While buying cigarettes at a bodega in Chelsea, a Crazy Man walked up to me and said, “I just got out of prison. Give me a fucking cigarette.” And I said, “No.” He left, and on his way out he said, “Fuckin’ homo.” Not once have I ever been on the receiving end of homophobia. Ha. Get it? Receiving end? Anyway, no one’s ever been mean to me because of my sexuality. I’ve been called many names, like “idiot” and “moron” and “rockstar in bed” but never “faggot” or “fuckin’ homo” or whatever homegrown word you may have for guys who like the D. I couldn’t believe it. I felt an inkling of pride in my own weird, probably narcissistic way. I left the bodega and noticed Crazy Man had spit a little too close to a couple of Long Island bros in cargo shorts and flip-flops. One of them yelled, “You wanna fight, asshole?” Crazy Man shouted back, “I will fuck your mom, you FUCKIN’ HOMOS.” Okay, wait. It’s one thing to call me a fuckin’ homo. It’s another thing to call me a fuckin’ homo and then say the same thing to a couple guys who are obviously not fuckin’ homos (see: flip-flops, wanting to fight). Crazy Man had it right the first time, but then lost all credibility, and I’m back to having this hard life filled with tolerance and good friends.
I tell jokes and live in Brooklyn.