One so deplores the insistence on winning! As if it were bounceyball. Or tightpantsball. To take our minds off The Book of Mormon winning everything in sight (hello! no surprise) and Warhorse being Best Play (compared to what? How come The Normal Heart was Best Revival? Has it been produced on Broadway before? I think not. Of course it’s dreadful writing, Kramer can’t write for shit, but was effective agit-prop for its time and is just the kind of tripe the Tony voters love to vote for—but that’s not why we’re here. Let’s talk about important stuff. Stuff that concerns real Americans like you and… well, other people. What is this insistence the theatre is somehow gay? Where did that come from? Harvey Fierstein? Yes, it involves a certain amount of prancing about in tights or sailor suits but, I ask you, what’s gay about that? It could be a Republican fund raiser almost anywhere. Anyhow, that’s not why we’re here. We don’t have to talk about the Tonys. Which is just as well because no one here watched it. So if Cheyenne Jackson whipped out his whanger and dick-slapped Neil Patrick Harris (Pause) none of us would know. Because none of us watched it. And I think that’s a good thing. As Beijing goes Rogers & Hammerstein all the time America goes Huh?).

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While it’s no doubt true that there’s nothing quite like a nice throbbing nine-incher, as I’m sure we can all agree, all this talk of sticky unreasoning insatiable rampant hardness could make one think that’s all there is to manhood: of course, nothing could be further from the truth.

Naturally, as a young lad, one was thrilled to discover one’s john-willy could go up and down and rushed at once to show mummy. And yes, over the years one has come across chaps who’ve taught theirs to carry out some pretty amazing and useful tasks: flip pancakes and imitate Shirley Bassey are just two that spring to mind. But there comes a time when we need to let go and realize there is more to life than playing with one’s erector set.

Which brings me to sissies.

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