FIERCE ANTICIPATION: Super Bowl Sunday Through Rainbow Colored Glasses [The Lee Jeans Senstation Edition] Feb04

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FIERCE ANTICIPATION: Super Bowl Sunday Through Rainbow Colored Glasses [The Lee Jeans Senstation Edition]

The democratization of being gay has forced my sisters and me to accept all kinds of less-than-fabulous types and activities as part of L’homosexualité.  This includes ‘sports gays’ and therefore the Super Bowl.

It takes all kinds.

I’m an athletic supporter!

And so am I

and so am AIY!  Heyyyy!!


Four weeks out of the year I subsist on lemonade, salt water, and laxative tea.   The other weeks I’m corseted by abstinence from preservatives, artificial flavors, soda, Oreos, and other black magic.  Casting off my dietary shackles for one day to consume a fried Twinkie is the definitely the best part of Super Bowl Sunday.

I’m white knuckling my lankiness as I try to keep up with the 19-year-old Wehomos haunting Mickey’s and Eleven.

But a 450-pound fat girl lurks inside of me dying to eat her way out.  For one magical night, I let her loose.

Genevieve loves pastries, chocolate, and the shortest possible walks on the beach.

Gays of all faiths, South Beachers, Zoneheads, Cleansers, and Meth Addicts will set aside their differences on Sunday to take part in orgies of carbs and chemicals to rival any typical middle American Super Bowl party or anything on   (Also check out the sister website if you’re into both food porn and feeling superior.)

Cupcake killer… Qu'est-ce que c'est…

I’m going to admit something here.  I hadn’t tuned into the Super Bowl in nearly 10 years but my Pete throws a “White Trash Super Bowl Party” every year and I was obligated to hostess last year.  The soiree is exactly what you’d imagine.  Everyone dresses up as their favorite Southern cousin and gathers together to partake in fried food and booze.

Essentially everyone in America will have his or her own WTSBP.  They just don’t call it that.  We’ve all heard Super Bowl Sunday is the busiest day for pizza joints, beer distributors, and the sewage systems of mid-sized cities.  According to Kroger Inc. more food is sold in preparation for Super Bowl gatherings than for Thanksgiving and Christmas combined.

The difference is most gays go back to salads and bulimia the next day but huge swaths of America will belly up for another bowl of potato chips Monday night.

I haven’t chosen how I’d end it all if my fat ass or stomach ended up on the nightly news.

Godspeed ye Obesity Epidemic segment producers!  You truly are modern day A-habs!  THAR SHE BLOWS!

Bon appétit!


The circus is coming to FOX!

With ads going for three million bucks a pop and 5 second broadcast delays I fear the shenanigans of the past are gone forever. We shan’t see tits…

Or pop stars set aflame…

And no one allows gay ads anymore.

This has got to be the gayest ad in the history of ads.  I love the to look to camera as this queen’s parting shot.  “You’ll never get your hands inside my Lee Jeans, sweetheart…but perhaps we can share them!”

Delicious camp may still be within eye and earshot.  Fresh off her miss at an Oscar nomination for Burlesque, Christina Agggruellla will favor us with the national anthem.  I’m sure it will be a tasteful rendition.

She’s never sung a note straight through in her life.  I’m not sure she can.  I’m taking donations to help combat this terrible disease via my website:

We can only hope for a repeat of her offering at an NBA All Star’s game.

‘The National Anthem is a tough song to sing and a tired old tradition,’ you say, ‘one must dress it up!’  I’ll simply remind you of perhaps the greatest performance of this piece ever offered up by a singer…crack head or otherwise.  God didn’t give Whitney Houston the fashion sense to change out of her pajamas for a highly rated television appearance but he did bless her with one of the greatest voices he’s ever placed on the earth.

It would bring a tear to my eye…if the Botox would allow me to cry.


It won’t surprise anyone that the last part of the Super Bowl watched by the gays is the game.  I could get behind a sweaty pile of men pounding into each other for three and a half hours…squarely behind…but something about this seems less than fabulous.

Not exactly the way I’d prefer to picture a pile of Mormon football players.  Obviously I’d choose something more like this:

or this…

and especially this…

I’m not the first to point out the homoeroticism of football.  Others have observed that the only other locker room tight pants and ass slapping would be as acceptable was in the St. Mark’s Baths circa 1978.   And there haven’t been as many shoulder pads on primetime TV since the three many-splendored years that Dynasty over lapped with Designing Women.

I’m indifferent to football part of Super Bowl and not unlike my distaste for Christmas, I’m barely able to abide the hullabaloo surrounding the day.

Watching the Super Bowl makes me feel gay.  However, unlike 1989, now it’s an affirmation of truth not a confrontation with denial.

The 8th Annual White Trash Super Bowl Party won’t be as trashy as the year my brothers, who were perpetually disappointing elementary school students, managed to pull decent grades prompting my parents to reward us with a Super Bowl party thrown at the cabin, nay, shelter of one of my father’s tax clients who paid him in elk meat.  Every year…elk jerky, elk steak, elk sausage…until my brother bit into a shot gun pellet and broke a tooth.

I dutifully checked with my father who told me which team to cheer to victory.  This was the way I derived all of my opinions from age 8 to 18.  I sat on the floor with my brothers and the dogs and I tried my best to follow the game.  This was before the advent of helpful graphics digitally painted on the field, so it was much harder for a gay child to know when to shout.  I’m sure my misfires of exuberance were annoying to my father and quite embarrassing in front of his Mesolithic client.  I’m lucky I got away without getting gutted.

Anyway, reach for the guacamole and that rainbow, pussies!

Go Bears!!