National Equality March.

Last Sunday, Erin, Helen, and I went to the National Equality March in honor of our friends Sue and Amanda who were renewing their vows the same day in Vermont.

Helen dragged me up at the ass-crack of dawn/10:30am. We had been at Grand Central this night before until the lights turned on, and I was having trouble looking at myself in the mirror.

Anyway, I managed to rally, and here are the highlights:

Best Poster: “I want to marry. All I need is a law and a man.”

Overheard Conversation:
“What did you do last night?”
“I went to the strip club.”
“Did you strip?”
“No, I didn’t feel like it.”

Most Ridiculously Dressed: Not the drag queens, not the fairies, not the leather-clad Bears - but Helen in her 4 inch-heeled boots and two giants bags. We did not get far.

Awkward Moment: when Erin asked a blind man to take a picture of us.

Holy-Shit-There-Is-A-God Moment: When a fucking rainbow appeared in the sky over us as we were waiting for the march to begin. It hadn’t rained. I need to go to church.

I Cried When: we walked past a soldier in uniform standing with his partner beside him. I bet if I asked, he could tell me something about having balls.

Runner-Up Posters:
“Jesus hung out with 12 guys and a prostitute. He is more like me than you.”
“I paid cash for your clunker, I refinanced your home, I bailed out your bank. I want equal rights!”
“Needed: Woman to marry gay foreign husband so he can stay.”
“Love is love, stupid!”

WTF Moment: walking past the pro-life people. I wasn’t aware that gay people were having a lot of unwanted pregnancies.

Pirates.

Somali pirates strike again - two skiffs fired on a French navy vessel after apparently mistaking it for a commercial boat.

One skiff fled, and the French ship pursued the second one in an hour-long chase.

Ok fine. So maybe the Somali pirates need some lessons in pirating, or like glasses.

But that's not the story. The story here is the appalling ineptitude of the French military.

Five pirates on a fucking skiff eluded the French navy vessel for an entire hour, while another skiff eluded them entirely.

In case you are wondering if a skiff isn't what you think it is, here is a picture:

(captured pirates on their skiff)

The fucking thing barely looks like it can float, much less elude this:
(La Somme, the French vessell that pursed above skiff for an hour)

Incredible.

Three Month Rule.

My buddy—let’s call him “Smorgasberg”—just got dumped because of his now ex-girlfriend’s Three Month Rule.

Basically, it takes three months of dating to find out if you are compatible/want the same things for the future. And if, after that time you find that you aren’t/don’t, then – break up.

Also called the I’m-Not-Wasting-My-Hotness-While-It-Lasts-On-This-Shit Rule. Not to be confused with No-Sex-For-The-First-Three-Months-Of-Dating-So-I-Know-You-Respect-Me Rule favored by prude women and pre-op transsexuals.

In Smorgasberg’s case, he wanted to go to China and dig in the dirt for bones, she did not. Three months passed—he still wants to go and she still does not.

So she dumped him. On his birthday. That is a woman who knows what she wants.
This is the fourth best reason to break up with someone—after domestic abuse, cheating, and boyfriend not wanting to watch awesome Adam Sandler movies (not in that order).

It is delightfully Machiavellian, and I think chicks everywhere need to adopt this rule. Because time is limited and inertia will gangster you.

You don’t want to be fighting the same fights, tabling the same questions, rationalizing the same dissatisfactions indefinitely. And waiting, hoping for someone to change their mind, change their life, change their personality is just a waste of time.

I plan to follow this rule rigorously, and if me and the dyslexic egomaniac ever make it to three months, I’ll let you know.