full gayness.

Dear gay homo,

Please get your hot ass out of bed and write me a note to keep my otherwise feeble brain occupied.

In the interim, i'm off for my hot lunch date. With your dad.

yours truly,
spanky millionaire.

sol.

Holee fuck. is there a creepier people than the quebec french? jezus. you remember this guy? this was a children's show, for fuck's sake. christ almighty.

and this guy is some kind of french national treasure.

how is it that we are both quebec french and yet neither of us eat hot dogs in restaurants and wash them down with un pepsi? (unless it's date night at ikea, of course.) also, neither of us wear a can of final net each day. or pair our ultra-light wash tapered jeans with white heels and a way-too-high belt. or have frost & tip highlights. or electric blue kitchen counters (a la home depot's 'frenchie line'). or wear shirts with our names across them, like in the french class livres. or have friends named marcel. or . . . speak french.

what. a bunch. of gays. that's all i have to say.

and that i can't wait to move to quebec with you.