Bridget Harman: Gay Recruiter!

As a child, I never planned to grow up to become a gay recruiter. Hell, I didn't even know it was an option; my high school guidance counselor never mentioned this career possibility. Despite my efforts earlier in the year, I was also unsuccessful in finding a Gay Recruitment 101 course at the local college I attend. Disappointed but unphased, I decided to embrace this profession anyhow... and soon it all seemed to make sense. This is precisely why I have recently become a proud member of the GRC - the Gay Recruiter Coalition.

After stumbling out of bed at approximately 6 am every morning, my day begins by humbly kneeling in front of a life-size photo of K.D. Lang, revelling that anyone could be that gay! If only I could aspire to that level of gayness... oftentimes, I think that this would make my mission much easier. Nevertheless, I am just your run-of-the-mill homo, nothing flashy or spectacular to behold. I bathe and then shower to rinse off the bathwater - everyone knows how particular we are about being clean, after all. After a few quick sips of tea it's essential to get myself all "butched up" for the day, sporting my wrist cuff, man wallet, black leather studded belt and, just to be clear about things - my rainbow-hued Make Your Yuletide Gay t-shirt. This is followed by the finishing touches of putting entirely too much product in my hair and tossing on whichever Birkenstocks match the cut-off camouflage shorts I have adorned.

Lastly, I find myself feeding the animals, hanging my huge rainbow flag from the porch, and grabbing an armload of literature to help my cause. Passing out literature to innocent bystanders has worked wonders for various religious groups; it's high time we implemented this strategy ourselves. Hopping into my pick-up truck covered in stickers decrying the perverse nature of heterosexuality, I unfold my map and target a new area. En route to the target I do usually stop for coffee as well (I mean, hey, even us gay folk like coffee now and then) and give my best effort at avoiding sickness when I see those straight people holding hands... hugging... kissing... do they not know how disturbing that is?!

After purging those horrid visions from my eyes, now declared safe to drive, I head out with Melissa Etheridge or Joan Jett blaring out of my windows and soon arrive at the target neighborhood. These neighborhoods usually tend to be more upscale in nature; obviously, we only want to recruit new gays with tons of disposable income. The reasoning for this lies in that these recruited gays can then hook up with slightly less financially well-off "pure" gays, thereby serving to balance everything out. Parked at whatever road I plan to start on, literature in hand, I step out of the truck and make my way up to the first house.

With the first little ring of the doorbell comes a little rush of excitement anticipating my first encounter of the day.

"Have you heard the good word? Gay is okay! We currently have many openings available, and we think you would be a great fit for at least one of them!" The men tend to be somewhat skeptical, perhaps confusing me with a Jehovah's Witness and running me off of their property. At least I'm pretty sure that's what's going on... I mean, why wouldn't someone want to receive the flattery of being invited into the world of the gays? Other times it works out that they will listen for a time, accept my literature, and resist setting the attack dogs on me (which, you know, is always pleasant).

When a woman answers the door, things invariably go a bit better. Honestly... there is a reason I don't start recruiting until 9 am. I find it unethical to physically recruit these women, but some would argue that it's only for the good of the movement; we always need more fresh bodies and votes so we can further our agenda of fuining family values and morality. And, in the interest of full disclosure, I get a kick out of knowing that I am the smile on a lonely housewife's face her husband will never understand.

After ruining a dozen or so marriages, I figure I can call it a day. Staying hydrated is always a problem, and you can only cure so many straight ills before your batteries must be recharged. Of course, the best way to recharge them is by hanging around in a busy public venue with fellow gay recruiters, shoving literature in the hands of people that don't want it and telling them they are sick. It is imperative that heterosexual people hear this and know that we are only saying it because we care. These mob recruiting tactics we employ seem to be popular; people are always staring at us, so it must work.

Finally, we often venture to a straight bar for its great money-saving qualities. Straight single men always seem to be easy targets to buy us drinks and dinners. All we have to do is kiss each other, smile, and the next thing you know... we're set for the night! Yeah, yeah, we pretend to make their fantasies come true, but we never do. We simply get them inebriated enough to slide into the backseat of a car with a gay drag queen so we can ease them into the homo lifestyle. Sure, they may complain the next day or deny it ever happened, but they keep coming back. It's just too easy.

I've learned a lot about grassroot efforts in the past few years. My hope is that with an increasing number of gay recruiters going door-to-door and working the clubs, we can turn this country gay one county at a time. Admittedly, it's somewhat of a thankless job, but to help so many confused people really makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Not all gay recruiters are as blessed, and officially the GRC does not condone resorting to "straight bashing"... but, you know. As long as the ends justify the means.

Trip to Store = Faith in Humanity

We live in an age of crumbling faiths. Everywhere I look, beliefs are battered and belittled – belief in God, belief in human goodness, belief in public transportation. Even faith in our president is wavering – just today I received an email informing me that my beloved Barack Obama (and I quote), “IS a muslim and IS a racist and this is a fulfillment of the 911 threat that was just the beginning.” My God, why hast thou forsaken me (and my preferred politician)?

Amidst these trying times, I am happy to say that this evening, I experienced a restoration of faith in one of the most fundamental institutions of modern society: the grocery store. First of all, in an era when the echoes of far-off bombs and gunfire resonate through my withered conscience, I long for the sweet, serene sounds of simpler times. Tonight, while shopping for shallots, I find myself inexplicably drawn to the vegetable and fruit section. There, enraptured in an alternate universe, I nuzzle the organic carrots as a mechanized Mother Nature sprays a soft mist of hygienic H20 and serenades her vegetative wards with midi thunder sounds. That’s right – in today’s supermarkets, tumultuous audio storms are invoked for the benefit of the zucchini and beets. Oh ye, bard of broccoli, let thine sweet symphony seduce my singed senses!

After I satiate my tastes in fresh produce, I move on to the rest of my grocery list. Alas, there is no crème fraîche. But I eschew bitterness in lieu of tolerant understanding. Let the plebeians devour their Half and Half; I will not lose heart! (There is no lemon thyme, either, and no halibut. Even the “Ethnic Foods” aisle is a bust. Grocerial segregation? Nay – not at this grocery store, surely. But I digress.)

At long last, I clothe myself in pretenses of economic security and prepare to pay for my indulgences. Because of my deep-seated inability to relinquish control, I select the self check-out line. As it turns out, my choice is richly rewarded.

There is a brilliant feature on the “do it yourself” checkout lines involving an automated voice. If you have, say, neglected to weigh and catalog your fruits in the produce section, you are given a second chance at checkout. The automated voice extends an olive branch of mercy and understanding. First you must enter the product number, and then, as if by magic, the oracle speaks. Ever the stereotypical woman, she wants to communicate with you.

“Please place your muffins on the belt,” the voice chides in monotone, like a knowing lover. “Place your muffins on the belt.”

So I place my muffins on the belt. Then the mysterious voice gets even more familiar.

“How many melons you have?” Um, two. Two melons. “Please place your melons on the belt.”

Okay. As I nervously place my melons on the belt, I can’t help but eavesdrop on the chorus of neighboring commands.

“Please place your avocado on the belt.”

“Please place your banana on the belt.”

“How many kiwis do you have? Please place your kiwis on the belt.”

Suddenly, I am seized by an uncontrollable fit of laughter. I cannot contain myself – I am possessed by the thought of countless adjacent customers placing their bananas, muffins, melons, and God knows what else on the belt. It’s ridiculous. This virtual woman has no shame.

As I roll my cart out into the parking lot, I am still chuckling. I hardly notice the kiwi man’s truck as it pulls up beside me.

“Hey, muffin girl,” he calls. I look up mid-chortle. “Can I have your number?” he drawls out his window.

I think he’s drunk, but I’m in too good a mood to care. I cheerily explain that I'm presently involved, but thanks anyway.

He responds in a tangled mass of supplication, but I only catch the words “nicest,” “sex,” and “construction.” God only knows what that means.

I wave, and he drives away. I unload my groceries – now broadcast to the world – and keep giggling as I shift into first gear.

Thank you, grocery store, for renewing my faith in humanity. And if the offer still stands… my muffins are yours for the taking.

Horror Movie Lessons

I've always assumed that if I were ever to be confronted with the dangerous and supernatural (ghosts, zombies, vampires hockey mask-wearing killers and the like) that my vast knowledge of horror films and an iota or two of common sense would save me. The fundamental lessons learned can invaluable in various deadly (albeit rather unlikely) circumstances.

Haunted house? If I were to walk into a new home and see the walls drip with blood while a voice whispered "Get OUT..." I would happily oblige the nefarious entity. Far be it from me to step on any ectoplasmic toes and bring down the furniture-flinging wrath of some pissed off spirit.

It's very simple... nice ghosts who don't wish you any ill will (think Casper) can be lived with peacefully, perhaps bring about a fond smile when they move around the coffee mugs or change the T.V. channels. Mean ghosts (i.e. anything that opens a portal to Hell in your basement and wants to drive you mad, kill your family, and cost you thousands in plumbing repairs with all that congealed blood running through the pipes) are better dealt with by taking a loss on the house and re-selling CHEAP and as quickly as possible. Just walk away. End of problem.

Zombies? A real scourge, but but with a little planning and a rifle equipped with a silencer, not completely catastrophic. All one might need would be a planned escape route and a place at least 200 miles away from any civilization in which to set up a small fortress with 15-foot walls, enough food for at least 10 years, medical supplies, a good generator, and an adequate arsenal. Unfortunately, that's where it gets a little tricky.

Sure, banks will give you loans for houses and cars. But walk in and tell them, "I need $700,000 to buy land, fly in supplies, and build my zombie-proof compound. I refuse to tell you where because in case of an invasion I don't want you and your family showing up and using all my rations. Just trust me and hand over the money." and you won't get so much as a complimentary pen as they hustle you toward the door.

I tell you, for lending institutions they sure are picky about what they'll lend money for. New boat? Sure. 1,500 grenades and a couple dozen elephant rifles? Not so much.

Vampires? There is an upside and a downside to everything in life, but never moreso than with vampires. Eternal youth, superhuman speed and strength, and a cellulite-free waif-thing physique are all definite perks. And let's not forget the Euro-aristocrat tone that the voice takes on (must be a side-effect to the neck trauma), and the power to make leather and velvet fashionable year-round!

However, with the sweet comes the sour. Food, other than blood, is pretty much out of the question. That means no more cheesy pizza or lasagna. No more cheesecake! If I'm not willing to forgo cheesecake for thinner calves now... I really doubt I'd be happy to give up my pulse for a cheese-free eternity. The most heinous thing of all would be the awful Goth-rock. According to all the newest vampire flicks, when not sleeping or hunting my languid black lipstick-wearing brethren and I would spend our time just hanging around loud clubs flashing fluorescent eyes at humans, looking bored while the DJ played Evanescence.

Sure, it might be fun for a few decades, but eventually it would wear pretty thin. I would soon lament my misbegotten years and crave a Coke and some Funions badly enough to take a last walk into the sunrise. It seems like a lot of bother when just carrying a bit of garlic spray and wearing a cross after dark would save me all that introspection and glam-rock.

Hockey mask-wearing killers? Two words... FRONT DOOR. I cannot stress that enough. How many times have foolish non-virgins run right past salvation, up a flight of stairs... and trapped themselves on the second floor. That leaves only two possibilites: 1) Be mercilessly hacked, stabbed, bludgeoned, etc. by the madman, or 2) Jump out the window and die on impact, or perhaps the good fortune of being skewered with a fence post or the pointy hat of a garden gnome.

And finally... the woods are wonderful, and camping is a great way to spend a weekend. But whenever you stop for gas and locals begin giving directions like "Dat der be an evil place. People who dare leave da highway never come back. No one knows what happens, but we's can hear der screamin' sometimes on a still night. So... first you take a left past Devil Mountain, den right after you cross Screaming Children Bridge. Go 2 or 3 miles don Mutilation Avenue... and you's be at Death Trap Pouring Blood Campground before you knows it."

Folks who can't take a hint shouldn't complain when Machete Bill and his inbred family of cannibalistic sadists steal their RV and leave parts of them hanging from the trees. Personal accountability must come into play here somewhere, people. No amount of horror film observation can make up for that much stupidity.

Having armed you with at least a cursory knowledge of the macabre things that go bump in the cinematic night, I shall bid you farewell. Take care, and remember to always wear your silver crucifix... and NEVER, EVER run through the woods in your underwear. It just looks silly.

The Invisible ZX4 Focus

I own an invisible car.

I know. I understand your doubt. It was hard for me to believe, too. But it's the only thing left that makes any sense at all. This many drivers can't all be out to get me, and they can't all be out of their minds. Invisibility is the only remaining rational explanation.

It certainly makes more sense than trying to believe in some kind of coordinated, punitive pan-galactic anti-Bridget attack, or the sheer mathematical improbabilities required to support the existence of that many insane people.

Maybe it happens to you, too. You're driving along, going the speed limit, in your own lane. You're not eating, or texting, or applying makeup. You're not contorting into the backseat to discipline misbehaving short people. Then, suddenly, off to the right, a grandmother launches her dust-streaked rice rocket right past that confusing, apparently optional, octagon-shaped red road sign, completely oblivious to you and your optics-challenged car. You shriek and slam on the brakes, just prior to soul-kissing her "I Heart My Grandkids" bumper sticker.

On other occasions, drivers ahead of me (who obviously can't see me) will just stop in the middle of the road. Just stop. Just brake, hold, pop a window and strike up a conversation with somebody in the adjacent yard, or the oncoming lane.

And then there's Testosterone Boy and his gothic date, The Attack Of The Mascara Monster, abruptly discharging his multi-story, metal-bar-enclosed, monster truck out of the Smokes Plus parking lot, directly into the eyelashes of my headlights, causing me to emit extremely non-Sunday language.

Not that road rage helps. It does no good to yell. Remember - you're invisible. Now, you're wildly waving at passing clouds and birds, and the future parole candidate just keeps on weaving down the road, checking in on his text messages, and checking out his young coed co-pilot with the sweater-threatening upper body assets. Now, you're in need of blood pressure meds at 20, and Captain "Yes, In Fact I Do Own The Whole Darn Road" just keeps veering toward his mustard-stained destination at the nearby McDonald's, totally angst-agnostic.

I think that's part of the problem: in our current culture, I have a relatively small car. And it seems that I own one of the few remaining one-story motor vehicles on Earth. Trust me, I am a nowhere near a Luddite on any level; on the contrary, I am a humongous nerd with a deep affection for technology... It's the creation of gas-guzzling American monsters perpetuating our addiction to foreign oil while simultaneously destroying the environment that I despise. And in turn, I suspect, their intentional attempts to intimidate everyone on the highway with their pimped-out trucks and SUVs.

I'm still at sea about how the physics work out to support this potential invisibility phenomenon. There may some car-park-particle versus road-rage-wave battle going on. Maybe my car is participating in some parallel existence-based, self-serving quantum pinhole experiment, as performed by the ancient Titans, or the neo-Republicans. Maybe my car is only visible within certain time-space-pavement parameters, only evident at the far points of some cosmic cul-de-sac continuum.

I bet Einstein would know. After all, Albert operated on a whole different level than the rest of us... I mean, he was out there. The guy saw time as a yo-yo, and space as a foldable frisbee.

Here's how out there Einstein was. According to family accounts, Albert was slow to speak. He just didn't communicate as a small child – he simply spent his time walking around, looking around, and occasionally teasing his hair.

Legend has it that young Albert never spoke until he was three or four years old, and that his first words were "this soup is cold." Later in life, when asked why he hadn't spoken pre-soup, Albert stared quizzically at his questioner for a second, finally replying, "Because, until then, nothing was wrong."

As they might say in recent public education standardized tests, that's just way cool.

If ever there was a thinker who drew Heaven's appreciative eye, here was that thinker. On a slow day, an Angel Third Class (Way Cool Science division) might have reviewed Albert's next-level notes and picked up the phone. "Not bad, Albert. Not bad. Hey, come 'ere. Watch this. I'm gonna make Edison's new phonograph say 'I buried Paul.' Wait for it ... wait for it ..."

But meanwhile, back here on Earth, I need to figure out how to un-stealth my car before somebody gets hurt. One day, I'm going to leave home to drive somewhere, and just "plink" out of existence, or arrive before I leave, or side-slide into some alternate universe where, for all time, I have to watch John Wayne movies.

Actually, my little Road Reality arcade game often begins before I ever even leave home. Sometimes I might have a need to go to the grocery store, when I discover some panel truck in my apartment complex parking lot blocking my spot. Hell, maybe I'm invisible. Maybe I really have gone where no respectable woman has gone before, and no, I don't mean to a John Wayne movie.

The People of Facebook

If my friends read this they are going to kill me, because I sometimes point this out to them. It's all in good fun! Everyone, including myself, is guilty of doing at least one of these... and if you're really talented you can pull off two or three at one time. What am I talking about?

The Facebook Status.

So I offer up another "list blog" as my formatting writer's block can only produce at the moment:

1. The Quote Dude: Everyone loves a killer lyric or memorable quote, especially if it has some sort of sentimental meaning to the poster, but reading long drabble of dead people and the chorus of a bad Lady Gaga song doesn’t make you look any cooler or smarter. And who am I kidding… all Lady Gaga songs are pretty horrible. Just my humble opinion.

2. The Popular One: Not so bad on Facebook, but sign onto the disappearing MySpace and this is all you see. Little girls (and guys) who just want attention. You want me to go comment on the picture of you in the skimpy cheerleading garb flashing hand signs with your tongue hanging out? Two things: You look like an idiot and you need to get a life.

3. The Model: This kind of ties in with #2. So you’re somewhat attractive and your mini digital camera loves your face. This doesn’t mean you should plaster 841,654 pictures of yourself in your album with puckered lips, hand signs, no shirt, and your new aviators you got off of eBay. You’re on Facebook. I know you. I see you way too much. If I start having nightmares about the shape of your nose I’m going to shoot myself... seriously.

4. The Jesus Lover: Don’t get me wrong, I’m sincerely happy that you have faith in something, but updating your status with exclusively biblical quotes and “I love Jesus” phrases makes you look like a mindless zombie. “Oh no, I broke a nail but it’s okay because Jesus has a plan for everything. Go Jesus!”

5. The Angry One: Damn it, your best friend hit on your boyfriend again so you decide to finally take action. Let your fingertips fly! Let everyone see how pissed you are with your CAPS, extensive curse words, and racial slurs until everyone sees just how much of a backstabber your ex friend is. Take that, you meanie you!

6. The Need You To Know Every Five Minutes One: I couldn’t think of a better title for this one. So you’re about to play some Modern Warfare 2 online. Sweet! Maybe I’ll join, but unless you’re actually in a movie where the action never ceases, I don’t want to know what you’re doing every five minutes. Walking the dog and taking a bathroom break are some events I relatively don’t care about. Now if the dog magically dons a cape and tells you ‘there’s nothing to fear’ or a blue alien leaps from the murky depths of the toilet then type away, my friend!

7. The Novelist: Just like #6 but longer. So you’re going to a huge MMA fight tomorrow. That’s awesome! But if that’s the only amazingly interesting thing happening, then why must you add everything else? “OMG going to the mall tomorrow to get a book I’ve never read signed by that Twilight chick! But now I’m sipping a latte, watching Oprah, and wishing that tomorrow would come faster. Txt me!”

....No, I will not text you.

8. The Cryptic One: "Going out with a certain guy tonight!’ Oh your mysteriousness baffles me… even though just an hour earlier you called me and told me everything you were doing tonight with Johnny boy down the street. Including how cute he is, what cologne he wears, and how expensive his shirt is. Have fun tonight with that certain someone at a certain place during a certain time. While you’re at it make sure you wear a certain pair of shoes because it’s cold.

9. The One Who Types Ghetto: Dis iz Mizz G’Money Fabulous ‘ere wid dis ‘portant message. I writ3 wid #s. If you’re normal you probably can’t decipher the intricate codes typed by these people. The only reason you might be able to read the first part of this is because I’m a little white Irish girl from the suburbs and I didn’t do it right. Everyone has at least one of these people, don’t lie. As a certified Grammar Nazi who once had her heart set on becoming an English teacher, that shit just makes my head spin.

10. The Depressed One: Everyone has bad days and everyone loves getting some sympathy from a caring friend, but most people don’t care THAT much. Especially if all of your updates are depressing. So your boyfriend canceled on you, your cable screwed up just seconds before the new episode of ‘I’m a Rich Bitch On Drugs Pt.1,’ and you have cramps. It happens. I’m sorry, but get over it.

11: The One Who Will Never Find Love: AKA the Emo Kid. This one is last because it is very possible that this is the one that irritates me the most. So your girlfriend dumped you after two weeks and now you’re truly convinced that you will never find love. You rant about how much life sucks, how you want to die, how much love you gave that special girl during those everlasting two weeks, how all girls MUST be the same, and how much you fail because you’re such a nice guy. I might have just puked (If I wanted the interesting version of this, I'd rent "100 days of Summer" again). Now because of your status I will officially become #10. “Tears bleed down my cheeks as my heart breaks...”


Agree or disagree about any of these things? Have more to add? Well then tell me what you think! Haha it's very possible that I should have added "The Sarcastic Bitch One" to describe myself ;-)

Life Lessons From Spongebob

Spongebob Squarepants has been a favorite show of children for over ten years now. While many see it as pure animated silliness devoid of any educational value, I beg to differ. There are numerous lessons to be learned from SpongeBob, Patrick, Mr. Krabs, Squidward, and the gang, some of which could only be learned from them. The list below is just a sample.

Lesson 1: Even if you're a total moron, being especially talented in one particular area will keep you employed. Just look at SpongeBob himself. He's not the brightest of characters (though, I'll say, he's probably the smartest sponge I know of), but he sure does know how to make Krabby Patties. Mr. Krabs would have a hard time replacing him. Whenever he tries, it never really works out. SpongeBob has found his niche and manages to use what little skill he has to make enough of a living to have his own place and take care of himself.

Lesson 2: David Hasselhoff has superpowers. Witness the SpongeBob Movie. While the world has always suspected that Mr. Hasselhoff was something more than human, his powers were on full display there as he zips SpongeBob and Patrick across the ocean and launches them back to Bikini Bottom with his super-pectoral muscles.

Lesson 3: Crustaceans can father whales. Witness Mr. Krabs and his daughter Pearl. Who knew that such an unlikely event was possible before SpongeBob showed us?

Lesson 4: There are underwater beaches where sea creatures of all kinds gather. Really, I think this is a revolutionary find, about which you would think The Learning Channel or some other educationally-minded outlet would have some sort of special.

Lesson 5: Squirrels can live underwater if properly attired. Sandy actually seems to really like it there, in fact, as long as she keeps her helmet on. She even has her own air-filled home.

Lesson 6: You can avoid a Sea Bear attack by drawing an Anti-Sea Bear circle and standing within its perimeter. If you are attacked, however, be sure you are wearing Anti-Sea Rhinoceros Undergarments, as the Sea Rhinoceros is attracted to such attacks.

Lesson 7: Even if you cause grievous bodily harm to your friends, in the end you are still friends, and it will heal quickly. See the many fights between SpongeBob and Patrick as examples.

Lesson 8: Don't trust plankton. It is small and looks harmless, but only because it wants to get past your defenses.

Lesson 9: There is a rather sophisticated system of currency in use by undersea creatures, and various underwater, independently-owned fast food outlets battle to get as much of it as possible.