Proud Mary

So Amazing Race is having one of the best seasons ever. And I'm still giving all the thanks to Team Hillbilly. That woman is just a step away from my personal reality TV Hall of Fame. (Other inductees include the clowns and just about every other team that came in fourth place. I can really pick a winner, people.) Every week, I pray for just one more hour of Mary and David.

And speaking of just a step away, Team Peg Leg looks to be having troubles. This leads me to the obvious question: We all know it's tough when you break up with someone. But what happens if you break up with the guy who makes your legs? I have an ex that I can run into nearly a dozen years later, and it's still tense. And the only thing he ever made me was ... well ... not a damn thing. If he'd also been molding my prosthesis ... well ... I'm just sayin'. Tense.

It'd be especially tense because I don't have a prosthesis. But anyhoo. I'm just stalling. Because there's something bugging me, and I'm hesitant to bring it up.

Since confession is good for the soul, I'll just come out and say it. It's Team Miriam. Kirsten, an excellent blogger, good friend and winner of the the Friend Of Gays Lifetime Achievement award (it sort of looks like a jock strap made of Swarovski crystal ... I understand she keeps hers in her bathroom to throw guests off kilter), sort of likes them. I personally want to wrap them up in the yards of chiffon that fall from their mouths every time they talk and throw them into the river until their cha cha heels stop twitching.

What is it, I ask, about these two gay boys that gets under my skin? It's not like I'm the butchest dude on the planet. (As the Little Dutch Boy and I like to say, people who never suspect we're gay have clearly never heard us talk.) And another inductee in my Reality TV Hall of Fame is Austin Scarlett, who doesn't appear gay as much as he oozes it.

It occurs to me as I'm writing that it's not them. It's not that I think they should hetero it up. And if that was the case, it'd really bother me. Because I'm the guy who once ordered coffee from a 6'3" tall white boy with shoulder-length, green dreadlocks, silver platforms, a leopard print pillbox hat and sequined cats-eye glasses. And the only thing I thought was, "God, those glasses are fabulous."

So if I was suddenly turning 40, which I just did, and becoming embarrassed by the more flamboyant amongst us, it'd be a sad day. Instead, I'm turning a dark eye toward the producers, who insist on pigeon holing us as lisping little girls. You want to be a lisping little girl? Rock on, sister. And come sit by me. But you want to think that's the only way America can see us? Then shame on you. Shame, shame, shame. Bitches.