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My Boyfriend the Saint

On Easter, the Manly Fireplug was sainted by The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. He is now Saint Weenie Todd, the Semen Barber of 19th Street. They gave him a certificate, made him kneel on a stage in front of a few hundred people in Dolores Park, and then dumped a jar of glitter on him. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never dated, or even blown, a saint before, but there’s a first for everything. Perhaps with enough exertion, a certain amount of irreverent holiness will rub off on me, along with the glitter.

A long-lost cousin of mine, whom I had never met, was in town visiting me that weekend. She lives in a small town in Oregon, so naturally we dragged her to the spectacle. Later, she commented on the group of burly men who watched the show nearby, swilling MGD’s and scratching their tummies.

“Who were all those men?” she asked.

“Those would be bears,” I replied.


I gave her a quick run-down on our subspecies.

“Well,” she said, “they looked just like the loggers back home.”

“Oh my God,” I said. “They would wet their pants to hear that.”

Writing this, I’m aware of how often I mention the Fireplug here. I’ve thought about fighting the trend, I mean, love can be so annoying to read about. But I surrender. I am totally, joyfully, terrifyingly in love. I am beyond all hope, and it feels kinda cool.

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