by Ian Cummings

God damnit.

There I am again, at the Village Inn, smoking and chatting with my buds. One of them happens to be a ho--ho---I'm sorry, I have trouble saying it sometimes...

...homosexual.

I know that I'm incredibly hot and everything, and that I'm irresistible to look at, but let it be known: I AM STRAIGHT. And as much as you fancy-pants want some hetero ass, you ain't gettin' it here. My fraternity days are long over.

You quip "Wow, Ian, you're such a neat guy. You'd make a nice boyfriend. It's a shame you're straight." "Where'd you get that shirt? I want one!" "Hey, wanna smoke a bowl sometime?" "Could you move over? I need to go to the bathroom."

Yeah, I'm sure that's not all you want to smoke, queer. And I'm not into the whole tea room thing.

I like to think of myself as an open-minded individual, but you still cannot drink from the fountain that bears the name of Heterosexual Ian Cummings. Sorry, flamers. Your Gaydar is way off there. My girlfriend Simone over there is about ready to shove a stiletto heel up your ass for even thinking about undressing me with your eyes.

I'm sure that look of disgust she's giving me isn't a perception of my alleged stupidity either.

I really dislike the way you remark about my hair and my shirt, and the way you scheme to get me into the sack under the guise of a casual, platonic friendship.

Just run by the caste system when it comes to straight guys. Gay guys are the "touchables", and straight guys are the "untouchables" (but not in the sense that we're pariahs or nothin' -- I mean, we might still invite you to our parties and everything -- as long as Simone is there to protect my delicate poopchute).

Trust me: I know what you're up to.