I think Gay People are...

Lowbrow Answer: "Punching Bags."
Hey. Homophobic dickheads of America. Can we stop with all the I'm-going-to-make-this-gay-kid's-life-so-miserable-that-he-kills-himself bullshit? What are you, five? Newsflash. This isn't 1169. The world is round. The Earth isn't the center of the universe. Fire is a chemical reaction, not a mystical punishment from God for touching yourself. This is the modern era. We have a black president. Women vote. I can film myself masturbating and then watch it back in less than ten seconds. Get with the times. Homophobia is out of style, along with public lynching and liking Weezer.

I don't understand homophobia in the first place. What the hell is so scary about gay people? I'd get it if you were afraid of sharks or spiders or Mike Tyson. But gays? They smell nice, they drink good wine, and they're great at figure skating. What the hell is so scary about that? Although, to be fair, that Russian figure skater from the Olympics was terrifying. That guy looked like he could strangle a grizzly bear. With his hands. On ice. In a purple and gold leotard.


Middlebrow Answer: "Funny on 'Modern Family.'"
Yes, Cameron and Mitchell are hilarious. Yes, so are Will and Jack. Yes, so are all five of those nice ladies from 'Queer Eye.' I'll even admit that Rosie O'Donnell made me giggle a few times. But only when she wasn't ranting about Cutie Patooties or inviting some fourth-grader to build her desk out of blue marshmallows. But here's the real question about all these people: Are we laughing with them or at them?

The problem with gays in the media is that they're never just people; they're always gay people. I want a baddass firefighter character to join the cast of "Rescue Me," and only after he has saved like 12 people from a burning building and rescued three Iranian babies from a flaming car does he mention that he's gay. And when he does, the other dudes pass him a PBR and respond with, "So?"


Highbrow Answer: "Just as uninteresting as the rest of us."
So you like ballet. And Broadway musicals. And penises in your butt. Who cares. I have more important things to worry about than who's tying you to the bed and covering you with KY jelly at night. I have Marx to read. I have Adorno to critique. I can't be bothered with the trivialities of your sex life. I don't care whether you're fucking a man or a woman; either way, the sex you're having is way less amazing than the sex I'm having. Trust me.

Here's an idea. Let's just all stay out of each other's personal lives, okay? You want to have sex with a dude? Go for it. You want to make play-doh replicas of the Teletubbies and throw them at old people? Great. You want to dress like a 3rd century sod farmer and lip sync to Tina Turner in your bathroom? Awesome. Good luck. I'll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine. 123 Go.

Best Part of Christmas?

Lowbrow Answer: The Birth of Christ
One little homeless baby is born and the next thing you know, we get a whole race of Evangelical idiots who hate Muslims, The Purple Teletubby, Jews, Science, Gays, and Women. Nice going, Jesus. Couldn't you have just stayed in the carpentry business instead of switching over to "Savior-ing?"

I hate birthdays anyhow. Especially one for somebody born over 2000 years ago. You don't see us baking a cake for Ghengis Khan or throwing a party for Octavius Caesar. You know why? Because they're fucking dead. They could care less if we're celebrating their birthday. They're too busy in Heaven having a threesome with Joan of Arc.


Middlebrow Answer: Presents
Here's a fun trick if you're bored. Buy a big black dildo and wrap it up. Put it under the tree and address it to your dad from your mom. Include a note inside that says, "I thought you might like this because you obviously have no interest in my vagina." Then just sit back, sip some eggnog, and watch your parents fight. Ah, Christmas. Good times.

Getting presents blows. Especially from your "kind-of" relatives. You know the people I mean. Those couples you only see at Christmas whose names you can't remember and who don't seem to even know who you are. They're names are usually something like "Janet and Ted." And they give you a purple sweater or a DVD of "PBS Masterpiece Theatre," and you have to awkwardly hug them and you hate it bacause they smell like moth balls. Die, Janet and Ted.


Highbrow Answers: Handel's Messiah
You know you're a badass when Beethoven, Mozart, and Haydn cite you as an influence. That's like Ron Jeremy saying, "Yeah, I try to fuck like Jeff King does." Handel worked for the English Royal Crown, he spoke like nine languages, and he composed 42 operas. FORTY-TWO. I can't even watch 42 minutes of a movie without getting distracted or needing to pee.

The Messiah is epic. Can you really argue with the Hallelujah Chorus? That shit is amazing. The Messiah is also the most famous instance of Handel's "Word-Painting." That's a technique whereby the melody of a song matches the words. As in, the word "high" would be sung on a high note, or "Valley" would be a string of notes that form a valley shape on the page. BAD. ASS. He's basically doing three types of art in one. You can't even walk and chew gum at the same time.