A ball has been dropped.
It has come to my attention that I need to step away from the manscaping kit, throw away the unitard and get back to what's really important:
Keeping my hag.
Too often in society the role and purpose of The Hag is overlooked. Often the subject of intense ridicule, The Hag, and more importantly The Fags, seem to have forgotten her place.
Today's ruling Hag, we'll call her A, spends a lot of her time holed up in a fairly fugly tower near Broadway, mixing chemicals and sweating over petri dishes. I can only assume she is conjuring up a Super-Hag, with which she intends to gently remind the homosexuals of Sydney that Hag culture is alive and thriving, and if these Fags don't fall into line there will be hell to pay. This giant Hag (according to the bible, and to NW) will storm up and down Oxford St, ripping down every rainbow flag she sees. She will be in parks, late at night, hidden behind a bush waiting for beat-using gay men to meander past, where a swift kick will render them impotent and unable to perform their god-given right to anonymous toilet sex.
She will lead an army of Hags, all who know their Fag's weaknesses. Covertly these women will have their revenge on their pillow-biting friends, after being mistreated and under-appreciated for too long. Watch out boys: Hair removal cream will be replacing your mousse. A short circuited GHD will explode in your hand, leaving you unable to give a handy to a random in the Arq toilet queue. You'll find yourself snorting washing powder, and your lube will have a distinctly acidic feel.
It is time for us Fags to turn around, every now and then, and give them the respect they deserve.
That is, if you want to avoid the alternative.
The lesbians will recruit the Hags, and Fags will be ruined.
So take charge now, my queerlings, lest you receive a hostage note for your favourite Kylie Album, made up of torn up Lesbians On The Loose articles.
No comments:
Post a Comment