Tim Anderson's Blog, page 11

Congratulations on Your Marriage! Next Up: Death!

As you all know, I recently got gay married to my boyfriend of fifteen years, Little Man Jimmy (now obviously known as Mrs. Timothy Anderson), and we are currently trying to put together a sexytime party to celebrate. This will happen in June and will involve pizza, pasta, booze, popsicles, Pop-Tarts, hot yoga, and a performance by Wilson Phillips.

So, in the mean time, what other things are on the horizon for the happy couple, now that we've taken the plunge that we are now legally able to take (slowest plunge ever), against the wishes of President Leviticus and Vice President Santorum? Well, there are all sorts of benefits to being married, obviously. For example, we can check a new box on forms. Also, is there a tax break or something? And if were to have a child now, the public would not be forced to refer to it as an awful bastard child. That's a step forward, no? Sadly, we're not going to be having children because the two of us can barely take care of our cat. But we don't want children in the least, so it works out.

Anyway, this week we finally received our first piece of joint junk mail. (See picture above.) Whatwoulditbe? Whatwoulditbe? What. Would. It. Be? A pre-approved credit card application? A chance to jointly donate to the SPCA or the Recall President Leviticus campaign? A hilariously misguided set of coupons for Home Depot? No, none of these. Here's who it was from:



Hmmm. So, we are being invited to get joint plots at some terrible mausoleum. Okay. "Congratulations on your recent nuptials. Now that you are married, you obviously wish that you were dead. Let us help." Their actual pitch: "Let's Face It Now."



Well, they're barking up the wrong tree with us. We both want to be burned up. Then Jimmy wants his ashes scattered in the German town of Gelnhausen where he lived when he was a young army brat. And I want mine sprinkled onto a Mississippi Mud cake that all of my friends will consume at my wake while crying and listening to the Flash Gordon soundtrack on repeat on massive speakers. (Sorry, but those are my wishes, friends, so make it happen.)

Contagion: A Sad Dispatch from the Gaypocalypse

It's happened. It's all happened. We could have stopped it, but we didn't.

Oh sure, we'd been warned. Told in shrill tones of the perilous consequences, the slippery slope, the descent into moral madness that would surely happen if we insisted on charting this new course of selfish depravity. But we didn't listen. You and I have always made a point of not taking seriously grown men wearing either sweater vests or gilded robes and crowns. Turns out that, unbeknownst to us, these seeming Cassandras were absolutely right, much as it pains me to admit it. Now all hell has broken loose. Our country is as good as Gomorrah. The four horsemen have arrived.

[continue reading at The Nervous Breakdown]

Suck It, Santorum, We're Garried!

Well it's now official. Jimmy and I have tied the knot--though, because we were both really bad Boy Scouts, we had to use some tape. And just like that--poof, if you will--traditional marriages nationwide are completely meaningless. Guess what, breeders: you're gonna have to up your game. Sure, you can still have children without bureaucratic intervention, but who wants that bullsh*t? Not this gaywad. We've got a cat, and she keeps us plenty busy, with her piano lessons and kendo competitions (and sleeping).



Anyway, be warned, straight America, we're right behind you, snapping maniacally, with our ringed fingers.

Oh, and many many thanks to all our friends for their lovely messages of love and support. We love you back! And extra special thanks to Rachel Roth and Todd Colberg for being our witnesses and taking pictures. And to Sarah Pasell for the meat 'n cheese plate and blush wine!

My Plan to Destroy Traditional Marriage Almost Complete Mwa Ha Ha

So Jimmy and I twirled on down to the City Clerk's Office here in NYC (kidding; we're too old to twirl) on Monday to finish our paperwork for Ruining Traditional Marriage 4 Ever LOL. (Bumper sticker forthcoming.) We're both very excited about the prospect of demolishing the marriages of Rick Santorum, Newt Gingrich, Sarah Palin, Mitt Romney, and Kim Kardashian. (Wait.) After we say our vows and such next Monday in our matching tracksuits we will have completed our master plan, and within minutes, (1) dumb Todd Palin will be sucking the cock of tea party nutbag Joe Miller on the snowy tundra of Alaska while Mitt Romney leans against a snow blower and strokes himself, (2) right-wing wind-up Barbie Gretchen Carlson will mercifully trade that awful helmet hairstyle in for "the Ellen," and (3) Sarah Palin and Fox's Megyn Kelly will check into a Days Inn under cover of night to officially become scissor sisters, yay. (This last relationship, interestingly, will be frantically supported by all remaining straight Republican males for about six minutes every day, while they're alone in their bathrooms.)

Jimmy and I, in short, will not rest until every single human in the United States, even the fugly ones like every single dude at Fox News and all members of any tea party anywhere, are naked, sweaty, and plowing the fields of Godless gay love furiously, feverishly, phonetically, until the entirety of God's country is covered in a glaze of gross santorum and used dildos.

Once our plan is finally complete we will then take our gay agenda directly to the people of this nation. We will go around the country forcing everyone to build floats for the next Gay Pride parade, which is tomorrow, and which will take place every day, in every town, on every street, until the second coming of Freddy Mercury.

In conclusion, very soon almost the entire world will be gay and any remaining straight people will have to migrate to Newt Gingrich's moon colony, the end. Also, we'll be taking over the moon pretty soon.

Tune in Tokyo Reviewed in Tokyo's Metropolis Magazine

Yay! This is Tokyo's #1 English-language magazine and I'm thrilled to get all written up in there. Those of you who have read TiT may remember me mentioning this publication in the chapter "...And on Drums." I used its classified listings to find musicians to play with.

Anyway, you can read the review here.

Dept. of Verbiage

Oh, you guys know you've missed See Tim Blog's self-hating Sarah Palin coverage. I know it's been a while since we've checked in with Planet Palin, but every once in a while some idiotic drivel drops out of the mouth of our favorite hair weave model onto our internet screen here at STB HQ that absolutely must be blogged about lest it be lost to history forever. Herewith, I present you with some words Sarah Palin said to some Fox News toady or other in response to a question about hideous elephantine ball sack Newt Gingrich:

"They maybe subscribe such characterization of Newt via words like that, but they don't subscribe those to say Mitt Romney when he or his surrogates do the same thing. That's that typical hypocrisy stuff in the media you know I've lived with over a couple of decades in the political arena," she said. "It is hypocritical of the media to subscribe to one candidate and not another, that kind of 'angry attack muffin' verbiage to one and not the other."

I ask you, dear readers, would knowing exactly what question was posed to Sarah Palin before she began moving her lips to attempt pronunciation of these words make the resulting sentence any more coherent? No, that's why I didn't bother to look the question up. That's how easy Sarah Palin makes it to blog about her. She's a real time saver.

In conclusion, 59,934,814 U.S. Americans voted for this sitcom character to be Vice President of the United States.

My Latest Piece for The Nervous Breakdown...

Is now up over at TNB. Here's a teaser:

The late eighties were a great time to be a fanboy of weirdo new wave ladysingers from outer space (mainly Britain). It seemed like every time you turned on your new favorite show, 120 Minutes, some wackadoodle dame dripping with otherworldly moxie was popping up sporting a leotard or a tutu or a completely bald head, leaving your mouth gaping in wonder at the sheer brilliance of it all. You had your helium-voiced ethereal fantasist (Kate Bush), your ferocious and feline Weimar Republic throwback/riding crop enthusiast (Siouxsie Sioux), your tiny elfin powder keg (Bjork of the Sugarcubes), your scary trannie android (Annie Lennox of Eurythmics), and your testy and tempestuous ingénue (Sinead O'Connor). All of these ladies had allure to burn and the musical chops to back it all up.

[continue reading]

The NYC City Clerk's Marriage Application Website Gets Judgy

So, first! Jimmy and I are getting married, isn't that hiLARious? Yes, we figured that since we've been together for 14 years and it's legal to get gay-married in New York now--and especially since it has been a long-standing goal of ours to destroy traditional marriage (you're officially on notice, Rick and Karen Santorum)--we're going to get hitched, and not only because I want to get on Jimmy's health insurance, how could you even think that?

So last night we submitted our application online and were instructed to show up at the City Clerk's office within 21 days with our IDs, Social Security numbers, and preferred brand of condoms so that we can say "I do" and get this shit over with. But before I got to the confirmation page, I was instructed to type the letters "LUWD" into the space in order to prove that my application was not gay spam.

Really, City Clerk's office? You want me to type those letters into the space? You want to sound that out for me?

In conclusion, why is the random letter generator on this website such a homophobe?

Holy Crap, I'm on Andrew Sullivan's Blog!

Wow, this is really quite something. I've been reading Andrew Sullivan's blog religiously for about 5 years, ever since he became the only conservative voice out there who wasn't a completely delusional nutbag. In fact, he's one of the most clear-thinking and intellectually honest writers I've ever encountered. Anyway, one of the great things about his blog is that, though it's heavily weighted towards politics, it also covers a lot of other great topics that are out there--among them religion vs. atheism, marijuana use among MANY Americans, scientific debates, and, most importantly, the Pet Shop Boys. It's all there. And one of his pet topics is how much he loathes the publishing industry. He did a video response last week to a reader who asked why he hates the publishing industry so much, which was fun. I wrote a letter to him and his team in response and yesterday they ran the letter and, even though I didn't mention the name of the book in my letter (I dropped big clues, but I didn't want to be too unseemly--it's bad to dress like a pimp when you're pimpin'), they actually found the book on Amazon and included hyperlinks for folks to buy it OMG!

Truly, truly a thrill to be on that blog. I love it dearly. It has done a lot to keep me sane over the past decade. Plus, he's as obsessed with Sarah Palin as I am.

Dept. of Duh: Paula Deen, Fried Chicken, Krispy Kreme Donut Cheeseburgers, and Type II Diabetes

Oh, Paula. What a bummer, that Type 2 diabetes diagnosis. Who could have predicted that? Certainly not me or any other living sentient being whose brain cells have not been deep fried and dunked in a chocolate fondu. You eat so healthfully! But you know what is also a bummer? You keeping this diagnosis a secret for three years before telling your many many fans, who wait with baited breath for every masterful recipe you come up with for Twinkie-infused, caramel-smothered, deep-fried sugar-blasted carbohydrate pie. It's... unseemly.

Now don't get me wrong. I LOVE Paula Deen. I went to her Savannah restaurant last year with my mom and sister and we ate like hawgs. (Not like hogs. Like hawgs.) But when you deliberately keep from the public the fact that you've been diagnosed with a disease that is directly related to the culinary lifestyle you are a purveyor of, that's like eating a hot dog and leaving off the hot fudge: just wrong.

As some of you may know, I'm a type 1 diabetic. I was diagnosed when I was 15 after my pancreas just stone cold walked off the job of producing insulin, which my young body needed in order to not die. My diagnosis, as us Type 1 diabetics like to smugly point out, had nothing to do with my lifestyle, my diet, or my love of sugar-coated everything. Type 1 diabetes is a mysterious beast and if it chooses you, there's nothing you can do to stop it from turning you around, bending you over, and sticking it to you good and proper, over and over, for the rest of your life--or, rather, forcing you to stick yourself (usually sitting upright, though not always), sometimes three or four times a day.

But Type 2 diabetes is an altogether different plate of Double Stuffed Oreo Crumble. Like Type 1 diabetes, Type 2 has a hereditary component to it. If you have either of these two in your family, there is a chance you will be chosen by the Diabetes Fairy to wear the crown and sash. But while Type 1 diabetics are shit out of luck when it comes to prevention, those in danger of becoming Type 2 diabetic can actually intervene and lower the likelihood that they get the disease. The key is to reduce your risks: if you have diabetes in your family and you are overweight and eat like a hoss (Hi, Paula!) then you really need to make some changes, like not eating corn dogs wrapped in chocolate chip almond creme truffle pancakes and washing it all down with a mug full of Boston creme all day, every day, forever. And it would be helpful if, when you are told you have the disease, that you not hide this fact from an audience that depends on you for its fix of crusty-toffee-white-chocolate-cherry-chunk-orgy-of-death by chocolate cake recipes. You might think of, you know, educating your flock about the dangers of eating cholesterol directly out of the bag with a soup ladle.

And now Paula has masterfully transitioned to a brand new gig as a Novartis spokeslady. Novartis is the maker of a diabetes drug that will now be the likeliest diabetes drug to be on the tip of Paula's millions of fans' tongues. That is, when their tongues aren't too busy making their way through an entire Wilmington Island Marsh Mud Cake. Ninety-nine percent of these fans will be receiving their Type 2 diabetes diagnosis in 5... 4... 3... 2....

Well played, Novartis.