What would you order for breakfast if your dining companions look like this?
[D and J]
These guys were so fit, I could feel my rolls of fat just pouring out onto the table. I wanted to hide or be wearing a burlap sack or something. And then I got the breakfast burrito, which was embarrassing. When it came, J looked at me like, "Nice plate, pig-girl." I ate the eggs out of the middle and the fruit on the side and left the rest. The restaurant was filled with gays getting their egg on before the parade. It was hot. A and I started sweating, which is someting we do a lot. D was surreptitiously pouring champagne into our orange juice glasses under the table. His muscles were intimidating me. My abs were exhausted from trying to suck them in. And failing.
Then J's friend M arrived with her boyfriend R. R immediately started telling racist Mexican jokes, about 35 of them in rapid-fire succession:
Q: What do you get when you cross a Mexican with an octopus?
A: I don't know, but it could sure pick a lot of lettuce.
It went on and on. I laughed loudly to be polite. And also because the jokes were hilarious. But it was totally wrong. It was wrong to be telling the jokes, and wronger still to be laughing so enthusiastically. It was making him tell more jokes. A moved closer to me, as if to brace for an attack. There was not going to be any end to the inappropriate Mexican jokes. I wanted to change the subject to something less offensive, so I said to R, "Do you know any dead baby jokes?" No one at the table had heard of them, and I didn't tell any, even though I know a lot of them.
Q: What is funnier than a dead baby?
A: A dead baby in a clown costume.
Q: What is the difference between a baby and an onion?
A: No one cries when you chop up the baby.
Q: What is the difference between a dead baby and a water melon?
A: One's fun to hit with a sledge hammer, the other one's a water melon.
Q: What is the difference between a baby and a dart-board?
A: Dart-boards don't bleed.
Q: How do you make a dead baby float?
A: One glass root beer, two scoops baby.
Instead, R started telling "Yo momma so fat" jokes. These were worse, though less offensive, because fat mommas are not a legally protected class of citizens. M was putting her arm around jokey R. She was so proud. A leaned over to me and said, "They need to get married." I leaned over to A and said, "They must get married immediately. She's the only one who will ever have him. They're two peas in a pod." M looked up dead baby jokes on her iPhone and started reading them. I pretended to be offended with everyone else, even though I wasn't. I had unconsciously backed my chair away from the table because I was so uncomfortable. A had backed up too and was practically sitting in my lap. D was frantically pouring the champagne. We didn't say it out loud, but we were going to drink our way out of the situation. A said to me, "D is saving humanity right now."
We left to go to the parade. Except, you can't go to a parade sober, and it's Chicago, so you can't drink out on the street unless you have something to put your liquor in, so there was a line around the block to get into the 7-11 at Roscoe and Halsted.
[D, J, and R --
"What do you call Mexican basketball? Juan on Juan"]
While D, J, R, and M stood in line for Slurpees, A and I stood out in the parking lot with all the gay high school kids. The sidewalk was crawling with morbidly obese gay Americans in various stages of undress. It's true that it was very hot and muggy out, but people were really doing it up, and very few of them in a good way. Well, the whole point is to let your freak flag fly, so I was happy for them and enjoying it. I started to think how funny it was that when I was at breakfast I was worried that my top might be too tight. A was wearing white linen shorts and a button down shirt. We looked like squares who accidentally showed up not knowing what was going on. I don't know if A felt as comfortable as I did. He said, "This is what it sounds like when doves cry."
D gave us Slurpees and poured cosmos into them. After drinking 97 ozs of blue Slurpee laced with cosmo, we were ready for the parade. I got hit on a little bit, which made me happy:
PUERTO RICAN GIRL: What kind of Slurpee is that?
ME: Blue
A: I think she was looking for different information.
Later, the Puerto Rican girl had procured her own blue Slurpee and she offered me a taste. I declined. A said that she was flirting with me. I didn't really pick up on that, but I liked her.
She was really tough, and I thought I could be the girly girl in the relationship and we could have a lot of fun drinking blue Slurpees together and wearing our hair in aggressive-looking buns.
While we were standing there, a [girl?] started puking on the side walk. We backed away to give her some space, and then moved back when she was done. A pilot with a roller suitcase on his way home from O'Hare, was fighting his way through the crowd, just cursing his realtor for letting him buy a condo in Boystown.
Then the parade started. The CPD mounted came through first, followed by a float for the Governor, and this is Illinois, so no one really knows who our Governor is. A said, "I was hoping to see something a little gayer than Pat Quinn."
I assure you that he got his wish.
[Not the gayest thing at Pride by far]
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