Whoa, whoa whoa! Since when did peacock feathers become gay?As I have mentioned in a previous post, my father and I have had our share of differences over the years. Though we appear more as rivals than as father and son, we still love and respect one another. The same cannot be said for three individuals whom I considered to be my arch nemeses. These three unfortunate souls are my most hated foes; men for whom I pray slow and painful deaths each and every day of my life. We are sworn enemies, and our hatred for one another has spanned space, time and existence. The very core of my being begs for their destruction. I considered their very names to be as profane as the demonic monikers of Beelzebub, Malebolgia and Belial. The sight of them disgusts me, and I have to repress the urge to vomit every time I happen to see one of them. On more than one occasion my plans to murder them have been thwarted, as I fear that to touch them would permanently stain me in some way. I am sure that acidic and putrid bile pumps through their veins, the very piss and shit of the devil himself. The abhorrence that I feel for these men is as pure and untouched as a newly fallen layer of snow. Every breath they draw is an insult to me, and I shall despise them forever. I pray to God that one day one of these assholes gets raped by a grizzly bear and contracts HIV because of it. I would love to put a gun to one of these guys' head and force him to fuck a beehive, and each individual bee has a scorching case of herpes. I want to take a crazy straw and force it up my enemy's dick hole, and then pour lemon juice into the straw with a dropper pipette. Now, some of you may be asking yourself, "Eric, why is it that all of your revenge plans consist of what can only be described as sadomasochistic, bestial sex-torture?" Well, to be honest, I don't have a satisfactory answer for that. I just want you all to understand how much I hate these muthafuckas. That being said, let me be perfectly clear: the fact that all three of these men happen to be gay has nothing to do with my hatred of them. OK. Their sexual orientation means nothing to me. They have given me other reasons to draw my ire. Let me explain. The first of mine enemies is a blond-haired Adonis my the name of Trevor Blueisland. We met in a Barnes and Noble after we both reached for the same copy of Maya Angelou's Pulitzer-prize winning novel, Beloved. African-American literature has always been a strong passion of mine. Discovering that Mr. Blueisland was a fellow blackiophile (def.: n. one who enjoys black people) we quickly started up a fascinating discussion regarding stereotypes in Langston Hughes's masterpiece, Invisible Man. That conversation inevitably led to a passionate debate on first-person shooter video games. Though spirited, we remained cordial, until Mr. Blueeefjdsfis...I'm sorry, I get queasy just writing his name...until Mr. Blueisland said something that I can never forgive him for and earned him my most sincere hatred. "I believe, Eric," he began confidently, "that GoldenEye 007 is the most overrated video game ever made, and was not even the best first-person shooter game for Nintendo 64. That honor goes to the flawless Perfect Dark." Oh, did my blood boil! GoldenEye is overrated? Was this guy fucking serious? GoldenEye 007 is one of the most important video games ever to be manufactured, and it's multi-player feature raised the bar for generations to come. And this asshole thinks that Pefect Dark, a sloppy GoldenEye rip-off, is better? Fuck that! I took the copy of Beloved that I had in my hand and smashed the spine of the book on the bridge of his nose. Blood squirted out his nostrils and a sickening crunching sound emitted from his face. Mr. Blueisland fell to his knees and cried out in pain. "Don't you ever, EVER, say another word about GoldenEye!" I screamed at him. "Or so help me God I will fucking murder you! Do you hear me shithead! I WILL FUCKING END YOU!" Well, all the commotion brought over a bookstore employee who demanded to know what was going on. Before I had a chance to explain, Mr. Blueisland pointed up at me and screeched, "He hit me because I'm gay!" The employee looked at me. "That's a hate crime! That is a hate crime, sir!" By now a small crowd had begun to gather around us, each person looked at me with contempt. I had no choice. I fled from the store, the bloodied copy of Beloved still in my hand. Ever since that day I have wished for the death of Trevor Blueisland for what he said about the best N64 game ever made. The fact that he is a colon bomber means nothing. If he wants to garden uphill that's fine with me. That's his business. He just better not talk shit about my favorite video game. I met my second nemesis while sitting in a small coffee shop reading my favorite novel, Push by W.E.B. Du Bois. While I had completely immersed myself into the life of the obese and illiterate 16-year-old heroine (heroin?) of Mr. Du Bois's debut novel, I couldn't help but overhear the man sitting at the table next to me. He was an effeminate little guy with one of those voices that was soooo gay there was no way around it. Anyway, I heard him say into his phone, "I dunno. Ghostbusters didn't need a sequel. The first one wrapped everything up. Part two was just overkill." Well, I considered Ghostbusters 2 to be right up there with Citizen Kane and Casablanca. So I tore my attention from Precious Jones and her adventures and turned to the man. "What is your name?" I demanded. "Excuse me," he replied. I slammed my book shut and stood up. "Your name. What is it?" "It's Leland. Leland Merryoates." I put my hands on his table and bent over so our eyes were at the same level. "Well, guess what mouse dick? Ghostbusters was goddamn magic in a bottle. Why wouldn't you want there to be a sequel? And no one thought that lightening could strike twice, but guess what? It did. Ghostbusters 2 is one of the greatest movies ever made." Then, I grabbed his hot latte off the table and threw it in his face. Mr. Merryoates let out a terrible scream and dropped to the floor, clutching madly at his face. I stood over him, quite pleased with myself. Then, a waitress rushed over and said, "You scalded Leland's face! Why? Because he's gay? This is a hate crime!" Well, fuck me. I looked around at the other patrons. They were all staring at me like I was dressed in full Nazi regalia. "I'm calling the cops you dirty gay-basher!" The waitress screamed. I had no choice but to flee, unfortunately leaving my worn copy of Push behind me. Now, I maimed Mr. Merryoates for his derogatory Ghostbusters 2 statements, and not because he is a three-legged beaver. If he wants to be a brownie that is of no concern to me. I just want to make myself clear. Finally, I met the third in my trilogy of twinks one day in the park. I was lying in the grass reading National Book Award-winning author Ralph Ellison's famous Devil in a Blue Dress. A few yards away from me a man and a woman were lying on a blanket looking up at the sky. Enthralled by my book and happy to be in the presence of young lovers, I allowed the day to pass with little provocation. Until I heard the man say aloud to who I thought was his girlfriend, "You know, Corneille's Le Cid was a much better tragedy than Mairet's Sophonisbe. Mairet was just jealous of Corneille's fame." Now, there are a lot of things in my life that I let slide. I turn the proverbial cheek multiple times a day. How-the-fuck-ever, this was not one of those times. My love of French playwright Jean Mairet's stunning masterpiece Sophonisbe is one issue that I will never-NEVER-compromise. So, I stood up, set aside Devil in a Blue Dress, and marched right over to the couple. "Excuse me," I said politely. "But can you repeat what you just said?" "I'm sorry?" I crouched down. The girl instinctively moved back. "Say what you said a moment ago in regard to Mairet." The man swallowed hard. He looked nervously to the girl. "You better just answer him, Roderick. Otherwise he'll never leave," the girl said. "She's right, Roderick," I said with a malicious grin. "You better answer me." Roderick looked at me, but only for a moment before his eyes wavered to the ground. "I-I was only saying how I b-believed Mairet to be jealous of Corn-" I didn't even let him finish his blasphemy. I shot up, lifted a foot, and smashed it down upon his groin, twisting my shoe with such force that a loud popping noise could be heard coming from beneath the sole. Roderick howled in pain and the girl screamed in surprise. Then, I grabbed the guy by his shirt and dragged him to the pond in front of us. When he resisted, I kicked him again in the testicles. Pulling him over the pond's rocky edge, Roderick became torn and bloody. I pushed his face into the water repeatedly and then forced him to drink the fetid water. "Let's wash that shitty mouth of yours! Let's get all that shit-talking out of your mouth!" I demanded in a mocking tone. When I thought he had had enough, I left Roderick in a pile of his own filth next to the water. I could hear him sobbing as I stomped up to the girl. "Tell your boyfriend that real men love Mairet, bitch!" I said. "He's not my boyfriend!" she cried. "He's just my friend! He's gay! And you beat him up because of it! You are a hate-monger! This is a hate crime! I'm calling the police!" Well, I had no choice but to run away. I wanted to stay and explain to the girl that I only beat up her friend because of his allegiance to Pierre Corneille, and not because he is a pork sword-swallower. If this sperm-burper wants to be a tearoom queen, I'm completely fine with that. That has never been an issue with me. I just get riled up when it comes to 17th century French dramatists, OK. So, that is the back story behind how I met my three most hated rivals. Arrogant, rude, ignorant slobs they are! And yes, yes, they also happen to be bubble-biting chocolate doughnut-punchers, but that's not at all why I hate them. I hate them because they are douche bags.
The Moore You Know: Listen, I understand that not every woman likes to go down on her man, and that's fine. But there are a lot of women who do enjoy giving head, and I just think that some women need to shut up about how good they think they are at giving blowjobs. I mean, a chick who brags about her oral skills is like an astronaut who brags about being able to name all the planets. Here's a shocker, ladies: it's not that hard to make a man come. Shit, I've busted my nut twice during this post just because my chair is that comfortable. A dude will come from pretty much anything, and the worst blowjob in the world still feels as good as the best blowjob in the world. In fact, I could stick my dick in a blender and I would probably ejaculate before having my junk ripped to shreds.
© Eric Moore - 2010
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