Thank you, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, for fucking everything up. Somewhere over the last fifteen or so years — around the time that queers decided that they didn’t want to be different anymore, that they wanted to be just like the heterosexual Joneses — American servicemen decided that manscaping was some sort of aspirational ideal.
Bad skin, dandruff flakes, and blousy sports jerseys gave way to astringent-toned pores, flawless hair-gel scapes, and tight shirts and jeans that in the previous decade had been worn only by faggy clones who bore the brunt of scorn from the very macho men who now strut about like faggity fags, but with chicks instead of dicks on their minds.
Its a disturbing and unacceptable turn of events. I went to a baseball game at Nationals Park tonight, in the nation’s capital. Servicemen were bloody everywhere, you couldn’t get away from them. Like roaches congregating in the kitchen, they pranced around, sashaying as if their bubble butts were their most potent weapons. Biceps like those of the gymbots I see every day in the Castro. Their hair coiffed and gelled to perfection — better than mine, the bitches!
Eyebrows like calligraphic strokes, so pretty they can’t possibly occur without the use of arithmetic, and shorn leg hairs, every one of them approximately 2.5 millimeters in length. Beautiful, pimple free skin that one achieves only with the use of tempered witch hazel tonics followed by the liberal application of a t-zone friendly emollient that probably features some ingredient from the Amazon.
What the fuck? Who gave these straight fags permission to horn in on a domain previously owned by, well, gay fags? It’s all part of the great homogenization of America, a disgusting and lamentable epoch that makes me miss the days when I was called a fag by a straight man because I was nothing at all like him.
Now, straight fags are not only just like me, they look better and take pride in looking damned good for their wimens.
But don’t look a straight serviceman up and down like he’s a hot specimen; his precious exterior, so carefully sculpted, will crumble, revealing the ugly homophobe that only a flimsy layer of Clinique hydrator conceals.