, work out, try to eat right, and try to be the best version of yourself (again, that’s all completely subjective) and tune out the bullshit being enforced upon you by advertisers and celebrities who are all part of the machine.
Circling back to my McDonald’s moment: it was gross. And while McDonald’s is delicious, it’s also been physically and psychologically proven to carry some of the same addictive qualities that cocaine has on your system. In essence, eating McDonald’s can be analogously compared to ingesting cocaine (it’s just that addictive). But it’s so good!
Anyway, in conclusion or whatever: this post is just about me putting it publicly out there that I need to not eat McDonald’s anymore, I need to work out more, I need to love myself as is; and I also need to strive for better eating and working out habits. One day at a time. And that’s it.
Again, this isn’t about your opinion on my insecurity, or your input on how my language or perceptions are socially constructed in a flawed manner. Carry your own baggage, and I’ll hang onto my fabulous, little carry-on! Thanks! This is about my journey (last week) with eating terribly and not doing a damn thing about it. Which will all change this week. Okay, bye (Felicia).
Me last night at the Den
On Gay Tow Truck Drivers and Moms
The other day, I ran out of gas in my Prius. That’s like spelling your name wrong on the SAT’s btw. It was straight up embarrassing. Adding further insult to injury, I was picking up my Mom at the time.
Earlier that morning, I put approximately $4 in gas at this slightly expensive station, which was going to hold me off until I got gas later at the cheaper gas station slightly farther away.
By my calculations (and the Prius’s advertised 45 mpg+), one tank of gas should have been able to take me around the city of Los Angeles several times over. But that didn’t happen.
Just as I pulled up to my Mom’s house, the Prius started hiccuping and choking out like a drunk frat boy after a case of Pabst Blue Ribbs, and I thought it had something to do with my oil.
So I get out of the car and check my oil, and it’s fine. I know, I’m so manly and DYI’ish. I know how to check oil (now). Hit the rewind button back to two weeks ago.
I’m at Autozone, buying my car some oil, and then pour it into the completely wrong location; which ends with a puddle of oil forming under my car and the Autozone clerk laughing at how retay-tay I am.
Back to the gas. At this point, my Mom gets in the car and is like, “What’s wrong Hijo?!” And I’m like, “Umm..nothing *CAR DIES ON THE STREET* before I can finish the second syllable in no-thing.
This means that me and my 60+year old mother have to push my car out of the way. Honestly, I was quite impressed with how game and ride-or-die my Mom was with the whole pushing situation. She literally jumped out of the car and started pushing with me, which is tres-cool.
However, that didn’t prevent a full-blown lecture about me being “31 years old, running out of gas” and how I make bad choices as an adult. Which was fair. I made a bad choice. I underestimated, and it wasn’t chic.
Like any stranded motorist, my Mom called her AAA, and a tow truck arrived within ten minutes. As soon as the tow truck driver got out of the car, I knew there’d be trouble. Let’s call him Ramon.
Actually, he reminded me of the “Ramon” character from “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion”; you know, the one that she has to pretend to sleep with so she can borrow his Jag so they can drive to Tucson in style?
Anyway, Ramon gets out of his tow truck, and instantaneously, my gaydar starts pinging to the sound of Sophie Ellis Baxter’s “Murder on the Dance Floor”—that’s how gay Ramon was. And Ramon also had this sad, late 90’s tribal wrapped around his bicep that could only be described as “oh honey.”
When Ramon opens his mouth, his first words are like, “Look at you in your little Prius, like a little rich boy (what?!), running out of gas… I’ll teach you how to pump gas *Sexually Suggestive Stare*.”
And I didn’t know what to do other than be straight up mortified. Just completely fucking mortified, because Ramon said all of this with my mother sitting in my car.
For better or for worse: my Mom has had a bit of a rough adjustment to my life as an out, proud, Beyoncesque, single, independent, doing-it-for-myself, sassy gay man. Her journey has been a little winding on the acceptance trip, but that’s okay. She’s human, and it’s fine.
So there we are, sitting in the hot sun, with my stalled-out Prius, and Ramon is hitting on me in front of my mother. Really, I can’t explain how mortified I was; mainly because my Panamanian Mom is a bit of a firecracker, and I was nervous that she’d jump out of the car and be like, “HOW DARE YOU HIT ON MY SON IN FRONT OF ME YOU ANIMAL!”
Seriously. Would not put it past her. But what she did was actually way more epic. So as Ramon is uncomfortably hitting on me, pouring gas into my car; and as I’m nervously trying to hurry him along, like, “Oh yeah! I don’t know how to pump gas! Thanks for being such a professional and helping me! Great! Gotta run soon!”
My Mom gets up out of my Prius, stands directly across from Ramon, and STARES at him dead-ass in the eye. And she didn’t say a word. But her death-glare was enough for Ramon to get the hint: “DON’T HIT ON MY SON IN FRONT OF ME YOU BARBWIRE-TATTOO-HAVING CHEESEDICK.”
After Ramon finished, we went along our way, and thankfully, my Mom and I did the only adult thing to do: we pretended like it never happened.