Evolution of a Cajun

I was in Atlanta, Georgia this weekend. This was one of those short weekend trips. Since I had a tragic beard trimming accident (shaving it all off), pictures were banned. Sorry. Without facial hair, my nose looks disproportionately large and unsightly for human eyes.

My host was this sexy Cajun, Scott, who turned 42 years old. As a younger gay at age 23, I always remembered Scott walking around the French Quarter with a nice chest and a tight shirt. He always had an entourage. I would soon learn that us Cajuns were very adapt at forming endearing friendships.

Scott has made a good life for himself. He left our po-dunk Parish to greener pastures in Houston and Atlanta. He now resides in a nice Atlanta neighborhood, has a beautiful home, drives a Porche and a Nissan Pathfinder. He even has six burners on his fancy stove top. I was quite impressed!

The weekend went by with a blur. I remember Woofs, shirtless dancing at the Heretic, a bear pool party, the "Grabby Hands" game, a brutal gym workout, quiet time on the couch watching earlier episodes of True Blood, two left feet stepping at the 3 Legged Cowboy, and a wonderful circle of friends straight out of Steel Magnolias.

While my own life may not be so glamorous, it is always nice to experience the day in the life of another. It was almost as if I were looking into a magical orb: This could be your life Grasshopper! I think of the choices I have made. I haven't defied gravity. I've settled into a comfortable life.

When I got home yesterday, the world hadn't stopped. My dogs were happy to see me, but they seemed very content. I had left them in good hands by a great friend. Heck, my baby chickens were even fine too.

I feel as if I am on the edge of a turning point in my life. Settle or Defy Gravity. Time is whittling away and that choice becomes more urgent by the day. Which will it be? Stay tuned...

Mylie the Pole Dancer

My dialect always seems to draw unwanted attention. There could be a gaggle of queers at a table gabbing about this or that. The moment I utter a word, it's almost like time freezes still. You could hear a pin drop as curiosity gets piqued. In eerie unison, the Maryanns ask "What ARE you?" Gulp!

Whether I am in SF, Chicago or DC, it's always the same cruel routine. I hear them whisper, "OMG. He DOES talk like Sookie Stackhouse." They ask me to keep talking. Say "America". Bwahaha! Say "nuclear". Bwahaha! Say "Mmm hmm... I'm hungry!" Bwahaha!

Why am I bringing this up? Because tomorrow I begin a grand journey to the capital of the South... Atlanta, Jawja. Unlike me, the Heauxmeaus there have evolved into hardcore metro fags. They walk in Kenneth Cole shoes, wear Undergear shirts, and sport Andrew Christian underwear. As for me, I look like I just fell off the last turnip truck in Chickapen Parish.

I didn't go to some fancy livy-livered Yankee school like Dartmouth. I went to El Ess Shoe (LSU)... the best goddamn sports university in the country. Aiiieeeee! GEAUX TIGERS!

My host is telling members of his fag pack that I am his weekend stripper. That should blunt some questions. Atlanta, I'm coming and looking for a pole to dance on.

Goodbye My Friend

Life on a farm can be so heartbreaking. My favorite baby chick (the runt) has died this morning. She was so special to me because while all the other chicks were getting bigger and spunkier... she remained the adorable baby always trying to keep up. She was like Ike on South Park.

The radio was coincidentally playing "Unchained Melody" when I found her. The baby chick must have just died because it's body was still warm.

I buried her under the same Oak Tree where Rocky and Rocksanne lay. I am sorry they never got to know one another.

This was the last video of my baby:

Don't F**ck with Wendy Testaburger!

Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy bloody ride! I am on my man period. I'm warning you -- stand back!

I am so EFFING tired of hiding my tennis exploits underground (via Facebook posts). If you unathletic fucks can't deal... then shove a broom handle up your twat! I wrapped up the Flex League by smashing my lastest foe 6-1, 6-0. You can view the standings chart here. I can include the link because I am not a fake blogger.

I would like to address one more thing... the "S" word... as in SPOILED. The next motherfucker who calls me "spoiled" is gonna get put in a chokehold and recieve a noogie. I am FAR from spoiled. I don't live a privileged life.

The difference between me and you is that I APPLY myself. I get up at 4:30am three times a week to hit the gym. I work from 7am to 5pm Monday-Friday. I belong to four different tennis leagues and play those matches weekly after 6pm.

Have you ever watched True Blood? Have you seen Hoyt's mom... Mrs. Fortenberry? That's my father. That is exactly what I was raised by. So, don't call me spoiled. Feel fortunate you were raised in an entirely different environment.

Now where's my goddamn tampon?! I need one!!!

A Family Outing

Since the weather was gorgeous, I took my feathery children out today. I think it's important to bond with them at a young age. The following video is a brief clip of our family outing:

My Baby Chicks

I got my 14 pullets this afternoon! :) You may notice I pause and give a serious look at two of the yellow chicks. They had hard poo stuck to their backside. I later had to get a wet paper towel and "unstop" them up. Ugh.

All Signs Point to Preggers

I am becoming Kirstie Alley. This picture was taken only four days ago at a Tunisian restaurant. I 'm the fat ass American pictured with the Algerian and Tunisian.

My ability to justify almost every predicament is well-known. I could say it has been raining every day in Louisiana. Who can play tennis in the rain? Or I could blame the Isopure protein and creatine I ingest. It's not my fault I chose to take these known weight gainers... Southern Decadence is right around the corner!

So, instead of getting all buff-looking for the South's biggest gay celebration, I am morphing into a fat girl. Arrgh!

Life in a Gay Bar

Robbed of the high school experience, we revel like teenagers in our bars. Welcome to a world of debauchery and decadence. You are either a Heather with attitude, sleazy slut, drunkity lush, mooching hustler or just plain ass insane. Some of you are all of the above.

Take me for example. I'm a girl-next-door with a sweet disposition and sunny smile. (think Sookie Stackhouse). Sure, I have haters. One fringe group has unsuccessfully tried to tag me with the moniker "evil midget". I squashed that effort by selectively sleeping with the power brokers. Call it ssslutty sabotage. I call it sssuper smart.

I hadn't been out at the Bourbon Pub in three weeks. By New Orleans standards, that qualifies me as "fresh meat". Within minutes of making my rounds, I got invited to two parties. I was feeling special.

Heck, a nice guy named Bruce even took a fancy to me and bought me a beer! Of course, that obligated me to totally make out with him at Lafittes in Exile. That's apparently where my morality has fallen to folks. Give me free beer and we'll make out! LOL.

Shortly after the public makeout session, I am approached by another guy. He has a friend that thinks I am special, but he is too shy to approach me. Hey, if someone is crazy enough to think I am special, I'll take the time to give free hugs and make conversation. I am just darn sweet that way!

Right as I am leaving Lafittes, I hear someone shout... "HEY YOU! COME BACK HERE!" I freeze and think, "WHATTA I DO?!" I twirl around and sheepishly ask, "Whoooo meeee?"

An older guy approaches me. You would have thought he was looking at Jesus Christ Superstar! Only it was me. Apparently, I let him do something tawdry to me at a trashy bar known for blowjobs years ago. While my mind was a total blank, he tearfully expressed how much he always cherished our moment together. Awkward!

I hung my head down in shame and went home.

Catching a Coon:

The Coon Trapper

How butch am I? I set a Coon trap and finally caught one! At approximately 1:30am this morning, the elusive killer was caught. The raccoon managed to escape the trap on three previous occasions. Greasing the trap door with lots of Vaseline finally did the trick.

The raccoon lunged and hissed at me when I got too close with the camera. I screamed like a big sissy. I probably woke up the whole neighborhood. LOL. Hey, you would have screamed too. These things are vicious!

Don't worry... I will not kill the raccoon. There is a part of me that has a soft spot for every living creature. She will be carted FAR AWAY from people. Preferably a swamp. This option would allow me to hold the moral high ground. I will go to bed tonight with a huge sigh of relief.

Is this the Real Killer?

I am heart broken. In the last three days, the last five remaining hens have been hunted and killed by a predator. The sole survivor is Rocksanne, my swift gay rooster.

Surveying the nearby trees, I found a large Raccoon. Do you spot him in the digital picture? Is this the real killer? Was the Possum family framed?

My rooster, Rocksanne, now has a lonely and depressed demeanor. Whenever I enter the chicken pen, he stands perfectly still... almost comatose. It's sad to witness. I'll pick him up and give comforting tender rubs behind his head. For his safety, I have been putting him indoors each night.

I will run a secure wire mesh top to the chicken pen today. This was supposed to be done weeks ago, but the person I hired convinced me a trap was the best way to go. That trap hasn't caught jack shit. The wiley killer sets off the trap, eats the raw meat, and finds a way out each and every goddamn time. Arggh!

After I am assured that there is ironclad security in the chicken pen, I will buy a dozen baby chicks. That should bring my rooster some happiness and hope for a brighter future.

My Gay Rooster

My new rooster is nothing like Rocky. When I appear, he screams and runs away like a wild banshee. Hmpfh! The nerve. Consider this video my attempt to bond with him. I have affectionately named him "Rocksanne".

Whatta I do?!

Sometimes I feel like Bunifa Latifah Halifah Sharifa Jackson -- a pole dancing meter maid from Hawthorne, California. I am just a rude, insensitive, and loudmouthed HO.

My reputation precedes me. Believe it or not, I really do have my head screwed on right. I have a good job, a car, a home, and no debt. I don't shop at Payless or wear 4" leopard print hooker heels.

While I am splashing around the dating pool, I am happily single. I am in no rush to settle down. Heck, I still have to figure out what kind of person I want as a partner.

Here is a good guideline:

1. HE must be a horndog. I workout too damn hard to let these muscles go to waste. Let's have fun with them! Ahem.

2. NO DRUNKS. I am sorry, but you are no use to me passed out each night. Sex with a passed out drunk is too close to necrophilia. Eww...

3. BE OUT. I will no longer accept dating anyone not comfortable in his own skin. While you think your sexuality is nobody's business, you are wrong. Your cowardly secret harms a relationship. I am not Pinocchio. I'll be goddamn if I let another person put me on a shelf whenever their family or straight friends come around!

4. I'M NOT YOUR PRECIOUS. While it feels good to be coveted, you can't be Gollum. I am happiest interacting with others. I am sad locked away in a trophy case. If you truly love me, then let me shine. What would Donna Fargo say? You can't be a beacon, if your light don't shine!

5. FUR. A furry face or chest helps tremendously. Grr...

Get What You Want:

Let's be honest. Dating me is NOT for the faint at heart. Rumor is that you are instantly granted an E-ZPass straight through the Pearly Gates if you can last six months. What a deal! Or not...

Hey, I am a Gemini. Add Cajun to the mix, and I am one crazy ass bitch. Sure... there are loads of playful fun, horndog sex, flirtiness with others, immaturity, and some shallowness. Who wants to date me? Any takers? No? Hmpfh!

I have been taking my own sweet time in singlehood. If anyone dared to mention "dating", I stiff armed them and took off running. It's not that I am a bastard -- I just needed time to work on myself.

I am vowing to leave my comfort zone of Trickdom and tip toe right into the dating pool. Please wish those poor bastards luck. They'll need to stock up on Just For Men and LOTS of pills. LOL. ;)

The Bright Side of Life:

Last week, a long lost friend stumbled upon my blog for the first time. He posed the following question: What advice can you offer to help others find the joy, fulfilling life, good friends and happiness that you have?

I was dumbstruck. How do I even go about answering this question? I wrote him back asking that he give me time to contemplate an answer.

There are signs that I am an oddity. When I first met Moby, he said I had a naivete that was refreshing. Durban Bud described me as a "man-boy". I have been told on more than one occassion: "You are so different. I don't know anyone like you!"

If my life were a Monty Python song, it would be Always Look on the Bright Side of Life. It fits perfectly.

I was not born with a silver spoon. It was Carnation dry milk and hand-me-down clothes. Mama and Daddy were poor. Our family of six lived in a rundown 50 foot trailer. There were no family vacations, trips to the mall, trips to movies, cable, or any other luxuries. I hardly ever saw my Dad, as he worked four jobs. Times got really tough whenever there was a union strike at the plant.

Economic times did improve for my family, but I faced many hardships while in school. I was painfully shy. It rendered me unable to function as a normal person. Rather than run around and play with childhood friends, I was holed up in the library buried in homework.

I knew I was different from others. I distinctly remember feeling pathetic. I had no friends. I was gay. I pondered such things as, "If I were to get married, would I even have a best man?" "If I were to die, who would anyone attend my funeral?" Fate had conspired to cruelly condemn my life to one lonely existence.

There was some mental abuse. Being told constantly that I wasn't good enough shattered any chance of having a healthy self esteem. They didn't know any better. They themselves were raised by a verbally abusive parent.

Times changed after I graduated from college. I found other gay people and came out at the age of 23. I quite easily formed many meaningful friendships that have lasted until this day.

Perhaps the secret to a joyful and happy life is to spend the first half of your life devoid of any. Somehow, by the grace of God, my life changed for the better. So, if you see me walking around with a soaring spirit and a twinkle in my eye, it's because I have not taken my reversal of fortune for granted. I have been rescued. Amen.

My New Rooster