So I went to see Cirque du SoGay last night. Is it so terribly wrong to dream about the Atherton twins? One in each end?
No, it isn't. I can't help it if they outfitted them in S&M gear! And put them in straps. Aerial straps, yes, but they're leather straps all the same! And those costumes -- they look like corsets! I'm totally innocent here.
Oh my lord. Okay, so they did a pas de deux. The only time I've ever seen a homo pas de deux was at whatshisface's new ballet company -- the co-founder of the Miami City Ballet who is now doing "different" things in the world of dance and is now the director of his very own company. And they were women, which is okay in the eyes of the general public, because lesbians are socially acceptable in a male-dominated heterocentric world, because dudes dig fake lesbians with acrylic nails longer than most guys' dicks scratching up each others' vaginal walls and giggling like kindergarteners playing in a sandbox. Brothers who hold each other very tightly in the air and... are flexible? And touchy feely? And possibly incestuous? Not so much.
Yeah, so. Atherton twins! If you want me to be the lox in your bagel sandwich, give me a call. I don't know why I said "bagel sandwich." I'm craving a lox bagel sandwich. It's not like y'all are Jewish or anything. Because you're not. You're British. Lord knows there are no Jews in England. Okay, maybe there are, like, twenty Jews. And possibly a temple. Somewhere.
I'm sure fan fiction exists in some sordid little livejournal community somewhere. And I am so buying this "Fire Within" Cirque DVD thingy so I can see more Atherton ass. I still have about 50 bucks on my Amazon gift card. So. Things I still need to buy from Amazon.com:
-ROADHOUSE
-Cannonball Run
-A Fire Within, wherein the Athertons touch each other and set my lady parts afire. Is that what they mean by "a fire within"? Because, you know, my lady parts are internal, and therefore, technically, "within."
And, uh, thanks to my publisher friends at Reed for hooking me up with free tickets and VIP access. I totally blushed whilst chatting up the aforementioned Atherton twins. They knew what I was thinking about. I think the lady contortionist probably gets that a lot, too. And, um, a big FUCK YOU to the gym queen who barged in on our little chat. This little freak with pecs the size of my head (seriously, they were almost bigger than my boobs, and I was wearing a cleavage enhancing bra, okay?) had on an FCUK shirt, which is so out of fashion, and I'm pretty sure he stuffed his pants with a packy or tube socks or had a codpiece on underneath his sperm-killing Diesel jeans. Seriously, was French Connection every in fashion? Even five years ago, when everyone and their brothers and sisters and siblings of ambiguous gender wore FCUK shirts because it was kind of clever for five minutes, and then it got really old. Really quickly. Anyway, I hate you, gym queen, and I hope you die. If I see you at Crunch, working on your lats or quads or pecs or whatever it is you need to buff up so it's bigger than a puppy surgically implanted with heroin, I will totally walk over and box your ears. Unless they have, like, VH1 Classic on, and they're playing a really good video. Then I'll just be distracted while trying to focus on The Runaways or The Jam or the Dead Milkmen. Especially if it's the Dead Milkmen, because they were my favorite band when I was 12.
Damn, I want to be the lunchmeat in an Atherton sandwich. Really badly. I'm gonna kill that gym queen. I'm going to go all James Dalton on his ass.
Okay, I'm ending this journal entry on a positive note.
I don't even care that they're wearing 7 for All Mankind jeans.
With that, I'll leave you with an entry from a gay blogger. It's Atherton picspam. Enjoy.
No, it isn't. I can't help it if they outfitted them in S&M gear! And put them in straps. Aerial straps, yes, but they're leather straps all the same! And those costumes -- they look like corsets! I'm totally innocent here.
Oh my lord. Okay, so they did a pas de deux. The only time I've ever seen a homo pas de deux was at whatshisface's new ballet company -- the co-founder of the Miami City Ballet who is now doing "different" things in the world of dance and is now the director of his very own company. And they were women, which is okay in the eyes of the general public, because lesbians are socially acceptable in a male-dominated heterocentric world, because dudes dig fake lesbians with acrylic nails longer than most guys' dicks scratching up each others' vaginal walls and giggling like kindergarteners playing in a sandbox. Brothers who hold each other very tightly in the air and... are flexible? And touchy feely? And possibly incestuous? Not so much.
Yeah, so. Atherton twins! If you want me to be the lox in your bagel sandwich, give me a call. I don't know why I said "bagel sandwich." I'm craving a lox bagel sandwich. It's not like y'all are Jewish or anything. Because you're not. You're British. Lord knows there are no Jews in England. Okay, maybe there are, like, twenty Jews. And possibly a temple. Somewhere.
I'm sure fan fiction exists in some sordid little livejournal community somewhere. And I am so buying this "Fire Within" Cirque DVD thingy so I can see more Atherton ass. I still have about 50 bucks on my Amazon gift card. So. Things I still need to buy from Amazon.com:
-ROADHOUSE
-Cannonball Run
-A Fire Within, wherein the Athertons touch each other and set my lady parts afire. Is that what they mean by "a fire within"? Because, you know, my lady parts are internal, and therefore, technically, "within."
And, uh, thanks to my publisher friends at Reed for hooking me up with free tickets and VIP access. I totally blushed whilst chatting up the aforementioned Atherton twins. They knew what I was thinking about. I think the lady contortionist probably gets that a lot, too. And, um, a big FUCK YOU to the gym queen who barged in on our little chat. This little freak with pecs the size of my head (seriously, they were almost bigger than my boobs, and I was wearing a cleavage enhancing bra, okay?) had on an FCUK shirt, which is so out of fashion, and I'm pretty sure he stuffed his pants with a packy or tube socks or had a codpiece on underneath his sperm-killing Diesel jeans. Seriously, was French Connection every in fashion? Even five years ago, when everyone and their brothers and sisters and siblings of ambiguous gender wore FCUK shirts because it was kind of clever for five minutes, and then it got really old. Really quickly. Anyway, I hate you, gym queen, and I hope you die. If I see you at Crunch, working on your lats or quads or pecs or whatever it is you need to buff up so it's bigger than a puppy surgically implanted with heroin, I will totally walk over and box your ears. Unless they have, like, VH1 Classic on, and they're playing a really good video. Then I'll just be distracted while trying to focus on The Runaways or The Jam or the Dead Milkmen. Especially if it's the Dead Milkmen, because they were my favorite band when I was 12.
Damn, I want to be the lunchmeat in an Atherton sandwich. Really badly. I'm gonna kill that gym queen. I'm going to go all James Dalton on his ass.
Okay, I'm ending this journal entry on a positive note.
I don't even care that they're wearing 7 for All Mankind jeans.
With that, I'll leave you with an entry from a gay blogger. It's Atherton picspam. Enjoy.
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Do you know if the universe Aeon Flux is based on was inspired by We?