Not Exactly Bonnie and Clyde

With a heavy sigh, I return from yet another extended vacation from my blog. A furlough from extracting the funny from ordinary moments. A sabbatical from analyzing this life that is all mine.

Here's what you missed:

My Gay and I committed a federal offense when we stole a huge box that had been sitting in front of what we used to refer to as The Meth Lab. It was a neighboring townhome occupied by drug dealers community college students who would throw barbeques at midnight and their girlfriends, unsteady in their stilettos and skinny jeans, would point their camera phones to the sky and take pictures of clouds. They were evicted but soon thereafter, a large package arrived at their door. And there is sat, taunting me. For months I would walk by and look at it from afar wondering what could possibly be inside. Black tar heroin maybe? A baby monkey perhaps? Tea cups from Grandma? What the fuck?? Finally, I couldn't take it any longer. I enlisted My Gay into my dirty crime world and together we walked moved like Ninja warriors, grabbed the box and ran like girls disappeared like thieves in the night. With fingers crossed in hopes of discovering a year's supply of Xanax or at the very least a case of wine, we dug into the box and found .... a fucking ham. A six month old ham, dammit.

Later that night we took our two-person crime wave to a gay bar and got ridiculously drunk and made fun of a man who looked like he had hookers in his basement.

Not exactly Bonnie and Clyde but it's hard to be super bad ass gangsters with ABBA dominating the scene. It's not exactly the soundtrack for criminals. Next time, we're going hardcore. Like Pet Shop Boys hardcore.

Sometimes you're better off dead. There's a gun in your hand and it's pointing at your head ...

Menopausing Cheerleaders and Unconscious Gay Men: Happy Easter!

As of late, creating posts worth reading are getting harder and harder to come by. I find myself sitting in front of the computer screen with my coffee getting cold, just staring at the goddamned cursor as it disappears and reappears. It mocks me. Bastard.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Translation: You Suck. You Suck. You Suck.

Maybe I should tell you about the half time show at the Reno Big Horns D-League basketball game.

The theme was cheerleading. Actually, it was more like a cheerleading age progression, timeline, chronology type of display. It started with tiny little four year olds, decked out in glitter and pigtails. Then it moved on to something in the middle school range where the girls did some routine that included folding chairs and I'm guessing Hannah Montana G-strings. All pretty standard stuff. That is, until Bust A Move started thumping over the arena and four women strutted onto the court wearing lycra pants, sporting six inch roots and a high school graduation date somewhere in the early 70s. Sister Mercy, what a show. Taking mouthfuls of my $8 beer, I watched in total amazement as these women pumped, and gyrated and hip-hopped all over that poor floor. But I can't even rag on them too much because Easter afternoon, I could be found in my garage sipping vodka and dancing to Planet Rock. Fortunately, I left my lycra biker shorts in the 80s where they belong because really, the only people allowed to rock that look are people who actually ride bikes.

Or, I could tell you a story about My Gay who was also sipping vodka that fateful afternoon except he was mixing his with Acai Cleansing Pills and diet black cherry soda. Somewhere between his "total cleanse," and his attempts at purging the vodka with his fist down his throat, he passed out for ten minutes on my bathroom floor.

Because nothing says "Welcome Back, Jesus!" like a gay man passed out in the crapper.