B.T., phone home

"Hello?"

"Good day, Mr. Winni, this here's the secretary for Elizabeth Windsor, better know to you lot 'cross the pond as HRH Queen Elizabef Numba 2 of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Sometimes Northern Ireland. Please 'old the line for ol' Bess, Guvnor."

"Hello? Mister Winni? Is this the correct party?"

"Uh, yeah, yes, I think so."

"Oh marvelous! We are so pleased to make your acquaintanceship, Mister Winni. We are enchanted to have this opportunity to chat with you."

"Um, is this for real?"

"Oh dear. I would have thought the secretary would have explained everything already. Oh, well, one just can't get good work out of the working classes these days since Mrs. Thatcher and Mr. Blair turned the class system all topsy-turvy. I can assure you, Mr. Winni, that this call is indeed 'for real,' as you Americans so quaintly put it."

"Listen, your royal highness, or whoever you are, how did you get this number?"

"Well, you see, Mr. Winni, that is precisely why we called you today. Are you familiar with a Mr. D_____ of L____, East Sussex, England?"

"Yeah, uh, yes, he's a friend of mine. I've known him for something like 15 years."

"That's right, we have that right here in our file on you, your companions, and your travels, so generously provided to us by your . . . erm, let me see . . . ah yes, here it is! Your Department of Homeland Security. Quite a helpful lot that is. Very eager to provide all sorts of information on our former loyal subjects!"

"Homeland Security?"

"Yes, it's all right here in black-and-white, or rather bits and bobs, oh pardon me, we mean bits and bytes, we can never quite keep up with you Americans and your very clever aberrations toward our language. Well, we are glad to see all the information is correct, that you are indeed familiar with Mr. D_____. That might shed a little more light on the minor international telecommunications crisis that you plunged Great Britain and America in over night."

"I did what?"

"Oh, it's nothing really, nothing at all, except that it did bring down our nation's entire electrical and telecommunications grid for a short time, at least until we were able to pay a huge ransom to Russia to turn everything back on again. You see, it appears that sometime between the hours of 1800 Monday and 0700 Tuesday, Eastern Standard Time (that would be 2300 and 1200 GMT, we believe), you sent a series of text messages to Mr. Dougan, in quite rapid succession."

"I did? I don't think I sent those. I think you got the wrong guy, lady."

"Yes, we are afraid you did, Mr. Winni. The odd thing is that all of the messages were completely void of content. In other words, they were, if you're pardon the rather colloquial expression, blank."

"Hmmm, well, I think I'd remember sending that many text messages, if I indeed in fact did send them."

"Oh, well, Mr. Winni, documentation and video footage do not lie."

"Video? You have video of me . . . doing what exactly?"

"Why shopping at IKEA, naturally! It seems to be what you do best these days."

"Well, yeah, I was shopping at IKEA, but I wasn't shopping the whole night. And, besides, if I was shopping, how could I be texting at the same time."

"Too true, Mr. Winni, too true. Nonetheless, the footage clearly shows you rather cavalierly tossing your Blackberry into your--I believe you across the pond call it a manbag--then rather ungraciously slinging said manbag over your shoulder and sashaying rather gaily (no offense intended, of course--our grandchildren may use epithets, but we do not) into the IKEA entrance."

"Yeah, I did all that, but I still don't see--"

"Did you perchance have your mobile telephonic device in the on and active position, Mr. Winni?"

"Sure, yes, I often leave it--"

"Well, at the risk of sounding like the detective in a bad adaptation of an Agatha Christie novel (and, dear me, aren't they all bad?), we shall say, 'Aha!'"

"Aha? Aha what?"

"'Aha' as in 'Eureka, I have found it,' Mr. Winni. I believe that explains how you were able to text while shopping while having no knowledge of such texting."

"How does that explain anything?"

"Well, Mr. Winni, you seemed rather excited to promenade around IKEA, bending and stooping to investigate that rather amusingly named, moderately priced furniture you prefer. Really, after all what is a 'Poang' exactly? And please do explain to us what this creature named 'Billy' is and why should anyone want to 'shelve' him? We must remember to ask Sir Elton, Sir George Michael, and Sir Ian McKellan when they are next over. According to Prince Phillip, if anyone knows anything about shelving billies, it would be the three of them--"

"Well, I did move around a lot. I was pressed for time."

"We have no doubt, Mr. Winni, but we don't know if we would quite describe your manner as being indicative of someone who is pressed for time. Perhaps puzzled by the difference between birch and beech veneers, perhaps consternated over the excessive use of Allen wrenches, perhaps using shopping at IKEA as a subterfuge for admiring the male members of happy couples--"

"You just leave my admiring of male members out of this, queenie."

"We shan't give it another thought, Mr. Winni. But we would like to suggest, if we may, that one should remember to take care not to exercise one's manbag too agitatedly in the process of admiring attractively priced Scandinavian furniture. As with the owners of such conveyances, these manbags are excitable animals, prone to fits, humors, and conniptions. And, as a result of such ill-advised physical culture, one is likely to discover the following morning that one has sent twenty (20) blank text messages to one's friend in England, quite by accident."

"Duly noted," I said.

"While one is sure that Verizon Wireless and British Telecom (B.T.) will appreciate one's extra commerce, one will be left holding the (man)bag, as it were, when one's phone bill arrives at the end of this month."

"You're really pleased with yourself over that joke, aren't you?"

"We are amused, Mr. Winni, we are amused, indeed."

"Well, good, 'cause you sure went a long way to get to it."

"Be that as it may, we do hope one is willing and able to use this genial advice. If one requires further education, please do text us, remembering that international rates may well apply. Good-bye, Mr. Winni!"

"Ciao, Bess."

Out in the open

Well, thanks once again to the crack reporting team at The Onion, the feline-like animal is finally out of the Bloomingdale's Big Brown Bag--

America's First Gay President Concludes Historic Second Term

Shocking I know!

When I first read this article, I have to admit I winced a bit. (Editor's note--winced, not minced.) My gay pride gets in the way of the joke every now and again, especially when someone who isn't gay is labeled gay as a way to discredit him or her or when "gay" is used as a substitute for "stupid" or "dumb." Not the case here, but . . . hey, wait a minute . . . .

Anyway, I got over it, much in the way I did when one of my female employees in Texas kept using the phrase, "That is so gay!" in front of me to drive home the point that she thought something was especially ridiculous, like her job, her school work, her husband, her mother, etc. I just thought to myself, "You are such a stupid skank!" and felt all the better for it.

Instead of getting my rather fabulous feathers in a ruffle, I focused on the things in the article that made me and several others I shared it with on Facebook laugh out loud--such as the reference to Dubya's overcompensating for his feelings of inadequacies "by carefully cultivat[ing] his image as a masculine, simple-minded, heterosexual male." Tee hee.

At least we're being honest about it now. Still, my favorite part has to be the characterization of former White House Press Secretary Ari Fleischer as a flaming gaddabout, sort of the Gelman of Official Washington.

"Believe me, sister, he overcompensated with a capital 'compensated,'" Fleischer said. "But when the cameras stopped rolling and the podium was put away, he was just fabulous. We had a fabulous, fabulous time."

I've always had my suspicions about Our Miss Fleischer (oddly cute but oh-so-evil), and I'm glad to finally have them confirmed in an official news source like The Onion.

But, please, to my hetero friends out there, Karl Rove is all yours. Haven't we gay people suffered enough with George W. as our poster boy for what happens when middle-aged Texas men lose their way late at night somewhere near the intersection of Montrose and Westheimer?

I can see it now: One night, the future president's Cadillac breaks down outside a club called Encounterz or maybe Dimensionz. A little drunk and disorderly, he is annoyed by the sound of the disco beat from within and heads toward the door to put a stop to it. But it is a siren's call. The crowd, recognizing a closet case when they see one, eggs him on, pushing him toward the dancefloor. In a haze of cigarettes and amyl nitrite, he feels compelled to move. He breaks into a fevered sweat, caught up in a dissociative whirl of mirror ball and tribal chanting. Suddenly he finds himself shirtless, with a tambourine in his hand, banging it wildly, and dancing dervishly. And in a few years time, the whole world suffers from the shame of his transgression.

Oh dear. I think I've just plagiarized Sandra Bernhard from Without You, I'm Nothing.

* * *

We want you as a new recruit: President Bush entertains the crowd, appearing with his old band, The Village People, during Houston Gay Pride 2004.