Passing acquaintances collide in a moment of transcendent passion. They look at each other shyly and touch tenderly during their Paris cinq à sept, exchange some existential thoughts under exquisite chandeliers, and — tant pis — go their separate ways.
Sarko, back to Carla Bruni. Obama, forward to Gordon Brown. A Man and a Man. All it needed was a lush score and Claude Lelouch.
Once again, it falls upon me – and me alone – to explain the freaky, freaky world of the internets to you. Very well:
Maureen Dowd is not trying to convince anyone that Obama is gay. She is not trying to undermine Obama in any way – I suspect she likes him very much, and dearly wishes that he remain in the public eye for as long as possible. Maureen Dowd is merely one of the countless practitioners of a new and democratic literary genre called “slash fanfiction”. But The Editors you ask What is this “slash fanfiction” you speak of? It sounds dangerous and creepy.” Normally, Dear Readers, you know there’s nothing I like better than answering your pig ignorant questions. But, in an unrelated development, I seem to have just vomited in my mouth. So I’ll let Wikipedia handle this one:
Slash fiction is a genre of fan fiction, largely written by women, that focuses on the depiction of romantic (and often sexual) relationships between two or more male characters, who may not be engaged in relationships in the canon universe. While the term originally was restricted to stories in which one or more male media characters were involved in an explicit adult relationship as a primary plot element, it is currently more generally used to refer to any fan story containing a pairing between male characters.
And there you have it. She does it constantly: Al Gore is effeminate. John Kerry enjoys poetry and musical theatre. John Edwards is “metrosexual”. True, none of these columns actually describe a physical relationship, but you can see the scene being set: hetrosexuals by all outward appearance, there is still that chance that, if the circumstances were right – if the right woman could imagine the perfect circumstances – they could be … available. Later columns, unpublished, unpublishable, no doubt explore these forbidden, thrilling fantasies further. “Global Warming [squick:MPreg]” where a vulnerable Al Gore finds that a night with a very masculine Hillary Clinton has him more than just lactating! “Nantucket Revisited”, wherein Barack Obama recalls a youthful indiscretion with a charming, teddy bear-toting school chum, the languid and dissolute Lord John Kerry. And, of course, the shocking and depraved “Clintigula”, about which the less said, the better. Especially when I’m eating.
Why does she write this sort of thing? Because she’s a freak. Indeed, I strongly suspect she is a freaky freak who likes it all freaky. And you know what? That’s okay. It’s okay. It’s a free country, and everybody is uniquely special, and we’re free to be you and me. This was the secret devil message fed to me in every episode of “The New Zoo Revue”, and I’ll be god damned if anyone’s going to deprogram me now. You go, Modo!
Why does the New York Times publish it? Dude, how would I know? Why do people dress up like the fucking Get Along Gang and fucking gang bang each other? One of the very, very few comforts of my otherwise doleful existence is that I don’t actually have to understand why people do insane shit, and thank God for that small mercy. I guess they’re just freaks like that.
… Oops! An earlier version of this post made the unforgivable error of confusing plushies and furries. I’m totally going to Hell.