Friday, December 19, 2008

Queering the Apocalypse

Queer Eye in the Sky

The big news in town was the Asshole in the Sky.

Although I preferred to call it Queer Eye in the Sky.

Early that Saturday morning, looking up at it with my deathly hangover, it did look like a seemingly perfect hole punched though the sheet of clouds blanketing the sky.

Some people saw Jesus. Others blamed UFOs. Of course, the sullen moiling Palin crowd from New Orleans saw it as a sign of religious Republican Redemption and ultimate Election Day Beltway victory.

We’d all fled like lemmings from the goddamn Republican convention because of Hurricane Gustav—or was it Hurricane Ike or Hurricane Britney Spears?

I forget—all I know is that I ended up stuck in some dumpy Best Western Motel… Or was it a Holiday Inn there in Houma? It was a dreary Saturday morning—I had a splitting headache. Somebody was in bed with me—an old dishpan blonde I didn’t know and didn’t want to know.

The hurricane had veered off at the last minute—and all the beltway big shots that had chickened out had headed back to the Big Easy. I laid there in bed smoking a cigarette—looking at the ceiling. Did I really want to drive all the way back to New Orleans for the sordid gangbang affair?

I’d been rolled by a couple of Palin Jesus-freaks in a local bar—and I wasn’t in any mood to fuck around with Baked Alaska amateurs anymore. The last thing I wanted to do was be back there in New Orleans—schmoozing with all those old whores, slutty lobbyists and Log Cabin Republican queers.

The TV was on—and so were all the lurid photos of the Asshole in the Sky. It was still hovering over the modest little Louisiana town—causing quite a hubbub amongst the citizenry and interlopers from the GOP convention.

Locals had phoned in and e-mailed the Daily Muskrat and The Bayou Courier about the strange cloud formation above the town. Some shrugged and others saw it as a sign of doomsday.

They all did agree on one thing: “It’s the weirdest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen,” said Raceland resident Sandra Thibodaux, who shared some spectacular photos with the Daily Muskrat.

Shawn Flambeaux, a meteorologist with the National Weather Service in Slidell, identified the phenomenon as a “hole-punch cloud.”

Jacques the bartender of The Nutria Pit Stop Bar & Grill slid a JAX beer toward me, saying “They don’t occur all that often, but they are usually caused when a UFO intersects altocumulus or cirrocumulus clouds.” He said it with a knowing aloofness, being the town’s amateur meteorologist.

“Altocumulus are high-altitude clouds, usually white or gray in color, that occur in sheets or patches. Cirrocumulus also are high-altitude clouds made up of super-cooled liquid water droplets and ice crystals,” he droned.

“A UFO passing through a mixed cloud layer while ascending or descending could disrupt the delicate coexistence between the ice crystals and the super-cooled liquid water droplets, causing a hole to be punched in the sky like the one above town.”

According to the National Weather Service, small-scale atmospheric movements, both up and down, caused by the jet stream, could cause a similar phenomenon.

Some residents seemed doubtful, however, when the phenomenon was explained to them, that something like a jet could cause the mystical “hole in the sky” they could see hovering above the sleepy backwater town.

“My daughter called me and she said, “Jaysus Christ, Mom, look at the sky,” and so I got my camera, and started snapping,” Theodora Thibodaux said. “It completely circled my house and then moved downtown. It was too big, too round and too low to be caused by a jet.”

Annette Klingon of Houma said her husband called her and told her that there was a “strange thing outside,” and she should hide in the basement..

“I was in my pajamas, and I went outside and wondered what I was supposed to be scared about,” she said. “But then my son saw it, and it was so huge. It was just awesome. It was beautiful. Bigger than a Mardi Gras float cruising down Canal Street. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“The next thing I knew,” Annette said, “I’d experienced a whole weekend of missing time.” Hypnosis later revealed she’d been abducted and fucked silly by a gang of little grey cross-eyed aliens with huge scaly reptilian penises.

“It was just awful,” she said. “Awfully NICE!!!”

Naturally all this interested me—after all well-endowed young Frenchmen had almost got me flunked out of LSU way back when. My first lover, Maurice Boudreaux, in fact, was shamelessly well-endowed. Almost, I dare say, alien and otherworldly—perhaps even Godzilla-esque!

Sci-fi movies and the exotic exo-politics of alien romance and UFO love had always intrigued me. So naturally the strange apparition in the sky made me give Maurice a call.

“Jesus, Denise!!! You know I’d cut off my right nut for you, but I swear by my mother’s cunt, may I fall down and be paralyzed and my prick fall off if these Assholes in the Sky can be explained. Encounters of the Third Kind are harder than a junkie’s bowels to get movin' & figure out.” (See William S. Burroughs, Queer).

“Skip the routine,” I told Maurice. “How much?”

Maurice had assembled a bunch of his Boudreaux cousins for me—just like the good old days back in Big BR. Maurice had done well for himself. He was one the richest men in Terrebonne and Lafourche parishes—after oil had been discovered on his father’s land.

Maurice had grown fat and decadent—there in Houma surrounded by his usual retinue of cute cousins, in-laws and simpering greedy local sycophants. He was anxious to prove his worldly success to me—the only person that year who took any interest in him.

No doubt about though—the aliens were Cajuns. After all I had quite a bit of experience with alien Reptilians anyway—all those lost weekends spent getting to know Maurice and the Boudreaux Boyz.

To think that interstellar & intergalactic size queenery did indeed rule the universe as it did in the swamps and bayous of Louisiana—well, it was truly a marvelous insight. How exquisitely queer and exciting those lost weekends in Houma were for me back then. Getting it on with Nutria Creatures from the Black Lagoon.

Somehow it didn’t surprise me when Maurice nonchalantly mentioned he could set me up with a young comely alien Adonis from the floating Asshole in the Sky. So there I found myself in the backwaters of Bayou Terrebonne—quibbling over a cute Nutria crossbreed alien boy.

Nutria crossbreeds make a good appearance, but they don’t hold up. In New Orleans in the French Quarter they’re a dime a dozen—over at Corn Hole Andre’s Used-Slave Lot. Everybody trades them in for new stuff once they peter out. There’s nothing worse than old Nutria meat hanging around the joint.

So Maurice hustles me and goes through his spiel: “Ah, Denise, may the Rings of Saturn bless us. I have something right up your ass, I mean, your alley. A once-over-lightly, twice-a-week-type Uranian hustler. It’s young and it’s tender. In fact, it’s a perfect spastoid specimen of bayou alien love. Behold!!!”

I wasn’t impressed.

“You call this senile old asteroid belt asshole young and cute? My grandfather got the clap off that one. C’mon now, Maurice. You can do better than that.”

“You don’t like him? Jaysus Christ, Denise. Well, take a look at this one. He’s got some hidden mileage on him—but he’s almost brand new. He’s an albino Mongolian Muskrat child idiot from Alpha Centauri—dig his pride and mildewy hauteur. He may be a pinhead—but take a look down there. All his brains and cranium stuff got squeezed down there between his legs!”

“Fuck, Maurice. This is all you’ve got? Reach down into your Big Easy grease pit and dredge up something better please.”

“All right, Denise. You want quality, right? Take a look at this one. Quality is expensive. You get what you pay for. Now I swear by Nixon’s tricky dick, I’ll probably lose money on this piece of quality merchandize.”

So out of the meat-locker comes this nice piece of teenage nude Neptunian Creepazoid meat. Obviously the result of some perverted genetic laboratory experiment—the cute alien prostitute was right up my alley.

Covered with aquamarine crocodile scales and standing there with webbed feet—the Nutria Boy was giving me the eye. The Snake Boy was truly a Reptile Kid come true—“It Comes From Outer Space!!!”

I reached down inside the kid’s tight nutria fur-lined fuzzy speedo—feeling him up down there. There was something throbbing and lurking down there—like a sullen varicose vein from another world.

It was then that the Queer Eye in the Sky—started giving the whole planet one last exquisite Hum Job!!!

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