My Confession

Time for my confession

Alright, I’m going to come clean. In my letter “Lesbian No More” to Penthouse magazine, I lied. I admit it. Those four cheerleaders never existed, and if I want to be honest, I don’t think I could ever persuade four lesbians to change teams like that. Generally, when a strange man, dressed as the pope, breaks into a lesbian slumber party he’s regarded with scepticism, even if he does have a large throbbing unit, which, I do not. Furthermore, I don’t understand how anyone could believe that two lesbian mothers would join the pope in the shower with their daughters and the mentally retarded, large chested, baby sitter. Nor do I believe most suburban homes owns an 8 person shower complete with sex swing. Look, I knew there were some holes in my story when I wrote it. I just didn’t think http://factcheck.org would bother. My life is falling into a million little pieces.

Last week my son told me he hates commercials. “They all suck.” I tried to remind him that certain ads tell a thirty second story like no other medium could. Sometimes it is art:



Obama has won. I’m feeling patriotic



I can’t help but wonder if the phallic instrument made him gay or if he chose it and the puffy shirt because he was born that way.
Cool sounding, yet totally gay:



Guitar, but without the puffy shirt and haircut, not so gay:



Do you know Raphael?



You go tell Raphael, I ain’t taking no jive from no western union messenger. You tell that asshole, if he got something to tell me to get his ass down here himself. Then he said that I was to get my white ass out of there quick or he’d cut it.