My Camera Phone Will Not Be Denied: Morrissey at Radio City

Can you believe that I'm almost 40 years old and I haven't ever seen Morrissey live? Wait, let me ask that again. Can you believe I'm almost 40 years old? Isn't that crazy? Like completely bonkers? Like you can't even make heads or tails of that fact? Can it be possible? I know, I know, it doesn't make any mathematical sense, but still, you can't really argue with the mathematical sense it truly makes.

Anyway, listen to this magical story: I was just lamenting the other day, after realizing that I'd just missed bumping into Morrissey at the Strand bookstore a few Sundays ago, that I'd never seen that charming man live. How could that be? Then, out of the blue, I get a text from my dear friend Laura asking me if I had any interest in going to see La Mozzer at Radio City on Wednesday. What are the odds? Of course, I was all "Yes, yes, a million times YES!"

I was a little worried that his voice would be weak from all that hard core vegan eating he's been doing (I heard that he's got a pretty bad arugula habit), but he sounded robust and flawless. He began the show by immediately throwing us sycophants a bone with an exquisite rendition of the timeless Smiths slowjam "Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me."



It was nice to see Oscar Wilde make an appearance between songs.



It was less nice to have to sit through the interminable PETA agit-prop snuff film played during my least-favorite Smiths song "Meat is Murder." There's really nothing like watching cows and chickens and other farm animals being slaughtered on the big screen for your viewing pleasure. Nothing like it. Feel good movie of the year. I wasn't surprised that Morrissey went there--he's a strident little thing in his old age--but gah.

Another complaint: too many new songs. I know, I know, he must get tired of being told to shut up and play the hits, but all I wanted from him, really, was "The Boy With the Thorn In His Side," and it's a bummer that he couldn't have swapped out one of these forgetable new tunes to make room. Sure, I probably would have wet my pants if he'd played that, but that's why I wore my Queen is Dead-brand adult diapers.

Still, the man delivered a fine, fine performance, and pretty much everyone in the house was beside themselves with adolescent joy, particularly the fellow in the row in front of us who I'll call "Ducky from Pretty in Pink," who was going all in on the fey hand stabs and the new wave hair tweaking.

You wanna know what hits he played, so as you can be more jealous of me? Okay: "Shoplifters of the World Unite," "Every Day is Like Sunday," "Still Ill," "Speedway," "Spring-Heeled Jim," "Ouiji Board," "I Know It's Over." Could you be more envious? Yes, of course you could, but the fact that you harbor even a tiny amount of psychotic envy makes me not only happy but downright smug.



In conclusion, enjoy this blurry and off-puttingly low quality video of Morrissey getting bum-rushed during "Still Ill."

I'm Going to Need To See More Explicit Photos Before I'm Comfortable Saying That Anderson Cooper's Boyfriend Has Been Caught Cheating

Oh, Coop. See, this is why you should have been sitting on my lap at the gym during those weekend workouts instead of lifting, squatting, sweating, and etcetera, all over the place, with your hot boyfriend Ben Maisani, who has allegedly now been busted with his hands all up in the gay cookie jar by the queerballs over at the Daily Mail, even though these photos look incredibly staged, for whatever reason.

I, for one, refuse to believe that someone could do this to America's Silver Fox. And especially with such a dumb-looking meathead. There's a time and a place for dumb meatheads, and that time and place is not in Central Park, during the daylight, where any idjit with a camera phone can record your love. (The time for dumb meatheads is pretty much any other time besides the time I just mentioned.)

Poor Andy, he's in a tough place. I mean, his boyfriend clearly deserves a spanking, but at the same time, he doesn't deserve one from our Anderson, you know?

In conclusion, Kathy Griffin will step in to beat Ben with a standing rib roast, which Ben will never recover from because it will be televised on the 15th season of My Life on the D List.

Anderson Cooper Can Now Freely Do Gay Things Like Getting a Spray Tan on Teevee

Well, it's finally official, thanks Andrew Sullivan! My secret boyfriend Anderson Cooper (or "Coop," as Jimmy and I like to call our life-size clay model) has finally admitted that he's totally gay for boys. We in the New York media (yes, See Tim Blog counts as that) have known this for a long time, because we've got sources in high places. In my case, I was my own source, in one high place.

As both of my readers might remember, back in the days when I was gainfully employed I used to go to David Barton Gym in Chelsea, truly the gayest gym in all the land. So gay that you were always twice as likely to see a hot dude twirl and high-kick between sets of squats as you were to see him not do that. Walking onto the main floor of the dimly lit hardbody wax museum always felt like entering a Lady Gaga backup dancer green room, or a porno set, or a Tom of Finland live action film shoot.

ANYWAY, there was one day of the week (not gonna say which one) that Anderson was always there with his super-mega-hot boyfriend pumping iron, being handsome, and pretending to completely ignore me as I sat at the bench press next to him reading an upside down New Yorker. I was not fooled!

I guess what I'm saying is I have seen Anderson in his underwear in the locker room and you have not.

In conclusion, Anderson Cooper is sexy, famous, rich, and now officially gay. Congratulations, Anderson, can you now please give me one of those first three things, for freedom?

A Photo Dispatch from Ball Sack Beach

Well, it was the first official weekend of summer, ladies and gentleman, and we all know what that means: that's right, it was time for a two-hour bike ride to the one and only Ball Sack Beach at Fort Tilden. The water was delightfully freezing, the weather was spectacular, the hipster titties were swinging, and the ball sack sacks were just everywhere. One would have thought that, this being Pride weekend in NYC, all the best ball sack sacks would have been in Manhattan on some hilarious float made out of pink and purple bottles of lube, but no, quite a few of them were catching some rays in Far Rockaway, just stone cold ball sack cradlin'.

The most exquisite ball sack sack I saw, though, was that belonging to the above gentleman. It was a sight to behold. From its best angles, it seemed not just to cradle his actual sack luxuriously in its silky bed--it actually seemed to inflate it to its maximum capacity, giving it the appearance of an accent pillow meant for a baby's crib. I wish I'd just thrown away all caution and taken a picture of him when he was awake and brazenly laying on the beach, leaning on his elbows, one bent leg up, the other bent leg stretching toward the sand and allowing his sack to fully receive the sun's hella warm kisses. It was an immaculate/disgusting display. Click that thing up top to make it bigger and then hide yourself in the bathroom and weep that you missed seeing it face to ball sack sack.

Bet You Can't Top These Wedding Cake Toppers

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that wedding cake toppers are the most important part of a wedding reception, and the key signifier of a healthy, robust, and ageless marriage. If these figurines are not pleasing to the eye, it spells certain doom for the happy couple, for how could they recover from such an unseemly failure of presentation? Did you ever see the toppers on Kim Kardashian's cake? So tacky and, therefore, incredibly prophetic. And every wedding cake that Elizabeth Taylor ever had featured a plastic bride and groom flipping each other the bird. Remind me how things ended up for our Liz in the marriage department.

In short, these tiny simulacra have an important job to do, and the ones that our friend Rachel Roth, who is making our wedding cake, got from Etsy bode well for Jimmy and I, because they bear remarkable likenesses to our real selves. Jimmy's (left) is a dead ringer, for in real life, his head is perfectly round, and scientists use it to calibrate their instruments. I've always wished my head was rounder, and this figurine allows me to finally realize that dream, sort of. But it's most important for them to capture our essences, and I think these do. Is it sad that our essences can be captured in figurines that are no larger than five inches? Maybe. But in their defense, my essence can probably be captured in an item much smaller, so I'm feeling pretty flattered by the extra inches. Our cat Stella is pretty happy with her essence, though as always she wishes it was skinnier.



In conclusion, Jimmy and I have been together for 15 years. We met in North Carolina, our home state, and are now finally able to get married because we live in NYC (we actually married on February 13, and are celebrating on June 9) and Ye Olde Breeders of New Yorke have finally stopped being idiots about 21st century reality and are now graciously allowing us to do what we've been doing for a decade and a half, but now with health insurance benefits and such. Don't worry, though, North Carolina will get around to enshrining basic decency in its constitution next century, once it's done enshrining brazen idiocy. To paraphrase the late great Martin Luther King, the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward us gaywads, eventually.

Smug Racist John Derbyshire's Got Me Thinking...

First of all, dear readers, I must apologize for placing a photo of a woefully unattractive old shitsack at the top of this post. It is lamentable! The shitsack in question is John Derbyshire, who, though he sounds like a bit player in a hilarious Jeeves and Wooster romp by PG Wodehouse, is actually a right-wing cartoon character who writes regularly for low-minded newsletter The National Review.

Yes, the horrifying collection of pixels above is of a maladjusted old fart who just hates black people so MUCH. Thankfully the internet gives him ample space to articulate his racial preferences, and last week he decided that he would, for a laugh, perform a stunning riff on a timely topic that has been much discussed and written about in the wake of the shooting death of Trayvon Martin: "The Talk" that black parents have to have with their male children to prepare them for their lives of being on the wrong end of the law/neighborhood watch all day, every day, forever, even if they're just walking down the road during halftime to get some Skittles.

So Derbyshire sets to typing and comes up with a "Talk" of his own, titled "The Talk: Nonblack Version," in which he gives sage advice to his children about how best to treat the entire black population of the country with complete and utter contempt. Amazingly, in the fallout from his screed, TNR fired him, probably for being too overt. (They like their racism subtle, in the style of a Limbaugh or a Drudge.)

But anyway, Jimmy and I were talking about this tonight and Derbyshire's really got us thinking. What if we were parents and had to prepare our children to fear/loathe an entire group of people? What group would we choose? Breeders, obviously!

Jimmy and I will never have children, of course, because we really just prefer cats. But if we did end up with child, "The Talk" we would have with our gay offspring (once they are able to communicate in full sentences/text messages) about the dangers of 97% of the population would probably look something like this:

THE TALK: GAY VERSION (SNAP!)



(1) Many people refer to "heterosexuals" as "straight." The better term is "breeders" because they are always going around having babies all over the place. Beware of them. They might try to get you to babysit while they go out and make more babies.

(2) Of course, Breeders should be treated with respect, just like any other person. But there are certain times when also they shouldn't.

(3) Breeders are statistically in the majority, which is why they have to be watched. They are power mad, and super paranoid about any non-Breeder feelings they might be having. These feelings usually manifest themselves in some dumb bullshit law or other that will restrict your right to marry the person you love. This is one of their favorite things to do, in fact, because they are spastic.

(4) Religious, right-wing breeders, especially, just cannot stop thinking about gay sex. They think about it more than you, just accept it. If you ever need some good/disgusting porn, just hack the computer of the most religious man on your block. He will have a mother load on his hard drive.

(5) Because they are so shifty and capricious, when you must deal with breeders, use statistical common sense:

(5a) Avoid concentrations of breeders not all known to you personally.

(5b) Stay out of neighborhoods that are heavily breedery. (Park Slope, most but not all of Utah)

(5c) If planning a trip to a beach, amusement park, or concert venue at some date, find out whether it is likely to be swamped with breeders on that date. If you do not plan in advance you may find yourself at a megachurch, a tailgating party, a football game, or the Country Music Awards. (They do not sell poppers at such events.)

(5d) Do not attend events likely to draw a lot of breeders, like hot dog eating contests, funerals, Big & Rich concerts, and confirmations.

(5e) Never go to Jamaica.

(5f) If you are at some public event at which the number of breeders suddenly swells, leave as quickly as possible. Such events might include a spring break beach party in Daytona, a Rick Warren book signing in Tulsa, or any bar in the Meat Packing District.

(5g) Do not settle in a district or municipality run by breeder politicians. They will never leave their wives for you. Never.

(5h) Before voting for a breeder politician, scrutinize his/her character much more carefully than you would a gay one. Because, really, if a dude sucks dick, he's got your best interests at heart, just vote for him. (Unless he looks like John Derbyshire.)

(5i) Do not act the Good Samaritan to breeders in apparent distress, e.g., on the highway. They will probably just try to sell you some khaki pants out of the trunk of their car.

(5j) If accosted by a strange breeder in the street, like Phyllis Schlafly or Tony Danza, smile and say something polite but keep moving. They just want relationship advice or a free haircut.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

You don’t have to follow my version of the talk point for point; but if you are gay or lesbian or some combination of the two and have kids, you owe it to them to give them some version of the talk. It will save them a lot of time and trouble spent figuring things out for themselves. It may save their social lives.

Congratulations on Your Marriage! Next Up: Death!

As you all know, I recently got gay married to my boyfriend of fifteen years, Little Man Jimmy (now obviously known as Mrs. Timothy Anderson), and we are currently trying to put together a sexytime party to celebrate. This will happen in June and will involve pizza, pasta, booze, popsicles, Pop-Tarts, hot yoga, and a performance by Wilson Phillips.

So, in the mean time, what other things are on the horizon for the happy couple, now that we've taken the plunge that we are now legally able to take (slowest plunge ever), against the wishes of President Leviticus and Vice President Santorum? Well, there are all sorts of benefits to being married, obviously. For example, we can check a new box on forms. Also, is there a tax break or something? And if were to have a child now, the public would not be forced to refer to it as an awful bastard child. That's a step forward, no? Sadly, we're not going to be having children because the two of us can barely take care of our cat. But we don't want children in the least, so it works out.

Anyway, this week we finally received our first piece of joint junk mail. (See picture above.) Whatwoulditbe? Whatwoulditbe? What. Would. It. Be? A pre-approved credit card application? A chance to jointly donate to the SPCA or the Recall President Leviticus campaign? A hilariously misguided set of coupons for Home Depot? No, none of these. Here's who it was from:



Hmmm. So, we are being invited to get joint plots at some terrible mausoleum. Okay. "Congratulations on your recent nuptials. Now that you are married, you obviously wish that you were dead. Let us help." Their actual pitch: "Let's Face It Now."



Well, they're barking up the wrong tree with us. We both want to be burned up. Then Jimmy wants his ashes scattered in the German town of Gelnhausen where he lived when he was a young army brat. And I want mine sprinkled into the marshmallow cream icing of a Mississippi Mud cake that all of my friends will consume at my wake on some rooftop in Brooklyn (Kelly, can you host?) while crying and listening to the Flash Gordon soundtrack on repeat on massive speakers. (Sorry, but those are my wishes, friends, so make it happen.)

Contagion: A Sad Dispatch from the Gaypocalypse

It’s happened. It’s all happened. We could have stopped it, but we didn’t.

Oh sure, we’d been warned. Told in shrill tones of the perilous consequences, the slippery slope, the descent into moral madness that would surely happen if we insisted on charting this new course of selfish depravity. But we didn’t listen. You and I have always made a point of not taking seriously grown men wearing either sweater vests or gilded robes and crowns. Turns out that, unbeknownst to us, these seeming Cassandras were absolutely right, much as it pains me to admit it. Now all hell has broken loose. Our country is as good as Gomorrah. The four horsemen have arrived.

[continue reading at The Nervous Breakdown]

Suck It, Santorum, We're Garried!

Well it's now official. Jimmy and I have tied the knot--though, because we were both really bad Boy Scouts, we had to use some tape. And just like that--poof, if you will--traditional marriages nationwide are completely meaningless. Guess what, breeders: you're gonna have to up your game. Sure, you can still have children without bureaucratic intervention, but who wants that bullsh*t? Not this gaywad. We've got a cat, and she keeps us plenty busy, with her piano lessons and kendo competitions (and sleeping).



Anyway, be warned, straight America, we're right behind you, snapping maniacally, with our ringed fingers.

Oh, and many many thanks to all our friends for their lovely messages of love and support. We love you back! And extra special thanks to Rachel Roth and Todd Colberg for being our witnesses and taking pictures. And to Sarah Pasell for the meat 'n cheese plate and blush wine!

My Plan to Destroy Traditional Marriage Almost Complete Mwa Ha Ha

So Jimmy and I twirled on down to the City Clerk's Office here in NYC (kidding; we're too old to twirl) on Monday to finish our paperwork for Ruining Traditional Marriage 4 Ever LOL. (Bumper sticker forthcoming.) We're both very excited about the prospect of demolishing the marriages of Rick Santorum, Newt Gingrich, Sarah Palin, Mitt Romney, and Kim Kardashian. (Wait.) After we say our vows and such next Monday in our matching tracksuits we will have completed our master plan, and within minutes, (1) dumb Todd Palin will be sucking the cock of tea party nutbag Joe Miller on the snowy tundra of Alaska while Mitt Romney leans against a snow blower and strokes himself, (2) right-wing wind-up Barbie Gretchen Carlson will mercifully trade that awful helmet hairstyle in for "the Ellen," and (3) Sarah Palin and Fox's Megyn Kelly will check into a Days Inn under cover of night to officially become scissor sisters, yay. (This last relationship, interestingly, will be frantically supported by all remaining straight Republican males for about six minutes every day, while they're alone in their bathrooms.)

Jimmy and I, in short, will not rest until every single human in the United States, even the fugly ones like every single dude at Fox News and all members of any tea party anywhere, are naked, sweaty, and plowing the fields of Godless gay love furiously, feverishly, phonetically, until the entirety of God's country is covered in a glaze of gross santorum and used dildos.

Once our plan is finally complete we will then take our gay agenda directly to the people of this nation. We will go around the country forcing everyone to build floats for the next Gay Pride parade, which is tomorrow, and which will take place every day, in every town, on every street, until the second coming of Freddy Mercury.

In conclusion, very soon almost the entire world will be gay and any remaining straight people will have to migrate to Newt Gingrich's moon colony, the end. Also, we'll be taking over the moon pretty soon.

The NYC City Clerk's Marriage Application Website Gets Judgy

So, first! Jimmy and I are getting married, isn't that hiLARious? Yes, we figured that since we've been together for 14 years and it's legal to get gay-married in New York now--and especially since it has been a long-standing goal of ours to destroy traditional marriage (you're officially on notice, Rick and Karen Santorum)--we're going to get hitched, and not only because I want to get on Jimmy's health insurance, how could you even think that?

So last night we submitted our application online and were instructed to show up at the City Clerk's office within 21 days with our IDs, Social Security numbers, and preferred brand of condoms so that we can say "I do" and get this shit over with. But before I got to the confirmation page, I was instructed to type the letters "LUWD" into the space in order to prove that my application was not gay spam.

Really, City Clerk's office? You want me to type those letters into the space? You want to sound that out for me?

In conclusion, why is the random letter generator on this website such a homophobe?

TMInformation Dept: '80s Singer Limahl Overshares

You guys remember Limahl, right? The new-wave mullet-sporting leader of Kajagoogoo and singer of the Never-ending Story theme song? He was sure ridiculous, even for the '80s, my favorite decade, amiright?

Well anyway, there is a new book out called I Want My MTV: The Uncensored Story of the Music Video Revolution, and in it we get all sorts of juicy stories from the likes of Ann and Nancy Wilson (bestill my heart), Dee Snider, Lionel Richie, and, yes, Limahl, who, in a preview of the book up on Pitchfork, has this to say about his personal experience with video making:

I'm going to tell you something, but I'm not going to name names. In one of my solo videos, the director came to my hotel while I was in Sydney, to discuss the video, and we ended up having sex. There was kissing and it was quite passionate. We both ejaculated. He was a famous director and he was considered very important. I was thinking, Oh my God, I'm having sex with him. I mean, at that point I was pretty famous all over the world.

Of course, when he was directing me on the set with lots of people around, there was a twinkle in his eye, and in mine, because we knew what had happened a few nights before. The video was great.

Gross, Limahl. Gross. You just used the word ejaculate, ugh. I can count on zero hands the number of people who want that from you, Limahl. No one is interested, unless this director's name is Eli Roth, in which case everyone is interested but would rather just hear the story from him, thanks.

Fashion is Important: Men's Summerwear Edition

There's nothing more instructional than a men's summerwear catwalk pose-a-thon. That's why the Men's Fashion Week extravaganza in Milan was the most educational event to take place in the world since Live Aid. It's extremely important for us hot dudes to know what to wear to Brighton Beach, where we go every summer Sunday to do laps in the ice-cold Absolut swimming pool. And I don't know about you guys, but I wouldn't be caught dead NOT wearing the above collection of epileptic and ball-hugging pattern explosions. Why? Because stripes are slimming, especially when they're spastically shooting out in every possible direction: they confuse people into thinking you're thin, hooray!

There's a word for this ensemble, but that word is Russian and I don't know how to type/pronounce it. But it really sums things up quite nicely.

In conclusion, in the future all men will look like they were mauled by a gaggle of bitchy gay zebras.

Come On, New York, Stiffen Up and Make the Gays Happy

My friend Taylor and I were at the Guitar Center on 14th Street on Sunday to get a paisley pink viola chin rest (they didn't have any!) and we were trying to decide where to go next to search for one (Taco Bell?) when we heard the approaching cacophony of a demonstration, yay!

Turns out it was a pro-gay marriage stomp, which made me think: isn't there some sort of vote happening up in Albany regarding same sex marriage or something, and isn't it really close to passing?

Yes.

This better f-ing happen, Jesus God.

Shootin' It, In Which Tim and Jimmy Discuss the Issues of Our Times. Tonight, Gay Marriage in New York

Tim: Hey, if New York legalizes gay marriage should we get married?
Jimmy: No, I'll ruin your credit.

Guess that settles it!

Not a Gay Porno Dept.: Navy Seal Training

All of us U.S. Americans have had hearts aflutter all week thinking about how much we'd like to offer our thanks to the Navy Seals, for being so sexy. "What is their training regimen like?" we haven't been able to stop asking ourselves, while fapping. Well, these photos tell you an awful lot about their training regimen: it's hot; so hot, in fact, that sometimes they just have to lie stretched out on the beach and let the water wash over their musculature, trickling this and that way, alluringly.

But these photos are not stills from a gay porno, so stop thinking that! They're just exercising and preparing to hunt down bad guys, and make those bad guys blow them. Have some respect.

In conclusion, get your hands out of your pants.

I Think This Is the Gayest Piece of Mail I've Ever Received (and I Was Once in the Nell Carter Fan Club)

You could be forgiven for thinking that, because I'm so famous, I get letters from Bette Midler all of the time. This is not true, though. I almost never get letters from Bette Midler. So it was with great excitement that I opened my mailbox yesterday to discover "A Special Invitation from Bette Midler" addressed to me in La Bette's hard-to-reading chicken-scratch handwriting, but you can just about make out my name in the center of the letter. And yes, that text you see down at the bottom left says "Priscilla: Queen of the Desert - The Musical." Could this epistle get any more gay? I was almost afraid to open it, because the contents of a letter like this could very possibly take over your life and demand much more from you than you are willing to give. And it might explode sticky pink cottonball confetti all over your face.

So anyway, what's inside?!



Hmm. Not sure how you take a journey to an adjective. Can you take a trip to tragic? An expedition to insulin-dependent? A sojorn to sloppy? A venture to voracious? Ok, I've just convinced myself you can, because I've done all of these things. But what about this show? Will it burn down the Palace Theater with its flameage? Will it involve high-altitude injuries like Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark? And which drag queen is Bette Midler playing? (Oh, she's just producing.)

I'll totally go to this show if someone buys me a ticket.

Unsolicited Advice for Michael, the iTunes Gift Certificate Sample Recipient

You know, Apple usually has impeccable taste in commercials/promotions/whatever. They're always so well-played, hip but not too cloying. But I'm going to have to go ahead and call foul on the sample iTunes gift certificate they've put together to show customers how their message to the recipient will look. Because it's just weird. Brian apparently went to a party at Michael's house last night and had a great time, so naturally he decided that instead of writing Michael a nice message on his Facebook wall he'll buy him an iTunes gift certificate. Sure, that's fine. Brian also writes him a note:

Michael,

Thanks for the great party last night. The food was excellent as was the company. Here's a little gift to help you out with the next one.

Brian

So, Michael, I don't want to be the bringer of awkward news, but Brian wants to get in your pants, I'm thinking. He's flirty, he's complimentary, and he's bought you some free downloads (that's the "giving someone flowers" of the early 21st century) as a not-so-subtle way of suggesting you invite him to your next party, the naked one. And Michael, I'm really not just seeing what I want to see. I've talked about this with my friends Ruth and Mike, who tipped me off about this weird message when they bought me an iTunes gift certificate recently. So I'm, in turn, tipping you off. I'm only trying to help, Michael. Because there's nothing worse than having to face a dude showing up at your next party in a lycra top and Superman Underoos who clearly will not be let down easily. (Trust me, I've been there.) Don't say you weren't warned.

Kthxbye,

seetimblog

My Camera Phone Will Not Be Denied: Some Gay-Ass Window Display on 9th Avenue

It's Fashion Week again, I guess, or something, because good Lord there were a bunch of tedious people clustering here, there, and everywhere in the West Village last Friday as I rode my bike home. The point is, I'm never invited to the good parties. Because there was something Olympian going on at this boutique on 9th Avenue that I had no idea was happening and that you needed special goggles to truly appreciate. Why was this kept from me? Sure, I mostly shop at H&M, but I have very fashionable taste in abs, and I'm on a few mailing lists.

Anyway, my camera phone was there and decided these dudes needed photographing because they were trying so hard.

This Man's Thumb Has Been Where Yours and Mine Could Only Dream of Going

British Foreign Secretary William Hague and his thumb are a very busy man. Oh, and there's his aide Christopher Myers, with whom he has maybe been stone cold gettin' it on, in a gay way, probably all day long while Great Britain burns, or whatever.

Full disclosure: THIS IS JUST A NASTY RUMOR! Hague has denied the affair and proclaimed himself married. His aide has resigned. Nothing to see here. Except the above picture, which was just too good to not put on this blog. (Sorry, Mr. Hague. Call me, Mr. Myers.)

(Hat tip HilaryWrites for the hawt photo.)