Last week My Gay turned 25. By everybody else's standards he's irritatingly young but, as I mentioned, he's gay so he's all aflutter with concerns that he might be past his Purchase By date. Whatever. I'm 37 so in Gay Land, I'm already expired. Soured. Curdled.
Regardless, it's a day of celebration or at the very least consumption. I checked out our Babbleville Local Directory of Crappy Happenings but alas, the Gay Rodeo was nowhere to be found. Because what better way to say Happy Birthday than with a little bit of this:
And a whole lot of this:
I had to settle for the culinary stylings of the Texas Roadhouse which was fine by me because with My Gay and Puppet Boy in tow, I was confident we could bring some Brokeback swagger wherever we went. And at this point, I'd go anywhere if it meant getting my posterior out of this house and my feet into these Fergalicious Red Croc heels.
Ahhhh ..... heels. Paired with Mac's Viva Glam Matte Red Lipstick.
Sweet nectar of love.......
The Roadhouse did not disappoint. I feasted (yes.... feasted) on the world's most well endowed chicken smothered in Guaranteed-To-Make-Your-Ass-Wider White Gravy with a side of Straight-To-The-Thighs Mashed Potatoes. Lady Gaga was our bartender. My Gay line danced with the staff while twirling his napkin in the air and also rode on a saddle that they wheeled to our table while we sang his Birthday praises. My little Annie Oakley is all done and grownded up. Sniff. Sniff.
P.S. Told you we could bring a little Rainbow colored funk to the joint. Yee-haw bitches!