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S: Umm. Hello?… Excuse me.
S: Over here… In the corner.
BH: Oh. Hi.
S: Umm, I was just wondering… I’ve been over here for about a week, and… Umm, don’t you notice me?
BH: Uh, yeah. I see you everyday.
S: I thought you looked over here a few times.
BH: Everyday. There you are.
S: But, why don’t you come and get me? I’m sitting here all alone. Just collecting dust.
BH: Well… It’s not like you’re going anywhere.
S: But don’t you need me?
BH: Well, eventually I guess. But I have a lot of socks.
S: Yes, I know. And it would be nice to be with them. I’m very lonely over here. I think I might have lost my partner.
BH: Oh. Does your partner have a hole just beneath the toes?
S: Yes! Yes, that’s my partner! We’ve been together for ever.
BH: I threw that sock away.
BH: It had a hole in it.
BH: Uncle Diane, maybe you can help me understand. What is Pansexual?
UD: Um, Pansexual means you are open to loving someone regardless of their gender identity.
BH: Like a bisexual.
UD: No, it’s much more broader than that. It’s being sexually attracted to members of all genders.
BH: All genders? This isn’t a tootsie pop. How many genders does it take to get to the center. I mean, it’s two. Right?
UD: No. There is a difference between sexes and genders. Sexes is an actual scientific measurement, where gender is psychological. For instance, my Native-American friend over there, identifies as two-spirited.
BH: What? Two-spirited. Are you saying Poops-On-Bed is mentally ill?
UD: Hey! Magic mushrooms are toxic. It’s normal for a little poop to come out.
BH: I’m confused. Was your friend also identifying as the Gerber Baby?
UD: You’re this close to getting smashed.
BH: Don’t get me wrong, Dick Butkus. I understand why people try and define things. For example, if I said I was a song, you might say, “what kind of song?” Oh. I’ve never thought about it. I’m just the best song I can be. But, I guess if I have to define myself… I guess I’m a post punk song, circa the mid-eighties. A touch of Joy Division like cynicism with the energy of a Henry Rollins fronted Black Flag. Does that definition help you?
UD: It’s not the same thing.
BH: Maybe if Robert Smith and Tony Iommi started a band, I would be one of their songs. Listen, I don’t really fucking know. I’m just a song!
UD: What is your point?
BH: Yesterday I saw a video of an individual who defined themself not only as female, but a six year old female. Pony tails and a five o’clock shadow. Now, that sounds to me like mental illness.
UD: If that man want’s to be a little girl, then who are you to say he isn’t?!
BH: She. Get the pronoun right.
UD: You’re starting to make me angry.
BH: Alright. Sorry… So, a pansexual will have sex with anybody. I get it now.
UD: No. That’s Omnisexual. It’s different.
BH: What? Omnisexual.
UD: Omnisexuals perceive all activities and experiences as sexual. They’ll fuck anything.
BH: So, they fuck animals?
UD: No, they don’t fuck animals, you little shit.
BH: I’m just trying to understand!
UD: I’m going to smash your face!
BH: Relax, Bruce Banner! I’m identifying as a puppy! I’m a cute little puppy!!!
UD: Diane smash!!
Hard rock lyricists. Rebelling their way right into a career at Walmart.
Parental guidance? They don’t need none. The boys bathroom? That’s where they smoke their cigs. And the streets? The mother fuckin’ streets. That’s where rock and roll happens. They only problem is, when they’re writing the words to those rock and roll rebel anthems, what does one rhyme with street?
Like a sickle to wheat? Blood stains on concrete? Yo! Skeet, skeet, skeet. To the bittersweet beat?
“Nah, man. Those words aren’t rock and roll. And this isn’t a god damned poetry class. It’s rock and fuckin’ roll, man. It needs to be more raw! Like, we’re kicking life’s ass, man. We are in the streets, kicking life’s ass… with our feet! That’s perfect! With our feet, man. Street. Feet. It’s perfect!”
Really? With our feet? How else do you kick things?
“It doesn’t matter, man. It’s, like, a metaphor. Kickin’ ass with rock & roll, and our feet!”
You look so happy.
“Yeah, man. This is gonna be awesome!”
Although it’s not really a metaphor. Kicking things with a foot is as literal as it gets.
“Hey, check out brainiac over here. Mr. honor roll doesn’t like rock and roll. Hey! That rhymes too!”
OK. I quit. I can’t be in a band that’s dumber than my ten year old brother.
“You can’t quit the band! Do you know how hard it is finding a drummer?! Where are you going?!”