OVERFLOWING CLOSET Wednesday, Oct 31 2007 

                We all do stupid things. Like wearing yellow pants with a blue shirt, putting a new born rabbit in a blender and switching it on, sucking fire with a vacuum cleaner, faking farting noises during a funeral, actually farting out loud during a funeral, professing unrestrained lust for your best friend’s bride during the exchange of their wedding vows, and downloading the Kim Kardashian sex tape and watching it, even if it was for free. However, in the wake of committing stupid actions, the one thing that automatically becomes the sole prerogative of the committer is the choice of announcing their stupidity when they want and on the platform they desire. Unfortunately, that was the privilege that was taken away from Professor Dumbledore when he was outed by- in his own, rather redundant, words- “that rich British bitch”- J.K. Rowling. Dumbledore, in a Hogwart’s press release, that appeared in the Wizard’s Chronicle, stated that he’s not gay, he never was gay, and he never will be gay. He also alluded to the bathroom incident with fellow wizard Gandalf that took place eons ago as merely a folly of youth. He was not being gay, he said, but merely confused. He mentioned that at some point or the other all high standing officers of wizardry are bound to be involved in some kind of public restroom fiasco or the other. He reiterated however that he was not gay and that he was as straight as his wand, which for some reason he liked keeping in his back pocket.
                Dumbledore may have put an end to all the speculations regarding his sexuality but the aftermath of his coming out, forced or not, true or false, has been nothing short of super fabulous. More fictional characters, from all walks of make believe life, have been coming out driven by the strength of the Dumbledore issue.
               The first one, surprisingly, was everyone’s most beloved waif, Oliver Twist. In a shocking revelation, Oliver Twist, now over 160 years old, admitted that he has been, and will continue to be, to the best of his ability, a fornicator utilizing the insertion of his substantially sizeable phallus into the excretory orifices of his male compatriots and vice versa. He divulged that the first spark of homosexuality was aroused in him while playing tag with the Artful Dodger. When the Dodger inadvertently tagged his balls, Oliver had remarked, with a guileless twinkle in his eyes, “Please, I want more.” And a handjob he had received. Mr. Twist stated with a lascivious smile that there were a few things his first partner wasn’t artful at dodging.
              Coming out next was none other than the Godfather, Don Corleone. Hailed by many as the ultimate epitome of manliness, the Don shocked the entire world with his confession. He admitted that being Italian helped in disguising his homosexuality since he could kiss men on the mouth as much as he wanted without giving away his sexual preference. He also added that in his many years in the Mafia he had come across many poofers he couldn’t refuse.
                As the bibliophiles were reeling from this unprecedented shocker, the next bomb was dropped on the comic book lovers. Daredevil, the world’s only handicapped superhero, came out announcing his affinity for the male genitalia. The blind-as-a-bat superhero, who called together a press conference, faced the reporters- although the wrong way- and admitted that he was one amongst those who parked their hot rods in other men’s backyards. He recounted, as per the request of the reporters, that when he was young he was offered a low-sugar lollypop by his high school principal. Impaired by his blindness, he relied on the veracity of his principal’s word. It was only when the low-sugar lollypop began tasting a little too salty for candy that he considered the possibility that he may have been misinformed. Although he renounced homosexuality for about three weeks, he noticed that every time he ate real candy, or even brushed his teeth, he got a hard on. That was, he said, when he accepted that he was indeed a faggot.
               Foreseeing further such revelations from other comic book heroes, the train of reporters rushed to the one place that had often been speculated as a fudgepacking haven- the Bat Cave. Batman, a bit taken aback by the sudden surge of media personnel into his most secret hideout, however, agreed to answer their queries. He lay down his bat-whip on the nearby table and assured the world that no matter who turned out to be a fairy he would, forever, uphold the shining scepter of heterosexuality for the whole world to be proud of. And when the same question about sexuality was posed to Robin, he struggled onto his feet from his kneeling position, shook loose his tied up hands, removed the ball gag from his mouth, and remarked that he agreed wholeheartedly to whatever Batman, his master, said.
                The next set of feet that walked out of the closet belonged to the feisty Catwoman. Unfortunately, her attempt at stealing some of the spotlight didn’t pay off as expected. The world had already figured out that she was a dyke since as Catwoman, it was only natural that she was attracted to other pussies.
                 Black crime fighter Shaft, too, announced the fact that he was coming out of the closet. He sighed that with a name like Shaft he wasn’t left with much of a choice. He also mentioned that he was currently going out with Barack Obama and that he thought Hillary Clinton’s dress sense was “crass”.
                But perhaps the news that absolutely stunned the conservative section of the comic book lovers was the scandalous statement by Green Lantern that the entire Justice League, of which Batman too was a member, was merely a front for extreme gay activities that included water sports, pearl diving, handballing, and eating jam. In spite of accepting his gayness, the Lantern accused the Justice League leader, Superman of forcibly engaging some of the members into certain scatological games like “hunting for the chocolate eel” and “searching for Kryptonite up my ass”. Superman, however, was unavailable for comments since he was yet to return from his business trip with Aquaman to the Fortress of Solitude.
               Spiderman, however, was the only superhero who held a press conference to announce that he was not in fact gay. Sure, he wasn’t getting laid enough because Mary Jane was so fucking frigid, but he was not gay. He said that he although understood why people might feel so. He explained that it was all Tobey Macguire’s fault.
              Following this barrage of disclosures, the globe’s most revered detective, Sherlock Holmes, came out with one of his own. He let the world know that he, for the last seventy years or so, has been involved in a secret, civil partnership with his Scottish counterpart, Detective John Rebus. Holmes described that cupid, with the help of a serial-killer, had brought the two detectives onto the same crime scene. He admitted that when he saw Rebus, in his traditional Scottish skirt, he was more interested in inspecting his body rather than the mangled dead body. And when Rebus had asked him how he read his gayness so perfectly, Sherlock Holmes had replied in his trademark tone, “Really wide asshole, my dear Rebus.” He added that Rebus’s skirt had made it easier to view the goods closely before taking it home for good.
                The homosexuals of the world celebrated by accepting these monumental fictional characters into their midst. They stood proud and shouted their slogan “Pound ass in harmony.” The heterosexuals, meanwhile, looked to the skies and questioned the loss of such esteemed figures to the other side. Suddenly, the skies opened and out of nothingness appeared the grey, wise face of God. He looked down upon his heterosexual children and said sheepishly, “Actually, I’ve got an announcement to make as well.”



                In 1988, I used to keep myself entertained by trapping flies inside a bottle and shaking them as hard as I could until they nearly puked themselves in a dizzy fit of sickness. The reasons for me doing so were twofold. Firstly, I liked hurting things. Secondly, my parents just wouldn’t give in to buying me whatever the latest, most expensive toy in the market was. They just wouldn’t understand when I told them that there were only so many battles you could fight with G.I. Joe figures before things turned really gay. Almost twenty years later, I’m keeping myself entertained by jacking my Cobra Ferret looking at an enlarged picture of Hayden Panettiere sticking her tongue out. I blame my present state on the unadventurous, unexciting childhood I had, growing up in the eighties and early nineties. I strongly feel that I should have been born after 1996 so that eleven years later, when I’m at that most exciting period of childhood, my parents wouldn’t be gifting me shitty-ass action figures for Christmas. Instead, my dad would gift me a box of grenades and my mom would surprise me with a 9mm semi automatic. Alas! If only I could be a kid in the 21st century…ideally in America.
               I can picture what it would be like. I wake up in the morning next to my 28-year-old Math teacher, her sweaty sex-smelling face resting on my scrawny ten-year-old hairless chest. I press my knee against her pubes and rouse her from her sleep. I look at my teacher’s mathematical face and say, “What’s the expansion of (a + b) whole squared, bitch?”. She goes down on me. I reply, “That’s right.” I look at her and ask, “Now tell me the truth, is high school math actually useful at any point in real life?” She stops giving me head for an instant and answers, “As useful as underwear for Britney Spears; as useful as a seminar on self-esteem by Owen Wilson; as useful as an SUV in Al Gore’s garage; as useful as rational thinking in India.” I interrupt my math teacher, point to my boner, and say, “That’s enough. Now get back to solving this problem.”
               I tell my calculus whore to stop at two places on the way to school. First, I pay a visit to my crack-whores to collect my pimp dough. Next, I rob a liquor store, get pissed out of my mind, and take the wheel. I don’t drive unless I’m drunk. Meanwhile, my math ho decides to analyze the probability of sucking me off before we reach school. After about fifteen minutes, she works out that the probability is really high. I walk into school, slap my Mexican teacher’s ass and remind her of our interracial teacher-student group orgy on Friday night. Then suddenly I hear shots being fired. I quickly dive behind the Ecstasy-vending machine in the hallway and take cover. I unzip my backpack, arm myself with my .357 Magnum and get ready for the first hour of school. I gun down a couple of Koreans, a bunch of white trash, two black guys, five Arabs, and pistol-whip my principal’s balls. When the bell rings I proceed upstairs where a second session of open firing commences.
                Lunchtime arrives. I enter the canteen and stuff myself with mushrooms, LSD, and PCP. I wash it down with a glassful of Bourbon. Afterwards, I rape the entire cheerleading team and spooge into their ears. Then they do a wonderful routine honoring me: “Give me an R. Give me an A. Give me a P. Give me an E. What do you get? – That’s right, a lifetime of trauma and a psychopathic bastard child.”
                In gym class, I persecute Jews and Muslims. Then I unleash the angry Jews upon the black students under the false pretext that they stole their lunch money. I provide the Muslim students with some guns and a couple of airplanes and convince them that the Christians masturbate on the Koran just for the heck of it. I drop 40 lb barbells on the spines of Asian students and turn them all into paraplegics. I chain my gym teacher’s two legs onto two poles and keep dropping bowling balls on his testicles till they are squashed to a bloody pulp. Then I take my exit but not before spitting on his face.
              After school I hijack an old lady’s car by smacking her in the head with a sledgehammer. After pulling her out and hurling her into the middle of the road I assault her further with a taser till she starts foaming at her crinkly old ass. I reach home, park the old lady’s car next to the horse carriage I stole from an Amish priest. I play with my XBOX 360 for 3 hours, my PS3 for 4 hours, my Wii for 3.5 hours, and my dick for 20 minutes. I cuss my parents, throw chicken soup on my sister, and go to my room. I spend two hours on the Internet keeping track of my multimillion dollar worth software company, hack into the Vatican website, draw a pair of tits on the Pope, and show holy water dripping out of it. Before sleeping, I visit my three-year-old younger brother, chokeslam him onto a bed of nails and hurl his punctured body out of the window. I get back to my room, read the Bible, and sleep with a baby, and then like one. I’ve got a long day tomorrow what with the big Math test and all. But I have a feeling I’ll do alright.