Operation Blend has made me realize that if I am truly committed to infiltrating the breeder camp, I must look deep within at my homosexual psyche and prepare to have it tested to its very limits. After all, there is a real chance I may be caught, captured, deprived of sleep, water-boarded and given a bad haircut. If Cynthia Nixon can choose to be gay, could I be Abu Ghraib’ed into playing for Team Breeder?
Exactly what is it that made me gay in the first place?
Clearly, my family is to blame. Each member of the Gaioni (pronounced guy-OH-knee) Clan contributed in his/her own way to my gayness. As such, they deserve a public day of reckoning. Consider this an Italian, gay Yom Kippur. On a blog. And I’m naming names. That’s all there is to it. Neither my parents nor their five other children shall be spared; heck, I may even throw a niece or nephew under the bus. Is there a more committed gay than I?
(Oh, and Rick’s family will get their come-uppance in due time, don’t you worry.)
My mother, Betty, and my father, Roger – They are the twisted two-some that led the charge. First of all, let’s get it out there right from the start: If your mother calls herself “Betty” and you’re a boy, she automatically stacks the cards against you and ensures there is a 65% chance you will become gay (according to a landmark 2003 study by the Harvard Center for Queer Studies). Secondly, by repeated exposing me to the trappings of the Catholic Church every Sunday, both of my parents saw to it that I came to love pageantry, men in dresses, and groups of guys traveling together in an all-male revue (the Apostles were clearly the Aramaic Village People). Finally, my mother went every week to “get her hair done at the beauty parlor”. Through the use of this seemingly harmless subliminal messaging, my mother craftily ensured I, too, would yearn for my life to be associated with the beauty parlor (indeed, my husband, Rick, is a hairdresser). I ask you, how f***ed up is that? And where was my father during this time, you wonder? Donating money to PFLAG, no doubt, in an effort to “prep the soil”. Sick bastard.
My oldest sister, Kate – A brilliant physician who went to medical school at age 41 while raising three children, Kate married a guy who calls himself “Ed”, who is – quite literally – responsible for the rise of the self-help movement (in other words, he “helps” people convince themselves they are gay). I didn’t stand a chance. Clearly, this femi-Nazi - and her self-help Renfield – whole-heartedly pushed me into the gay lifestyle as part of their own agenda. Apparently, having a gay brother looks really good on your medical resume. Now that she is retired, I’m sure pangs of regret knaw at her daily. Well, she made her gurney and must now lay in it.
My brother, Steve – With a PhD in Psychology from Princeton, this guy knew how to play me like a gay violin. Using the same techniques that BF Skinner used to train pigeons to play ping-pong, this madman had me repeat the phrase, “I dig boys” for days on end with no sleep and only a bit of gruel for sustenance. His hands are, perhaps, most bloody of all. And his wife is a “social worker” – which is code for gay conversion specialist. They now live in St. Louis, where they belong to some sort of “open and affirming” cult. Their children are extremely bright and equally dangerous. I approach each of them with caution at the holidays, but I pray they will turn out gay in the end.
My brother, John – First in his class at law school and currently the managing partner of his own firm, this silver-tongued breeder decided a homo brother would be a chick magnet, so he bought me a Barbie Dreamhouse and an Easy Bake Oven, and then paraded me in front of an endless string of loose women. Eventually, my sister-in-law, Liz, met me and fell into John’s evil trap. They bred (thus, the term “breeder”) and tried to make their own children gay, which has not worked out because I stepped in, raised the children myself, and allowed them to be whatever they wanted. I did bribe my nephew, Judah, with the promise of a rich inheritance if he would be gay, but he remained true to his unfortunate breeder heritage and is now dating a strange woman who refers to herself only as “Beth”.
My brother, Robert – This guy was beyond the pale. For years, he tried to convince me he was quadriplegic simply as a way to guilt me into being gay. He would sigh deeply and say things like, “If I could walk, I’d find myself a good guy and settle down.” When I turned six, I quickly wised-up to this wheelchaired charlatan… but it was too late. I was already doomed to a bizarre, Godless, homosexual lifestyle. (He dated a woman for several months before letting me in on his little secret. What a piece of work.) EDITORIAL NOTE: As of the writing of this blog, it turns out that Robert was, actually, quadriplegic after all. Well, my mother and father probably made him that way, poor SOB. If it could happen to me…)
My sister, Anne – Let’s just say the Evil Queen from Snow White looks like Molly Pitcher by comparison. Smart, savvy and lethal. When I turned eight, Anne took me to a Gloria Gaynor concert in New Jersey, gave me club drugs and sold me for $3 to a motorcycle gang. She headed back home and told my parents I got lost in the crowd. Fortunately, I was able to escape and made my way home through the kindness of strangers…. but I had become permanently gay in the process. She has three bi-racial children, each of whom are quite liberal, likely out of sheer guilt for their mother’s heinous betrayal of their favorite uncle. She and I have reconciled to some extent, but our conversations are short, awkward and stilted. (Rick doesn’t believe this because we’re usually on the phone for 2 hours at a clip and we laugh the entire time, but I assure you it’s an uncomfortable sort of laughter.)
As you can see, with a family like mine, I never stood a chance of being straight. But adversity has only served to strengthen my convictions. I am gay and I will go to my grave this way. Well, Gaionis, I hope you’re happy.