It's "Mr. Fa**ot" to you; and let's be honest - who are you really mad at?

(Photo courtesy Hot Cheetos F**ker Productions, 2006)


"Well, I suspect that a little beer isn't the worst thing you've had "spilled" on your arm"

That's all I said. Well, that's not all I said, but it's all I said to her, and it's what started the "trouble." Let's set the stage though first, shall we?

People who know me often marvel at the fact that I've never been shot. Really, it's true. I've been known to be....provocative. Whether I'm demanding that a group of snowboarders "admit" how much they enjoy "happy finger," or being "flirty" in questionable places with even more questionable people (I'm thinking about the night I sang "You make me feel like a natural woman" in Wawa,On one night), I have a talent for making things less predictable. There was also the famous "incident" when I managed to pit two factions of lesbians against eachother in a bar one night. I saw my role only as intermediary; letting each side know how the other felt. When things did finally erupt, I was caught-in the middle and it wasn't pretty. Who knew how badly a bunch of young ladies could behave, especially at a bar called The Rose?
Frankly it was a pretty shocking experience. Poor form ladies!

Anyway, back to last night. Things had been going well. I was out with friends, having a few "cocktails" (I'll be honest here, it was draft beer, but at least it was Stella Artois) and I think being quite charming and witty as, well as always frankly. I was also wearing an Ascot, which is unusual for me, but I'd dare say unheard of in the bar we were at. This place needed some charm, and we were it. I was not uncharacteristicly chatty and kinda restless, and spent my evening chatting with strangers with varying degrees of success. My Mötorhead story, fresh in my mind was a hit, as was the one where I made Rufus Wainright think I was a complete monster, which reminds me, maybe I'll tell that story sometime soon. It's "hillarious."

So it was fun, or at least I was having fun, meeting lots of real "characters." There were lots of interesting people, from some young skinheads (guess if got caught staring) to a couple of cute girls from Quebec City (guess if they got tired of me using the word bite in as many ways as I could think of) to a person of colour drug dealer (guess if...well just guess.) Then, suddenly, the doors flew open and dozens of young and peppy and excitable students from a nearby University came charging through the door. A girl barged right into Peter and his pint, spilling a small amount of the amber elixer on my shirt and her arm. She looked at me with horror; and that's when I said "it."

"Well, I suspect that a little beer isn't the worst thing you've had "spilled" on your arm"


Apparently she hadn't. And didn't like the implication I was making. Not at all. She disappeared and just as I was regaining my Ascot wearing composure, another girl came barging-up to me:

"Um, like, my friend is a virgin, and you really upset her with what you said."

"You're kidding," I said. No really. "Well, I imagine what I said is even more true," I continued, "I imagine as a virgin she must be, you know, about as wet as Spring on a pretty continual basis." Her friends left. Then returned. Wet girl, girlfriend support network and Wet Girl's boyfriend. He was pissed. He started yelling lots of things at me, liberally sprinkling his threats with the word fa**ot. I took my leave. I didn't want to go, but it was the right thing to do.

What I really wanted to do though was engage Wet Girls Boyfriend. I wanted to tell him I understood, because, Ascots and orientation aside, we were, you know, both just "guys." I wanted to ask him who he was really mad at, me or her. Little Miss Witholding and Proud.