A friend of mine, who we’ll call Storm (because who doesn‘t enjoy a good 80’s soap opera name) just posted on Facebook that he had received a nasty note from a friend of his. Among other things, this friend insulted the fact that Storm was single and had no significant other – only pets.

Storm replied to this “friend” that it was World Animal Day and he was very happy with his pets, thank you very much, because they give unconditional love – unlike humans.

Okay, let’s break this down.

1)      Airing dirty laundry on social media is roughly akin to hair pulling, and should generally not be attempted if you are past an age that requires the liberal application of Clearasil.

2)      Reading about a fortysomething man’s Mean Girls Moment is nearly as appealing as a testicular cancer slideshow.

3)      No one should be named Storm.  

Oh, I forgot, I made that part up.

It is unclear to me why people choose to reveal these sorts of things for the world to see. How does one even get a note like this at our age? And why would you want people to know that you had friends who would do such a thing?

Personally, I can’t remember the last time someone wrote me a truly nasty missive, but I think it involved swingset hogging and I think it was written in crayon.

But, dirty laundry aspect aside…I must admit that I totally agree with Storm.

Pets are clearly superior to humans. Pets love you without reservation. Pets think you’re dreamy, and a size 2, and intellectually superior to everyone you work with. Pets don’t judge you for eating the whole tub of Cherry Garcia, or for sleeping with that guy on the second date like a whore. Pets are, it seems, far more evolved than people.

I don’t know about you, but I would like to appear that evolved. Evidently, I’m not, since I spent the first half of this blog post judging someone. So it seems clear that I’m gonna need a little help in order to appear more enlightened.

Maybe I should start wearing a bedazzled flea collar with my name spelled out in rhinestones. (This would make me extra popular at the Folsom Street Fair.)

And eating out of a bowl that says Never Trust a Smiling Cat.

Maybe I should forget that you just went to take the trash out and greet you like you’ve been gone for months.

And pee on the brand new rug to emphasize my displeasure with being left alone for the evening.

Maybe then, people will begin commenting on my incredibly enlightened state.

“I wasn’t sure how evolved you were until you started drooling on the sofa and farting in front of strangers,” they’ll say. “Then I knew. You are so loving and accepting.”

Yeah, that feels about right. Throw in a name change to something like “Buster” or “Sparky” and I’ll be good to go.

Perhaps you’d like to join me in the quest for spiritual mastery. Care for a Snausage?

Sometimes, a TV show is so well-executed, and so relevant to contemporary life, that it strikes an almost universal chord within the culture.

Take My Little Pony.

Once a 1980’s cartoon that served as medication for 7-year-old girls, the show has been rebooted in the 21^st century,
and found a new audience – 30-year-old dudes.

Called “Bronies”, these men spend their time creating fan fiction, video mashups and pony art – tributes to this show that speaks to the triumphs and tragedies of modern life. In a candy-colored fantasy world.

One twentysomething – who writes a Pony blog that could be mistaken for a fifth grade girl’s locker door – admits that it might seem a bit odd that grown, and shockingly, single men would develop a passion for purple and yellow ponies with names like Twilight Sparkle and Rainbow Dash. “I can’t believe I’m walking down the pink aisle at Toys R Us,” he commented.

I can understand his surprise, given that legally, he’s probably not allowed within 2000 feet of a schoolyard or toy store.

Yet, at the same time, isn’t it kind of great that these guys have found a creative outlet for emotions that might otherwise be expressed in ways that result in stints at Attica? Many of us have frustrations, repressed feelings and insecurities that we deal with in ways far less benign than proclaiming our love for Fluttershy, the female Pegasus.

As such, I’ve decided to embrace the Brony way of life. Of course, since I’m gay, the creative outlets will naturally take a slightly different course. I plan to begin creating Broadway fan fiction (superhero Stephen Sondheim swooping in to stop Andrew Lloyd Webber from doing another Phantom prequel), gay video mashups (Lady Gaga singing Nearer My God to Thee to the holy trinity, Judy/Barbra/Liza) and Prada art.

Wow, I’m already feeling more centered and whole. Thanks, my little bronies.

How do you tell someone that drinking pee might not be the best diet plan?

A friend of mine takes what he refers to as “lady pee” to lose weight. He’s not actually drinking jars of urine stolen from a gynecologist’s office, but rather a secret and highly proprietary combination of female hormones that he just calls “lady pee”.

You’ll note that I said “he”. Yes, it’s a guy taking these hormones.

Now, a man taking female hormones to drop a few pounds is, as you might suspect, not a weight loss plan endorsed by all physicians. Or even some. I’m not sure where he gets this stuff, but I think it involves a Philippino website that sells fresh kidneys and blood pressure pills that cause you to wake up three days later in a Tijuana whorehouse.

But I have to say, it works. He’ll drop 17 pounds in 10 days. I’m not kidding.

The problem, of course, is that he has to stay on it or the weight comes right back. And staying on a diet of female hormones presents its own unique set of problems.

He recently began developing an impressive set of bazongas, for example. And frankly, this wasn’t helped by his tendency to favor snug-fitting polo shirts. I was unsure whether to refer him to the Spanx catalogue, or simply yell “Nice rack!” when he bounced by.

And then there’s the issue of his newly developed need to talk everything out. He used to be closed off and completely out of touch with his feelings. You know, a typical man. But suddenly, we’re on the phone for hours as he dissects what someone at work meant when they yelled, “Nice rack!”

And I could be wrong, but I think I saw a string hanging out the zipper of his jeans the other day, and a blue box labeled “Stayfree” on the floor of his car.

On the plus side, he’s way better groomed than he used to be. I mean, his hair has never looked better, and he smells like a meadow.

He also no longer asks me to “pull his finger”. And he’s way less argumentative than he used to be.

Basically, thanks to some estrogen and progesterone, he’s just a better version of himself now.

I wonder where I can get my hands on some lady pee.

The Vatican just announced that the Pope will grant you time off in Purgatory if you follow him on Twitter.

No, I’m not kidding.

Apparently, he’s neck and neck with Kim Kardashian and determined to one-up her. So, if you follow him during the week of July 23-28 (World Youth DAY – don’t get me started on that oxymoron), reading his tweets will earn you “indulgences” – an afterlife prize usually granted only for arduous and time-consuming good works, like attending spiritual retreats, feeding the poor and helping the homeless.

But thanks to a suggestion by some intern in the Vatican’s social media department, lazy people like me can now lie on the couch, read the Pope’s tweets, and cut short our stay in the highly unpleasant netherworld. It’s like an insanely good Groupon offer for the hereafter.

But only for a limited time.

For those unfamiliar with how the Catholic religion works, Purgatory is essentially a connecting airport on the flight to Heaven, where your earthly transgressions are burned away with super unpleasant fire, and you are thus “cleansed” and good to go once you hit the Pearly Gates. “Indulgences” (a sort of time off for good behavior) shorten your sentence in Purgatory, which thus means a lot less screaming and gnashing of teeth. I’m not sure why you couldn’t be cleansed of your transgressions with a bubble bath, but hey, I don’t make the rules.

Apparently, however, the Pope does. I mean, he clearly has an “in” with God. After all, this whole “follow my tweets and get a reduced sentence” business is a major revision of the policies for indulgences and Purgatory, so he must have a very cozy relationship with the Almighty, who, one presumes, would have to sign off on such a dramatic rewrite of the rules. Because who’s gonna wanna bother with performing good works if you can read a few tweets on your smartphone and save yourself a whole mess of flesh burning?

I am not Catholic, myself. But I have to admit, I was already a bit intrigued with this religion. After all, these guys know how to throw a costume party. And seeing how buddy-buddy the Pope is with the Lord makes me think that I really should consider converting, since the Catholics obviously have the inside track.

Prior to this, Catholicism had always seemed like a lot of work: all that kneeling, confession every week, the Hail Mary’s. But now, it’s as simple as powering up your phone.

Speaking of which, I think the Pope’s voice should replace Siri on the iPhone. Because clearly, the Pope is somebody who really understands the concept of saving time.

A good friend of mine just put her cat on Prozac.

And frankly, it’s about time.

Vanity has been on an emotional rollercoaster ever since she discovered that Prince, her live-in boyfriend of five years, has been stepping out with a Persian three doors down. Who knows when we would have even found out, had it not been for the telltale kitty litter stuck to his hind paws one afternoon when he returned from his “workout” (chasing pigeons in the backyard).

There are no clay surfaces in the back yard.

I keep trying to tell Vanity that it’s not like Prince can DO anything with this slut. I mean, he lost his scrotum in a savage attack by a crazed, knife-wielding veterinarian (who, tragically, was acquitted on a technicality). So there’s not a lot of “there” there, if you know what I mean.

But Vanity maintains that this kind of cheating – emotional cheating – is far worse than physical. Now, at night, instead of enjoying a few Humans Playing With String videos on MeowTube and maybe a little scratching post yoga, Prince sits at the window and stares at the neighbor’s house. Where that whore lives.

As far as I’m concerned, he’s always been a problem. He was arrested in 2011 for rodent bashing, after a drunken assault on an unsuspecting rat at the Third Street dumpster. Why would you wanna be with someone like that, I ask her? If he’d do that to some poor mouse, what makes you think you’re not next?

“But I love him,” she yowls.

I’m hoping that the Prozac levels her out and makes her see the folly of staying with someone who so blithely cats around. Sure, she’ll probably gain a few pounds from the anti-depressant, but she’ll finally stop playing that Adele album over and over and sobbing into her Friskies.

That gets old real fast.