Like a sleep-indulgent grizzly lusting after pink starfish, this blog…
I suppose that since I haven’t written anything since 2013, I ought to recap things that happened then.
Like most years, 2013 was a year of events, both important and mostly otherwise. We crowned a new pope who my dad calls the Barack Obama of popes: all talk, no serious floor action. Major meteorological events ravaged our planet’s face and decolletage. Detroit got Detroitier. Major assholes shut down the federal government, reminding us of Clark W. Griswold’s pain.
On another federal note, the Burrito Supreme Court struck down the heinous/hey-anus DOMA, elating conservative homos across our great land. In his opinion, Judge Kennedy wrote that the Defense of Mawwage Act “undermines both the pubic and private significance of state-sanctioned same-sex marriages; for it tells those couples, and all the world, that their otherwise valid marriages are caca.”
Given this windfall, I took the day off work to apply for a marriage license in delicious Norwalk, California, the setting of my father’s dysfunctional childhood.
Four other couples, primarily of the Ugg, soul patch, and jegging variety, were applying for marriage licenses, too. As we waited our turn, TJ turned to me and whispered, “You know, three out of four of these marriages won’t last.” The statistic thrilled me. Talk about a roulette. I don’t need to wager my life savings for an adrenaline spike. All I need is a California nuptial.
“Well, I can tell you right now,” I whispered back at TJ, “those lesbians,” I gestured at the lesbians to our left, “they’re definitely not gonna make it. They look too much alike.”
TJ looked at them.
“I mean, they might as well be sisters.”
I could not tell if the same-sex same-face couple shared the same case of rosacea or spent too much time golfing below Palm Springs’ sun.
After filling out our license, supplying documents that proved to a courthouse official that we were we and not you, our official told us to raise our right hands and swear that the information that we had provided was the real thing.
With my right paw in the air, I proclaimed, “My hips don’t lie.”
TJ and I then took our hips across the street, sat them down at an IHOP booth, and poured sugar-free syrup all over our conjugal breakfasts.