Long-time readers of the boolog (... and there are so many) will remember a story that I told a while back about the first fight that I was ever in. For short time readers of the boolog, (... and there are so many) the gist of the story was that a little boy named Danny used to pick on me all the time when I was about five or six years old, and one day I chased him around and around and around the street until I finally ran him down and commenced to beat the crap out of him.
While I was having lunch with my mother the other day, she mentioned that she had spoken to the lady who lived next door to us when we lived in Norfolk, Virginia and in fact, she still lives there to this day. After filling my mom in on what was going on with all the people who still lived in the neighborhood, my mom finally asked, "Whatever happened to Danny?"
"Oh Danny," she said, "he's gay."
(Let me just jump in here and say I'm sure that a lot has happened to Danny in his life besides being gay. Maybe he won the Nobel Peace Prize or works with children or learned to juggle... we just don't know.)
I'm a wimp. I've been a wimp my entire life. It's only been the vision in my mind's eye of the beat down that I put on poor little Danny when I was six years old that has kept me from taking my own life on numerous occasions. Now I discover that the only person I've legitimately beat in a fistfight in my entire life is a homosexual. Next week I'll discover that my high school sweetheart was a transvestite. That's the way these things work.
But hey, look on the bright side. If you're ever harassed by a gay guy, you know who to call.