I'm successful with the ladies thanks to a system of Copperfield-esque diversions and infusions of alcohol so I'm free to commit questionable acts like eschewing the only implicitly homoerotic football game (Favre you shank) for TCM's feature presentation of Gigi, a fruity musical about the transformation of a Parisian tomboy into a young woman much to the delight of her bored would-be suitor. For the record, it's that rotten Robert Osbourne who sucks you in with intros, providing valuable context and endorsements. Lucky for me, it turns out that Gigi is less gay than NFL after all, what with its opening number, sung by a leering old man, called 'Thank Heaven For Little Girls'. That's right, I just defended my heterosexuality by pointing out that Gigi is uncomfortably pedophilic. I'm not sure that's a word but I'm not going to fucking google it unless I want Pete Townsend showing up here followed by the FBI.
Anyway, hours after my brush with perilous erotic messages, my antidote was to rub a bunch of Slayer on my balls. That shit defeats the pernicious influence of foofoo dandies mincing (Gigi was awesome btw) or tight-panted men penetrating each other's defenses while also protecting their own brown thing. After Decade of Aggression, I feel much straighter again but now I kinda want to skull-bang a dead nazi or something. Ick.
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