Is nothing sacred? Must Big Gay keep shoving gayness down everyone’s throat?

Now it turns out Benedict XXCIVXX (no relation) was forced to retire before it was revealed that the Vatican is not much more than a gay knocking shop for gay prelates to do gay things with gay escorts and gay priests and gay cardinals and other random gays. Semen on the host? Anything’s possible according to some kind of Italian Washington Times. See above linque.

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Rosie and Penny the Miracle Pug congratulate you bunch of losers dear sweet funny people for yet another year down the drain of trenchant fun.

Of course we couldn’t do it without noje. I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

It’s Flo, the Christmas Boxer! She’s coming home tomorrow.

(After a week like we the one we just had I thought we could stand to look at something that doesn’t give press conferences then flounce off into the night. And when she shits on the floor it won’t require congress to agree to the clean-up)

As children back in the Olde Country play traditional Thanksgiving games like Pelt the Leper or Vicar in a Frock one’s thoughts naturally turn to that frail craft nosing her way, too late in the season, through Atlantic swells as she made for a point on the coast south of New York, north of Jamestown, hoping to find safe harbor. Of course a storm blew them off course – or the captain, eager to be rid of them, headed for the nearest landfall he knew – Cape Cod. It took them the better part of three weeks to come ashore. No, there was no rock.  Ignoring the teeming bluefish in Plymouth bay they complained of the lack of food. During the first winter more than half of them died. At one point only eleven of them were well enough to stand up, trying to care for all the others who were sick.

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You may have noticed that we recently had an election. The results of which seem to have taken a lot of people by surprise. In particular our teabagger friends who seem to be going so far as unfriending those suspected of harboring Democrat (sic) tendencies and refusing to speak to relatives at Thanksgiving. (BTW, that, I think is the single funniest posting I’ve yet read combining as it does a truculent narcissism coupled with ignorance worthy of Trump. I have my doubts that that whole site is all an elaborate hoax.) Despair has been experienced. America has been declared dead. Gays are running amok. We’ve turned into Europe (as if). Any day now we can expect the mass exodus to Canada.

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Years back, in the early days of Britain’s National Theatre when it was still at the Old Vic, they mounted a revival of Feydeau’s A Flea in Her Ear for which they brought over from Paris the celebrated director Michel St Dennis to work with the actors. M. Dennis, immensely experienced in the intricate and subtle workings of farce, would say to them, “Tiens! If you stand zere you will not get zee laugh. If you stand ‘ere… ” and he’d move them maybe a foot or two upstage/downstage/left/right/… “… you weel get zee laugh.” This perplexed the cast but they took him at his word and lo and behold, when they played before an audience, his predictions came true. Now while I don’t generally subscribe to the notion that anyone can accurately predict what will make an audience laugh – I find it somehow philistine and rarely productive as audiences will always surprise you – with a man of M. Dennis’s experience, it pays to listen.

Which brings me to last night: more than two men clashing over radically differing ideas of tailoring (the Republican ticket seems clueless about how to fit a jacket properly let alone a shirt collar, Ryan looked like a boy wearing hand-me-downs), we had on display two very different ideas on how to use a stage.

Beginners will always try to get as far downstage as possible thinking this gives them an advantage as they’re closer to the audience. Wrong.

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There is no Team Romney, Team Obama; it’s not a knockout or a horserace; its not about performance (as the actress said to the bishop); it’s not about first round/first base/winning the spread (whatever that means). It’s not bouncy ball, or spandex, or plastic cups. It’s not who’s butch and who’s the bitch.

(Pause)

I’m not making bets and I’m not laying odds. I’m also not watching this ‘debate’. I don’t care which of them can preacher-curl the most reps (shocked I know that, right? Let me tell you I’ve curled a few preachers in my day).

I want them all to STFU. Our most brilliant and accomplished president in years is trashed by the likes of Steve Kroft and David Gregory. We are supposed to care what Eleanor Rigby thinks (is that her name? married to Greenspan? Osteoporosis?)

I don’t say yet a plague on both your houses. But I’m not far off.

Not because I’m too trivial to comprehend – after all I am the inhouse necktie expert – but because the politics and public debate are trivial beyond belief. And I’m tired. No. I’m exhausted. You think it’s easy carrying around this great burden of talent? It’s a responsibility. As I was saying to Barbara Walters I like 3 reps with no more than 95lbs on the rack for squats. It’s all about form. I need the burn right up in my ass, please no photos…

Wait. What?