Cheesy Goodness

Yesterday was spent with my nose in a lap-top and my head in the fourth century.


Well from eight to two, anyway. After attending a five year old’s birthday party, by eight pm I was spent. Through, tired. Nothing was going to move me from my couch. Not even an invite to go to an impromptu BBQ with the gay street bikers and their amazing assortment of over the top, exotic side salads or their use of gorgonzola in the prosciutto topped burgers. They are a real bike gang, yet they need vests that read “SONS OF WHOLE FOODS” stitched across the back. Even their lure couldn’t get me to leave my Super-squishy, elle shaped sofa of softness.

Then, my stomach thought changed my mind.

The pizzeria/cell phone/gas station/quinceañera dress shop is right around the corner. So, really there wasn’t a reason to put pants on, a dirty T-shirt and boxer briefs and I was fine.

This was my justification until the pizza took ten extra minutes and I started tweeting in the middle of the gas station. This is when I discovered a local boy cruising me. At first I thought he was judging my poor choice in Calvin Klein sport wear, and then I realized he was wearing the new gay uniform. The black, tight T-shirt with paux-metal studs and metallic paint adorning crosses and skulls and other over-done tuff [sp] symbolism. Like a gay knock off of Ed Hardy. I will never understand why guys like this style, as it reminds me of the Kardashians or the rotating cast of the Pussycat Dolls, Why men wear these shirts is beyond me.

Please don’t think for a second that I don’t appreciate the irony of me judging a guy wearing a shirt that Cher would think was over the top, whilst I stood there in a ripped up wife-beater and stained Calvins. This realization turned me into the strange man who hangs out in the local pizzeria/cell phone/gas station/quinceañera dress shop in his underwear, laughing to himself.