That New Car Smell

My fellow Americans,

I bring you great tidings of tremendous jubilation! Fear no longer, for everything they have written is true, and I have found salvation!

Yes, my friends, I am becoming a responsible citizen.

How you may ask? Well, these things go in stages.
First things first, I AM GETTING MARRIED.

Let the angels rejoice! The Devil has been tamed! Hallelujah, hallelujah!

Now, before we say amen, and break off into the who-what-when part of this, let me clarify a few things.

Most of you are aware of my sublime, decadent Libertine indulgences that have made me somewhat of an outlaw in the Los Angeles social scene. I’ve never denied it.

Monogamy was for suckers. I was living the lawless life of an ambitious bohemian, always on the hunt for something fresh, something exciting, that “New Car Smell”.

I thought of myself as a noble savage.

I wasn’t committing moral turpitude nor had I pledged myself to some vast Lesbian Jihad (as some have charged) – I was simply obeying my fundamental instincts, “When you are hungry, you eat”.

But not everyone can handle the weight of this kind of freedom, so it was understandable when folks like George Clooney, Leonardo DiCaprio, Justin Timberlake, Jared Leto, Chris Brown, and Mel Gibson all engraved my name in their Enemies List for the repeated (and salacious) incidents where upon their girlfriends found their way to my den of sin and were left comatose in the twisted sheets of my dark-wood, crimson draped, Hindu bridal bed.

Of course, it wasn’t always actors and singers that I inadvertently touched; indeed, I am the scourge of the corporately powered publicity agent charged with keeping America’s cinematic sweethearts squeaky clean.

Many have cursed my name with pox and plague after discovering that their clients were photographed shoving their slippery tongues down my throat.

But why should I say no when an A-list actress decides she wants to walk on the dyke-side and engage in the dark Sapphic arts? Why should I care if she was dating someone, or how this might affect her career?

Well, I didn’t then, and I don’t now.

Kissing a girl is a career killer? For who?  It worked out all right for Katy Perry. Ah, good point, she didn’t really kiss a girl – she just used the imagery to give chubs to all her pre-teen emo-hipster fans in their tight white jeans and fluorescent multi-belts so she could sell a bajillion records.

Remember, this is America (goddamn it!) and our hypocrisies are rich, bold, and full-bodied!

We encourage our women to be hetero-flexible as long as they are college-age-unknowns and appear on tacky, tug-job DVD’s you can buy at 3AM for $9.99 while watching ADULT SWIM on Sunday nights.

Or so I’m told.

Well, that life is over and I am done with that savagery. Be brave O’Hollywood! Your women are safe! The menace is no more!

I am madly in love and there is no going back.

Indeed, a couple of weeks ago I decided to make it official. I proposed on the lawn of the ritzy beach house I rented just as the sun was setting over the mighty Pacific Ocean.

Her hands trembled, tears burst from her eyes, and she blubbered a messy, “YES!” We kissed and spent the night coiled like serpents, making love, and imagining all the silly details of spending our old age together.

The next morning she called her mother to share the good news.

The shit-storm was immediate and devastating.

I could hear her mother screaming from the phone, “Your father didn’t fight on the beaches of Panama so you could marry a lesbian! Besides, your eternal soul is at stake, and what would all of our friends say? No. This is madness! I forbid it!”

To her, this was a slap to the face of the baby Jesus and a full frontal assault on the very foundation of American moral fiber.

For the next 20 minutes she blathered on and on about how it’s illegal for “queers” to marry in California, and how she wasn’t homophobic because the whole family votes Democrat, and blah, blah, blah.

Her mother hung up and that was that.
All seemed lost.

Now, remember folks, this is the love of my life, THE ONE, I would die for her.  If her mother, the laws and Gods of this nation, will not recognize our love as we are, then something will have to change.

Drastic times call for drastic measures.

I am an American. I love this country. And I realize this decision might cost me my career, the respect of my peers, the love of my own family – but I see no other way.

In order to legally (and morally) marry the woman I love – I have no other choice but to …become A MAN.

Yes, sexual-reassignment surgery.
No, I am not kidding.
I am buying a penis. A real one.

Oh, how I will miss my magnificent breasts and elegant vagina!

But say good-bye, I must. The doctor assures me that my metamorphosis will be a masterpiece that will shame Michelangelo! I will be fitted with two perfectly plump and proportioned testicles and (as the centerpiece) a beautiful, robust and veiny, 8-inch peen.

As an added incentive, they are going to install a free iSex KitTM (with optional interchanging LED lights) that uses sensors implanted in the shaft to transmit data to my iPod during coitus so that the speed and rhythm of the music will match the speed and rhythm of the fornication.

As convincing as my surgeon might be, I remain disturbed and concerned. But, ah L’amour, my heart screams that all this is worth it!

My transformation will authenticate my citizenship as a REAL, honest-to-goodness American!

No one – not the church – not the government – NO ONE – can deny me the right to marry as long as I have a peen in my panties.  

Does it matter that my “Patriotic Penis” was made in a sweatshop by slave labor? Not in the slightest.

The only thing that matters is symbolism.

No dick? Get a dick. Bingo. You are on the B-squad. Your woman may hate it, she may hate YOU, but what matters most is, America will LOVE it.  

The majority has voted to destroy the lives of our fellow citizens based on what they believe is a choice. (Just like religion) And though there is no prerequisite in the Declaration of Independence that requires Americans to be heterosexual, wealthy, white, Christian, or male, the vote to deny Gay Rights is the asterisked footnote our forefathers meant to add but obviously forgot.

Besides, if the MAJORITY can vote to take away the rights of other tax paying citizens – what is to stop them with the Gays? What’s next? Atheists? The Disabled? The Obese? The Different? YOU?

Depends … Are you one of Them?
No? Then who are you?

Well, I don’t want to find out. I’m tired of fighting the soggy masses and I’m ready to jump on the winning side.

The procedure is scheduled. The Amex has been charged. Tiny Indonesian hands are already hard at work on my squeaky new silicone-slick testes and powerful prosthetic prick.

I have consulted with my lawyers (and their rabbis) – it is official.

With a little money (and a lot of medicine) a Gay woman can surgically become a Man and LEGALLY marry her Lesbian fiancé.

Ah. That New Cock Smell.
Unmistakably American.

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