Making any specialplans for New Year’s Eve? Prepared for Y2K? Laying in any provisions? Arming yourself? Worried about the world coming to an end? Ready for the Rapture?
As of this writing I have no special plans for New Year’s Eve. I had been planning on blowing up Seattle’s Space Needle to ring in the new millennium, but then I turned on CNN and learned someone else is planning to do just that. Jesus H. Christ, you beat your brains out trying to come up with an original way to spend the turn of the millennium and some ferry-riding Francophone bastard steals your thunder.
As for Y2K, no, I haven’t laid in any provisions, nor am I, as of this writing, armed (unless you count the 40 cases of urea in my basement). And while I’m not too worried about the Rapture...
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...in my basement). And while I’m not too worried about the Rapture or Armageddon, I am worried about a Y2K bug sending Russian ICBMs flying our way, which we’ll respond to in kind, ending life as we know it on this planet. In case this doomsday scenario plays out, there are a few things I want to get off my chest before the world ends.
First, nothing you’ve ever read in this space about Kevin, my research assistant, was true. Not one single word. Kevin is not bipolar, he’s not a Korean exchange student, he’s not living in the United States illegally, and he’s never threatened to sue me. Kevin has never disappeared with my credit cards, he doesn’t like to be urinated on, he’s not 6’3,” and he never worked for UNESCO. Kevin has never appeared in a “crush” video, his sister is as nice as the day is long, and his mother is a saint. He’s competent, conscientious, attractive, and I’m proud to work for him.
Second, have you seen those TV commercials and magazine ads for Xenical? A new wonder drug from those lab-coated whiz kids at Roche Pharmaceuticals, Xenical, “combined with a good meal, can actually help you lose weight.” How? By preventing your body from absorbing fat, that’s how. What goes in, however, must come out, and that’s Xenical’s dirty little secret. Here’s the fine print: “Because Xenical blocks about one-third of the fat in the food you eat, you may experience gas with oily discharge, increased bowel movements, an urgent need to have bowel movements, and an inability to control them.” The even-finer print on the back of the ad warns of “oily spotting,” and “fatty stools.” Excuse me, Roche, but why on earth would anyone take this drug? Why should any of us risk shitting our pants in public when we can stick our fingers down our throats in private?
The third thing I want to get off my chest is… actually, there is no third thing. Making it up to Kevin and expressing my overwhelming fear of oily bowel movements just about covers my millennial anxieties. But there are a few people I want to thank for making my last year on earth a memorable one: the lesbian traffic cop who didn’t give my boyfriend the traffic ticket he richly deserved; the person who found my bank card in an ATM and turned it in to a teller without cleaning out my checking account; the dancers at Stella’s in New York City and Remington’s in Toronto for making my book tour a memorable one. Oh, and I’d like to thank Entertainment Weekly for naming my book, The Kid… An Adoption Story, one of the 10 best books of 1999. The check is in the mail, EW.
Finally, I’d like to thank Matt Stone, Trey Parker, and Marc Shaiman for creating the best new American musical comedy of the ’90s: South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut. I got the CD for Christmas and can’t stop listening to it. Two words for you, boys: On Ice. My 21-month-old son sat in his car seat farting along to “Uncle F**ka” on our way to Grandma’s house — we’re hoping he knows all the words by the time he starts pre-school (that is, if the world doesn’t end) — and seeing “Uncle F**ka” performed in an ice arena would be the highlight of his little life. “South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut On Ice.“ Do it for the children!
While we’re on the subject of the world ending, there is an upside: No more Robin Williams movies, we won’t live to see another George Bush in the White House, Canadian serial killer Carla Homolka will die in jail, and Matt Damon will remain forever young. On a more personal note, I’m looking forward to never receiving another Savage Love letter like this one:
My girlfriend had an affair with my best friend’s dog. She told me it was rough and furry. What shall I do?
Or this one:
A month ago I persuaded a straight guy in my building to let me rim him. He LOVED it. Now he comes over several times a week wanting me to do it again. What’s the problem? I want more. I’d love to “introduce Peter to Rosie.” Should I ask and risk scaring him?
Good Gay Neighbor
Or this one:
Do I have to eat pussy if I want to get a blowjob from a woman? Dicks aren’t slimy and they don’t slime up your whole face, so I don’t think it’s a fair trade.
Can’t Stand Licking Down There
Not getting any more letters from faux dog fuckers, gay men who’ll lick anything, or straight men who won’t lick the one thing all straight men ought to lick, is something I’m looking forward to. But since I don’t want to end what could be my last-ever column on a sour note:
I am horny, steamy, and sexy straight male in my late 20s. I am looking for a sexy hot female. Where can I find a female? My girlfriends all left me because I am too sexy and they were unable to handle that much sex. Please help me to find someone! I have a dream of having three some with two bi-females. Is this possible in Canada because that’s where I live.
Mike in Ottawa
P.S. Please publish my e-mail address so that someone hot and sexy interested can contact me: email@example.com.
This is my final column for this millennium — and perhaps my final column ever — and I want to do a good deed. So, sexy ladies, I’m counting on you. Contact Mike at your earliest convenience and make his dreams come true. He sounds like a real jerk, but you only have to fuck him, you don’t have to talk to him.
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