Because We All Do, but Not All of Us Have a Posh Accent

Leading the list of products I'm pretty sure I will never, ever purchase, but the commercials for which I sort of adore:

Breeding Despair

So is being funny and smart the consolation prize for not being humpy?  Or is it the other way around?

Before you answer, think about this: who was more likely to have contributed to the gene pool:

Once again, harsh, evolution, harsh.

And where does that leave the denizens of Duck Dynasty?  You would think if fate had been cruel enough to abandon you in whatever trailer park they arose from, you would abstain from breeding, out of depression if nothing else.  But no, no.  Always, those we'd least like to see spawn feel free to fling their DNA around with merry insouciance.

Also, just a few short years ago, gay mens with babies were a big part of the landscape, but I just realized I don't see them as much.  Do you think they returned them?  Did they eat them?

I'm just being philosophical, I do that sometimes.  I might also be a teeny bit loaded.  I do that sometimes.

Photographic Proof

I am so bad about not taking pictures that when I got back from New Orleans, I simply assumed I had none.  Imagine my surprise when I discovered some aliens had apparently been snapping away on my behalf.  Herewith, Mardi Gras 2014:

Asian Magnolias exploded into bloom right after we got there, a botanical "Hey gurl, welcome back"

Two views of the patio of our charming, charming French quarter hotel

Magda and the author planning something or the other.

Magda sucking down a delicacy known as a Frozen Irish Coffee which turned out to be deadly poison and laid the poor  thing to waste for days

The coldest fucking parades I have ever stuck it out through, bolstered as I was  by my sistahs in crime,  from left, Secret Agent Fred, Sister Mary Feet in the Air, Magda, and the author, dressed as Roz Russell in The Women.  Please note the staggering amount of beads all caught in mid air.  We scorned any that had landed on the filthy sloppy ground.  Friends referred to us as "Bead Whore," but they were just jealous.  Sad, really.

The Haul back in our room.  We had planned to hurl our largesse to the clamoring crowds below on Mardi Gras day from our balcony, but the fucking freezing cold rain eliminate that plan, so we just abandoned our riches when we left. I felt like some Russian white countess kissing off the family jewels as she scampered out of town ahead of the Bolshies.

My new house, plain, echoing, smelly (goddam hobo tenants,) and LOOOONG.  Forgetting something in one of the front rooms when you're in the back makes you seriously consider roller-skates.

Burp

Back in San Francisco, the first order of business was brunch, of course, cause I'm all gay and stuff.  We hooked up with our young friends, collectively known as The Children, at the ever fabulous Foreign Cinema.  Drinks and coffee flowed, bacon and omelets were downed, a good time was had by all.

Of course there was a price to pay, isn't there always?  My stomach is reporting in with heartburn of a volcanic level and claims the bacon had uranium in it.  Please tell me it is not actually possible to die of indigestion.  I feel like if I breathed towards an open flame, we could all go up in a terrible blaze.  Dammit.

To take my mind off grease-based misery, some houseboy booty.

Obviously a young man who sensibly avoids brunch overload.  Dammit.

Mardi Gras on Ice

Histrionics on Tuesday were busy shrieking that this was the most miserable Mardi Gras EVER.  The problem with histrionics is they can sometimes be close to correct.  It was cold and wet and, yes, miserable, but I had a lovely time.  A few days since we got here have been warm and lovely, but Monday night, when we went out uptown to see parades and then Mardi Gras itself were absolutely frigid.

Highlights of the 2014 Carnival Season, mrpeenee-style included

Getting smacked in the face by a fistful of red beads from a float.  Hurt like a other fucker and I was actually sort of stunned, but even in that state, I managed to be furious that I had missed catching the beads.  If you're going to be wounded trying to snag some completely worthless shiny plastic beads, you want to at least have the fucking beads for your trouble.  Fortunately, our old chum Magda was right behind me and adeptly plucked them from mid air as they bounced off my skull.  Yay, for this and so many other things, for Magda.

A gang of costumers dolled up like pirates had a spring coil cannon made out of PVC pipe and they aimed it squarely at this annoying goon squad of Christians who were nattering around about how we were all damned and Jesus really, really, really loved us, but was still going to send us to hell for sodomy.  I had a neckful of beads, because when not getting clocked by them, I am quite good at racking them up.  I gave them all to the pirates and they were able to hit one of the Christians' signs with them.  Hooray!

We went to parties and hung out in bars and wandered around crowds of the most amazing costumes and high spirits,  I flirted with cute guys and then I came back to my lovely hotel room to thaw out and take a nap.  It's a sweet life.

Go go boys were universally luscious and one of my favorite wanted to get spanked, an option I always sign up for.  Bitch had a butt like a meat balloon filled with jelly. Of course, as I've mentioned, traveling with Secret Agent Fred brings many benefits, including the one where go go boys are drawn to him and he's great at striking up amusing flirtations with them.  Plus, have you ever noticed what a good bargain stripper boys are?  Inflation may have affected every other aspect of modern life, but you can still squeeze on the boys for a buck slipped into their panties, just like in the 80s.

The only thing missing was easy sex.  Back in the 80's, bars competed to have the sleaziest back rooms and I was a connoisseur.  Now, sad (and chilly) old men huddle glumly in rooms that used to hold a crush of copulation watching some satin skinned dancer like he's a commercial for adult diapers.  Fred and I were often the only ones tipping the boys and they were, understandably, attentive.  I felt it was the least we could do, after all, it must be tough to pay your rent one crumpled dollar bill at a time.