This parody: Gay Pride Day Song

With apologies to Adam Sandler, please sing the following lyrics to the tune of "The Channukah Song" loudly, while at your office, preferably in a cubicle so everyone can enjoy it. Thank you.

(Chorus)
Put on your ondoms-kay
Here comes Gay Pride Day
Break out the good lube, ok?
Cuz it's time to celebrate Gay Pride Day
Down some X and dance the night away
It's national Gay Pride Day
Put on your leather and gold lame
To celebrate Gay Pride Day
Listen to your Indigo Girls C-Dai
For Big Gay Pride Day
Don't forget to practice sodomay
On this National Gay Pride Day

(Bridge)
Gay pride day is the festival of feys
Instead of just one type o'sex, we're all over the damn place
So when you feel you're the only kid in town
Who's not a heteroo
Here's some folks who're also queer
Just like me and you:

(Verse)
Doogie Howser smokes the pole
Zack Quinto also loves getting stuffed in his hole

Greta Garbo, Joan Baez, they loved to lick carpet
So does Cheney's daughter Mary, he can't stand it

Green Day's Billie-Jo, does the sweaty hulu
And you know else does? Oh my, Mr Sulu!

Saddam Hussein. Not a gay.
Despite the opinions of Matt and Trey.

But Gaddafi had his beefcake porn, and David Geffen too
I however imply no connection between the two

Tilda Swinton. Only in our fondest wishes.
But sometimes, in the right mood, Ellen's ex Anne Heche is.

Alexander the Great buggered lads, so did Cole Porter           .
And Maurice Sendak always knew where those wild things were

Angie Jolie and Drew Barrymore, bat for each side
Put them together, what a fine looking dyke

Being a queer isn't magic, but I'm just sayin,
Dumbledore AND Gandalf were played by Sir Ian Mckellen

Kathy Griffin wishes she was as gay as Margaret Cho.
But the guy who wrote Fight Club was a HUGE friggin 'mo.

David Bowie and Micheal Stipe love to hatch balls.
And do you know whose? Wham's George Michael's!

The Oakland A's Glenn Burke batted for our team they say
And you know I've always wondered about Andrew Dice Clay.

Ricky Martin broke the closet door when he exeunted
You know who else? (sit on my)Facebook cofounder Chris Hughes did.

Lady Gaga often visits Sappho's island
And Rock Hudson took his packages through the back end

John Cameron Mitchell: Here I will simply reference "Hedvig"
And best believe B-52's Fred Schneider tossed him some salad

James Carroll, William Burroughs, & Truman Capote.
I hope they're all in heaven, enjoying a lemon party

So many people getting humped so many ways
So fuck it, go ahead make 'em all queer pride days!

This phisher

I recently received a phishing spam, as one does, and out of boredom and devilment I responded.  The results are below with the spam first. Please note: I used an anonymous email address unconnected to anything else on gmail to respond. I highly recommend against responding to sack-cheeses like this with your actual email address.  You could get some on you. Enjoy.

Royal Dutch Shell Group
Shell headquarters
Carel van Bylandtlaan 16, 2596 HR The Hague, The Netherlands

Postal address:
PO box 162, 2501 AN  The Hague, The Netherlands

WINNING NOTIFICATION,

We happily announce to you the Lotto Winning of the Royal Dutch Shell
Lottery, online promo held in March 2012. Your email address match
with Ticket Numbers: 7673899373ST with Serial Number: 779937/SN which
subsequently won you in the Lottery promo.

You have therefore been approved to claim a total sum of $5,000,000.00
(Five Million USD) in cash.

All participants for the online version were selected randomly from
Royal Dutch Shell Database worldwide, Royal Dutch Shell must have had
your contact from the purchase you have made or the entry of your data
on the masterlist relating to Shell or it's Petroleum/Gas Products.

PLEASE NOTE!

To file for your claims, please contact the Fiduciary Agent:
Zonal Co-ordinator
E-mail: 1952204889@qq.com

Provide her with the below details for payment processing:
FULL NAMES:....................
ADDRESS:.........COUNTRY:......
GENDER:...........AGE:.........
OCCUPATION:....................
TELEPHONE/CELL NUMBER:.........
AMOUNT WON:....................

Your Sincerely,
MR. LESTER JOHN STOVER
Online Co-ordinator ROYAL DUTCH SHELL LOTTERY International Sweepstakes

My response follows:

I am happily going with the Winning of the Royal Dutch Shell Lottery, with luck balls in!  On online held winnings I will be have of the promotion and I strongly wish that my email address matches with claim numbers that are generated from the promotion of the masterlist.  The elephant flies with a cigar, I'm sure, and so I'm worried that the matching with the claiming numbers might be not with the correct fiduciary appeasement of same.  Can you provide me with the correct widget, so that we can entry together with this process before the petroleum catches inflation? Thank you!

Sincerely, 

Pringle Frito, Esq.

Age 94

Occupation: State Panty inspector, #69

Telephone: 248-434-5508

```````````````````````````````````````````

Bonus Note:  That number? It's a Rick Roll. That is all. -JB

This idea

If I were a superhero, I would be a wonderous badass with a scrip pad. My nom de hero would be Psych Man and I would have the power to manipulate every neurotransmitter and receptor within 100 feet.  My tag line would be "I just psyched you out."  I would use it whenever I crushed evildoers by upping their guilt transmitters.  They would crumble into tears and beg their victims for forgiveness and the judges to convict them.  And the victims would have all their narsty PTSD chemicals erased and I could make people super smart and reverse brain damage. I probably wouldn't even need the scrip pad.  Somebody get on this.

Born this way

Recently I found myself in a conversation with my boyfriend regarding some of My Issues. Apparently I have a tendency towards more than just John Cusack-esque self deprecatory witticisms.  No, I have a tendency towards full on bad-poetry-by-black-candles type self abasement.  Who knew.  So the boyfriend asserts that this is not in fact hard to comprehend, because each instance of said abasement can be traced back to- oh come on sing it with me you know the words- my mother.

Yes we understand, Mr Freud, siddown. In fact, as it turns out, I can indeed recall such sterling gems as "oh my gawd don't brush your hair back your forehead is showing it looks ridiculous" and "holycrap do you have big saddlebags" and of course who could forget the iconic "what are you wearing?"  I've recently been made aware that this is not in fact the way all parents speak to their pre-adolescent offspring. This is fascinating information.  Further, it has been revealed that when you do talk to your pre-adolescent of choice like that, it can, and stay with me here I know this is a complex equation, affect them.  It seems that when you're constantly ragged about your appearance as a youngster you tend to integrate that kind of thinking as an adult. Again, who knew. Certainly not myself, a trained psychiatric specialist. No really, it never occurred to me to connect these two facts.  It just goes to show you. What it shows you or where it goes I am not entirely certain and I hate that saying but there you have it.  I'm guessing it goes to therapy.

In any case. Herein I have compiled a completely non-exhaustive list of things I was gifted with at birth and would love to return rather than regift to anyone else.  I figure, I'd better start liking some of this stuff in order to  better recognize the hot melted butter that I apparently am according to the two experts I live with and regularly get to sleep nekkid next to:

A huge shnozz, like whoa.  Also it's been broken twice so it meanders. Check the silhouette before it wrecks you.
A hairline almost as high as Garfunkel's. When I'm sweaty you can check your makeup.
Lumpy thighs. Which taper so fast on the way to Ankletown that when I look down at my legs when I'm sitting at my desk it looks like an M typed in Comic Sans.
An appendix scar that has puckered to the point of being able to hide things in there. I could fool drug dogs.
I have muscular forearms, but once again, the taper in my upper arms is so extreme I bork BP cuffs.
I have feet that are about as wide as they are long and they don't make shoes shaped like squares.
I have no torso or neck. These are facts.
Ever since my sweaterpuppy redux surgery my shirtfruit are strangely pyramid shaped. I think my black cat Isis feels at home sleeping on my chest as it recalls her to her native land where she was properly worshiped.

I think that's all that comes to mind plus I should probably like, work to help underserved people achieve mental wellness or something.

This admission

I don't think I've told this to anybody.  You see, there are two kinds of people in this world: Those who clean their ears daily with q-tips, and those who do not.  I am the former of the two. Every day, without fail, a cotton swab and I go at it and it's a pleasurable experience for all involved. Or so I assume. But how does one begin such a lifetime of auricle servitude? I know just the moment when it happened. Perhaps you've seen the quintessential 80's teen love ski movie Better Off Dead with the ever deadpan John Cusack.  Perhaps you haven't, and if that's the case, go rectify that shit right now.  He battles wills and wits with Blond Popular Hunk  Who We Swear Is 17 But Looks About 30 Because That's How We Rolled In Those Days on the slopes of some nameless midwestern town costarring an actress with the most hysterically horrendous French accent you've ever freaking heard.  In this movie, there's a fabulous bathroom scene wherein John starts stuffing q-tips in every orifice he has above the waist. I've used them ever since. My name is Jake, and I'm a swabber.

This job

For the love of Xanax, people, please, I beg you on my knees, take. Your damn. Medications. As ordered. Look, I know, you feel like you've gotten comfortable with that med I prescribed, you think, "hey, this is amazeballs! I shall take more!"  Because more is always better, as any crackhead will tell you.  And then you run out early. And then there are no refills left. And then you call me because suddenly you're not feeling so hot because you either a) overdosed yourself or b) ran out early and are going through withdrawals. And I gotta swoop in and pick up the pieces. Usually at 4:45 on a Friday, because I'm the only clinician fool-headed enough to actually work till 5 on Fridays.  

Allow me to make this as vodka-for-my-splitting-stress-headache-clear as I can: That shit written on the bottle? Those are called "orders" for a fucking reason and I didn't put them there just so that my stock in label-printer-ink would go up.  No, betchiz, I wrote those just for you and only you and they are not suggestions.  They are not meant for your buddy who is having "a rough day and just needs a little something to help him calm down."  No.  I decided on that dose based on your weight, physical health and health history, allergy history, possibly also on family history as well as on the severity of the symptoms I'm treating your I-didn't-go-to-3-years-of-psychopharmacology-classes-but-I-still-know-better-than-my-NP ass for.  I don't fucking know your buddy. I didn't spend an hour pounding his history into my keyboard for later reference. No. I did that for YOU.  Thus, that shit on that bottle, if I may be so bold as to reiterate, IS FOR YOU.  

If I tell you to take one of those every day and they work well and you end up having a fight with your baby daddy at the Burger Barn and then decide to power down 5 of those bad boys with your Mountain Dew to "take the edge off" and also as it happens your ability to be conscious, well that's just Darwin proving himself right one more damn time. You may think that calling me after the fact and saying "Now I didn't want to lie about it so here's what I did what do I do now?" is going to make us all good. No, idjit.  Wanna know how to make me happy? It's easy. Take your damn meds as I damned well prescribe them, and then tell me all about how they did or did not work and then fucking well wait for further fucking advice. That simple.

I'm not trying to go all Jack "I won't take criticism from a person who rises and sleeps under the very umbrella of protection I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it" Nicholson on you, really I'm not, I work for you, you pay me to give you options and you pay me to be sure the options you get are safe ones tailored to your needs.  You're welcome. Now go take your meds.

This conversation

In a lunchroom full of punchy, slightly bitter, highly snarky, community health workers:

Coworker #1: Hey Coworker #2, do you mind if I ask you how much you spent on your wedding? Because this couple spent 17 million bucks on theirs. (Brandishes cover of People magazine.)

Coworker #2: Oh, sure, I don't mind. I only spent 10, because I needed the other 7 milly for a downposit on that little Caribbean island we had our eye on.

Me: Well, sure, that's just good fiscal planning.

CW #3: Pardon me please, but just how does one make a "downposit?"  When I buy my island I'll need to know.

CW#2: Well, you need a good Realtor for one thing. I use Bob, you know, in Miami beach. Knows his stuff.

Me: Oh yeah, Bob, he's good. Sold me a little Isthmus last year.

(Much slightly hysterical laughter ensues.)