Lesbians don’t really scare me, in general, but as an angry pack of politically correct wolves, they can seem daunting. Speaking of which, when will Ellen Degeneres be funny? Is it enough to dance like a dyke on a dull-witted chat show? Someone has to drop her and Oprah down a well, and soon. Trying to explain everything is going to kill us all. Sometimes the most interesting thing about being alive is the complete absence of conscious thought. Not everything can be Oprah-fied, including her own lesbianism. Anyway, here’s my reaction to small minds.
Scott Capurro
GT
December 2007
Because I’m a male cocksucker, I get invited to all sorts of liberal events. I suppose lefties mistakenly assume that fucking boy butt means I share their views.
For example, when I think animals, I think yummy, what’s for dinner?
“You can’t boil a lobster!” I was told, at an animal welfare benefit in Amsterdam. “Lobsters have feelings.”
“Well I’m feeling hungry,” I told the crowd, “so jump in little buddy, the water’s fine.”
“Oh no! Crustaceans are good problem solvers!!”
“But not good solution implementers.” The audience stared. “Can you open this ketchup bottle? No you can’t, because you’re a lobster. So boil up, Daddy’s starving.”
Later, at a subdued Vegan banquet, I was served something akin to a bowl of pubic hair and a scoop of cat litter. I felt so punished for volunteering my time at a function soaking with concerned support, that all I wanted to do was roast a small child. How do liberals expect to win elections, when conservatives are eating red meat and beefing up for the war on terrorism? As a female whispered to me, whilst swallowing something pale and dairy-free for ‘dessert’, “I’d like to save the world, but I’m lactose intolerant.”
At least those fretful Dutch were polite. The lesbians of Brighton are a different matter.
At a queer comedy show at the Komedia one recent Sunday, I was asked to go on first. And though my act is slightly confrontational, I agreed because I liked the idea of returning to London - a town where people read - early.
However, the moment I set foot on stage, I felt tension. After a joke about Welsh lesbians being too large to fit in their own clubs received an audible moan, I realized it was a room full of muffers, with the occasional dicksmoker for good measure. There was a penis shortage, and a shortage of irony and any sense of humor or even awareness that this was a comedy room.
My act tripped along, but while I made fodder of Bush’s racism, South African homophobia and small-minded British PC behavior, I felt the tension increasing. Chairs were shifting and pockets of the room grew very quiet. As a single trickle of sweat slid down my spine, I realized I was making fun of the kind of middle class white fucks who were sitting watching me. The types that think they’re hip and have no ethnic friends and wonder why blacks are so angry. Self-conscious and victimized, these women think they have to defend everyone they’ve never met, including missing children; and by making fun of the media frenzy around Maddy the room had a reason to turn on me, and they did.
A lady stood up and told me she was offended. I pointed her toward the exit, and the booing became uncontrollable. But I wasn’t leaving the stage. I’ve never been booed off, and I wasn’t going to let a room full of scary power dykes do the job. Some of the huskier, more fascistic women were frightening and quite loud, banging glass bottles whilst singing some sort of hooligan football song to silence me. Perhaps I should’ve played nice, Brighton lesbians, like their crunchy Sapphic sisters in my hometown, San Francisco, have a reputation for being dull-witted and humorless, and responding badly to challenge or change, but I gave them my respect by performing in the same way I’d play the straight room two floors below. I don’t babysit, and if they wanted daisies they should’ve hired a fucking clown.
When another woman brayed, “Can I ask you a question?” I knew it had all turned into a process, an Oprah episode, and my act was over. I left the stage, barely having finished my last joke, assuming book burning would be next. Would mine be thrown in?
I wonder why some people leave the house. Or why I do, if this is the sort of bigotry I have to tolerate from “my community”. Really, were I freshly out, those Brighton psycho bitches would push me way back in the closet. Why is it the only really bad response I get is from queers? The San Jose Gay and Lesbian Centre in California tried to have me banned; at a private function for gay swimmers last month in London, they merely gawked because I wasn’t in drag; and now this. Maybe we gays are our own worst enemies. Maybe I should fuck women. Quiet women. Would that make me more marketable? I guess I could ask George Clooney.