Wednesday, October 27, 1999


Several years ago, at a gay rodeo host hotel (where the men should be butch and manly, and the women, um, should also be butch), I got on the elevator after a pair of West Hollywood queens got off, and I was nearly overwhelmed by the fumes.  Although I didn’t say it verbally, I sure thought it hard:

“Girlfriend!  Leave some in the bottle for next time!”

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