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The Secret Society
Written on 2001-11-07, at 4:49 p.m.
dizboy's disturbing daily diet...

1 Hot Caramel Apple Cider

1 Slice Lemon Pound Cake

At this point...the cat's had more today than me.

John Live*


*Not at all Live

It has always been my belief that there is some sort of secret society of homosexuals.

You know the ones I'm talking about, those beautiful men, with beautiful bodies, and pecs you'd need a Sherpa to find your way around.

But...you never, ever see them in real life.

Only at nightclubs.

They dance around, gyrating to the music in their Prada Sport loafers, and a leopard print cowboy hat, a long discarded shirt hanging flaccid from the pocket of leather pants which accentuate the curve of their thighs just so.

The thing is, where are they during the day?

Nowhere to be found.

Like some sort of gay vampire, they only seem to come out after dark, foregoing blood to feed off loud house music and overpriced Cosmopolitans.

And I challenge anyone to spot one during the day.

Because you can't.

My hypothesis is that they all live in some sort of uber-aesthetic commune, sleeping just long enough, eating a sensible brunch, and working out until the time comes to prepare themselves for another night of lazy perfection.

When the time comes for them to go, they all load up onto buses, and are whisked away to the trendy nightspot of the moment.

After arriving, they are dropped off a few blocks away, with their entrances staggered to groups of two, or three, so as not to arouse any suspicion.

Inside, they mix and mingle, following a strict agenda for fraternizing with the common folk.

A smile in the washroom.

A wink on the dance floor.

A nod, along with a hearty "Hey", at the bar.

These idiosyncrasies are all part of their finely tuned manifesto, to keep normal people pacified, while planting just the notion that given the strength of the drink, and phase of moon, they might actually have a shot at one of these children of Adonis.

We, of course, do not...but the thought that we may is part of their cover, to keep everyone thinking that in some way or another, that they're not totally alienated by this new age tribe of Abercrombie clad demagogues. This keeps their collective from becoming too closely scrutinized, and exposed for the Homo-Aryan breeding ground it truly is.

I make no call as to stop them, or to infiltrate their society, I simply enlighten, and warn.

Warn to not expend your energy pursuing one.

Warn not to attempt to locate one during daylight hours.

Warn to keep your distance from their massaging love chains on the dance floor.

Warn not to spend $42 on drinks for one, or more of them, entertaining the infinitesimal idea of a drunken Greek gang bang.

And so, I form this theory not out of spite, or jealousy, just as an innocent bystander observing their complex group and rituals.

Oh, wait...spite and jealousy...Yes, it is out of spite and jealousy...

I always get that backwards.

Be well...


Your Host and Emcee...dizboy.

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