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I Guess They Don’t Brief the Guys on Everything Beforehand

I just had one of those ‘Bu-whaaa?’ moments. I got home, turned on the tube, and Queer Eye for the Straight Guy was on.

For many of you, that might be the moment. But that wasn’t the moment — I dig Queer Eye; it’s one of the few shows on television that features guys who are bigger slobs than I am.

(Meaning the ‘projects’, of course, not the ‘Fab Five’. Those guys couldn’t outslob me if they put on wifebeaters and highwater pants, and sludged ass-deep together into a bubbling tar pit, giggling and squealing all the way.

Man. Now there’s a mental picture I really didn’t need. And while we’re on the subject, would you still call it a ‘wifebeater’ if one of the Queer Eye guys was wearing it? Somehow, that just seems wrong. But what’s the alternative? Sweetieswatter? Hubbysmacker? Partnerpoker, maybe? I don’t have the answer. Frankly, I’m not even sure there’s a question in there anywhere. Let’s move on.)

So, anyway, I come home, TV goes on, there’s Queer Eye. That’s all peachy and fabulous. But just as I’m settling in to watch, I hear the food guy (Ted, I think it is?) turn to his buddies on the couches (they were already in the voyeur segment of the show when I tuned in), and say, without a hint of irony:

‘See, he’s never had the self-confidence to talk to a girl with a regular job. So he’s just been dating strippers all this time. This is going to be really good for him.‘

Um… yeah. Okay. Sure. Or to put it another way:

‘Bu-whaaa?’

Man, all this time I thought I was shy and… er, unconfident? Inconfident? Incontinent? Whatever.

Anyway, I always assumed I was pretty much scraping the bottom of the barrel confidence-wise. But hey — I never spent years hooking up with strippers, having raunchy sex for a while, and then moving on to the next one. How… um… horrible? Tragic? Wait, hold on. Bu-whaaa?

Eh. I wouldn’t have the energy for that nonsense now, anyway. I’m just not sure Ted and the boys are being entirely realistic about their new hetero friend’s habit of picking up the pasty-packers. Hey, it must take a little bit of self-confidence to pick up those girls. My hands shake just slipping bills into their netherfloss.

Uh… that is, they would shake. I imagine. You know, if I were into that sort of thing. Which I’m not, of course. Never. You readin’ this one, honey? Love you!