A View from the Bridge

A VIEW FROM THE BRIDGE: Notes of an Antiquated Queen

By Mary Kohn

Hello my Dhalings! I hope you had a wonderful time celebrating your gayness ‘cause there is no better time than…. Okay, no, I’m not gonna say it because there could be a better time to celebrate our gayness since in the last month or so, I had met some idiotic close-minded jerks that deserved a good ass slapping, if you know what I mean. Still, I hope you enjoyed gay pride month as much as I did, despite the many people who tried to ruin it for me. Little they knew that this antiquated queen has more experience in life that their lives combined together.

They figured since I’m on the verge of obtaining my AARP card that they could simply walk all over me. WRONG! The only people who walked all over me are the person who gives me a body massage every month and the guy around the corner from my house who is into kinky stuff. Other than that, no one, and I mean no one walks all over me.

But I digress.

Today I want to bitch and complain from now ‘till eternity about all the things I couldn’t do during pride month. Why do I want to complain you ask? Because I can! And why do I want to do it here? Because where else am I going to be able to complain and have everyone know about it but here? (See, I’m not toda una pendeja!)

Let’s start with some “light complaining,” like why can’t I be a little taller so I don’t have to use a step stool to reach the higher cabinets in my kitchen? For a long time it wasn’t a problem because I had this sexy, tall papi staying with me and he would simply reach for the items in the higher cabinets while I knelt in front of him and… But now that el muy pendejo-baboso-ingrato hombre left me for someone younger, I can’t reach for the items in the higher cabinets without a step stool. It’s humiliating.

Another light complain I have is my new neighbors, a family of six who just moved in two doors down from my sexpod. I usually don’t care who moves in and out the neighborhood but this time I object to this new family because two of the family members are these young men who spend a lot of time without the shirts on. And before you go into your dark place thinking that I’m being a pedophile, I am not. They are 19 and 20 year olds. I asked them. And why I asked them? Because seeing them without a shirt and hosing themselves down in the front yard almost every day almost gave me a heart attack. I mean, the bodies! Yes, they are young, and immature and stupid… but they are also very strong and full of… energy. If “Milk does a body good” and those boys are full of it. And don’t you dare try to slut shame me, bitches, ‘cause if they show up at your doorstep half naked and wet, I’m sure you would jump at the opportunity to “dry them off.”

Now some “heavy complaining.” If I ever run into the assholes that decided to use my car as a billboard, I am going to kill them. You read right. I. Will. Kill. Them! First of all, no human being should be mistreated, insulted, discriminated, taunted, bullied, pushed around, or harm just for being who they are. Just because I don’t have the latest car model doesn’t mean anyone has the right to make fun of my 1985 Ford Tempo. I know the car is old and needs to be painted, but that doesn’t give anyone the right to make fun of me because of it. I have this car because “Adelante Magazine” doesn’t pay me enough to buy me the latest model; now you know.

Second, just because my 1985 Ford Tempo needs a new paint job, it doesn’t mean that anyone has the right to use it as a billboard, especially to spread stupidity around. And speaking of “The Stupids,” if you’re going to use my car to spread idiotic statements at least learn how to spell. There is a big difference between “there and their” and “your and you’re,” as well as a big difference knowing the proper use of the apostrophe. The day I came out of the bathhouse (yes, I go during the day) and discovered my poor old Geppetto (yes, I do name my cars) had been a victim of “the stupids,” I was very angry, mostly because they misspelled the following phrase: “Your a fagot’.” Can you believe it? Two misspells and one grammar error in a short sentence. What a tragedy and what an agony to read such horror. I was flabbergasted, abhorred, and embarrassed to drive my Geppetto in such condition. I may be a faggot but I know how to spell and use proper grammar. My Gods! Okay, I’m done! I’m too upset to keep writing. Ta-ta, dhalings!