We are living in an age of celebrity obsession. We have been here before. Screaming girls wetting their poodle skirts over the Beatles, angst teens holding candle light vigils outside Kurt Cobain’s home ten years after his death, the only difference is the those cult figures earned their celebrity stripes. It's no secret that culprit responsible for today's ‘home-brand’ celebrity is reality television. This television phenomenon, responsible for putting half the scriptwriters and actors in Hollywood out of work, first introduced us to ourselves nearly a decade ago. From Survivor, Big Brother, and The Bachelor, through to The Biggest loser and back, reality television has made household names from extremely average households. Their rise to fame and fade to obscurity is nothing new. One can’t recall all the contestants from The Apprentice, just that you wanted them to plummet to their death in that lift before the boardroom scene. It was a pleasure to see them get fired by a ginger comb over on legs, but after they took off in the cab, we wouldn't know them from a mole in tight perm at Penrith Panthers. The 8 million hits Chris ‘ leave Britney alone‘ Crocker experienced in the week his boo-hoo-tube video was release was even more of a surprise than Britney’s ice induced performance at the VMA’s. Global corporations spend millions of dollars for that sort of exposure and a twink with poorly applied Maybelline mascara and a stained bed sheet as a set, achieves their corporate wet dream from his nanas house in Tennessee. They must have skipped the ‘weeping homo’ technique at Harvard Business School. As a result of his K Mart toy aisle tantrum, Crocker’s previous YouTube monologues suddenly experienced enormous attention. His Britney tears earned him top billing on a variety of news channels in the U.S and abroad, so it came as no surprise when he was offered his own television show as a result of his tanty. Christ knows, sister should actually manage Ms Spears. In effect, outlets such as YouTube and MySpace have become the new talent scout agencies. Why flick through a portfolio of actors head shots, smiling like serial killers at the camera with their clenched fists fused to their chins as head support, when you can find the real deal online? With homemade celebs such as Perez Hilton and Chris Crocker, who needs William Morris? However everything comes full circle. Reality shows are beginning to decline in popularity. Apart from ‘Celebrity Colonic Irrigation’ and ‘Surprise Abortion Clinic’ there really isn’t much left. We crave reality because it makes us feel closer to celebrities, then we reject it again claiming that it’s not entertaining enough. We watch Ange and Brad adopt the entire VonTrapp family, and then we scorn them for being out of reach. Perhaps we have simply got a nasty case of COPD – Celebrity Obsession Bi Polar Disorder? The good news is it’s not fatal and it’s nothing that flat batteries in your remote and a good book can’t fix.

Losing your fag hag is like losing a limb without fashion sense. Given that fag hags live their lives through us, we assume it’s unlikely that they will ever meet a straight man and have a life of their own, so when it does happen the shock can be felt in The Philippines. So you’ve had your hag since you came out at 19. You met at a B*witched concert and shared a moment when the Lynch sisters dripped sweat on you both in the front row. Fag hag had you at “Oh my God, I’m never washing my face again!” She was on the fat side of plump, had an Eiffel Tower worth of braces in her mouth, and the hair of a Scottish Terrier. Unfortunate, yet sweet. After hag complemented you on your running man moves, you realised there was a place for a permanent sycophant in your life. Over the years the relationship naturally gravitated from sycophant to obsessive loon, but you loved your Hag more than your shags. Hag was there when you came out to your parents at church, when you got topped for the first time, and when the Spice Girls broke up and you both overdosed. Yes, she was the sole reason why your shags never became boyfriends, but in a suffocating, Glenn Close kind of way, she really meant well. So now you find yourself in your mid thirties, still single and the very bane of your single status shocks you to your epicentre by announcing she met someone last night and is getting married Friday week. Hags move fast. At first she is wildly excited to introduce you to the new beau, however the first meeting does not go down well and within a week her 27 phone calls a day to you plummet down to one text message on a Tuesday night. Within a month Hag begins to bad mouth the gay bar she was practically weaned on, requests you call her by her real name and not ‘Hagatha’ and stops watching The Catherine Tate Show. Hag is dressing more like Cherie Blair than Cher and announces she is pregnant by text message. Group text message! Upon her conception, you realise that you may as well freeze hag off before she ices you out first. The future is laced with you not getting invited to spawns birthdays parties, but still expecting a phone call, and a rebound friendship ten years from now when husband fucks a stripper. In a poetic kind of way, the friendship ends as suddenly as it began. Rather than get bitter about it, look at it as a Close Encounter Of The Hag Kind. It’s an unexplained phenomenon and natures way of making good looking gay men and desperate straight women find a common ground. You.

Pyramid schemes are like swingers clubs, without the sex, open minded couples and well, the swinging. They’re a sacrificed goat away from being a cult. Why is it that the person you spoke to a maximum of four times throughout high school suddenly calls you three months after your out of school and wants to talk to you about an amazing business opportunity ? I have been out of school nearly 18 years and i still get these calls on occasion from people I thought died in year three. The other super scammy stuff going on is time share holiday give always. A friend of mine Tsai Tung, received a call stating he'd won a trip to Noosa for two, and all he had to do was turn up to a talk night to accept it. Upon arrival he was enticed with Coon and Jatz, not to mention the odd minibabybell cheese floating around on plastic platters. This was there version of rohypnol and it worked a treat. High on shite nibblies, Tsai was subjected to a three hour lecture on Mr time share and his lovely wife Miss Pyramid scheme. Tsai, politely tried to leave but stopped at the door by Time Share goons and told if he left, there was no holiday. Thankfully he cut his loses and said good bye to Noosa, minibabybell cheese and jatz and got the hell out of there. Walking home Tsai recalled the faces of the others he had left behind. He could not save them all, just himself. He hoped that one day he would see them again ( not in Noosa) and they could share the horrible experince they had endured. He knew if he had gone to the authorities they would have made him out to be the one who 'asked for it' by accepting their inviation to small goods and fancy red plasticine wrapped cheese. I should note that Tsai can be a bit dramatic. Only this morning I recieved a scam of a different kind in the mail; a letter claiming I'd won a hundred thousand dollars. Well not me exactly, but the ‘house holder’. I’m no whore but If your going to give me that much money , you can at least call me Andy.

Christ Knows I love a drop of youtube. Typing in the most random words such as Psoriasis and then watching someone shed their skin like a rattle snake to a Carpenters song is wrong, yet gold ! Im thinking that the good people at Google, should branch out a little and explore other youtube type sites. I recently emailed a list of suggestions to them , of which I am yet to hear back about. Im thinking. myfatneighbourwatchingneighbourstube.com I'd like to set up a web cam at 7pm on my kitchen window pane and stream my fat ,hair plugged neighbour touching himself inappropriately to the entire cast of Neighbours (Harold included) The fact that he wears a royal blue parachute tracksuit (top unzipped) would make anyone want to tune in on the action. naomirobsondoesntblinktube.com.au I've said it before and I'll say it again. The lady don't blink ! The only way we can prove she is not an android, robot or a pretty ATM, is if we catch her blink. Nothing a spy cam in her holiday flat in Nambukka Heads can't fix. projectmissedtherunwaytube.com No one knows fashion better than Westfield shopping-towns. Set up a spy cam in the change rooms of Maggie T and Noni B stores throughout greater NSW and the Sunshine coast. The rest will take care of itself. Franklinmintaddictstube.com Quite simply a collection of home videos from obsessive compulsive Franklin Mint junkies. Watching Princess Diana memorial plates and ceramic figurines gather dust on a collectors shelf that was issued in part six of the magazine which ceased being produced before you got the minaturised pewter car crash complete with crystal tunnel, makes for glued viewing. Anyhow, Ill alert you to Google.Incs reply to the above suggestions as they come in.

Is calling your fellow homo a ‘fag’ the same thing as when African Americans call each other nigger or when I call other Greek/Italians Wogs? Does identifying as the member of a minority group automatically give us the right to use terms we would otherwise disapprove of others outside of the circle using? Does Ray Martin’s hair need a flammable warning sewn in to its lining? Probably, to the latter. The sub headings and labels we give each other within our community are as bizarre as the fact that Naomi Robson has never blinked. From Muscle Mary through to Fag Hag the names we have carved out for one another are as soothing as the name Hector for a newborn child. Muscle Mary is an interesting place to start. Why Mary? Why not Muscle Bernadette or Fit Agatha? Just because a man’s biceps are 23.483 times bigger than his frontal lobe does not mean he deserves to have our Lady’s name follow the word Muscle as his calling card. Is it regionally specific? Do they have Muscle Maria’s in Europe? The only reason I do more cardio than weights at the gym is that I have a morbid fear of ever being referred to as Mary, unless of course one of the Olsen twins die and I take her place because we both happen to be a size zero and I can slip into her extensive, expensive wardrobe. Scratch that last thought. I wouldn’t be caught dead in their ‘exclusive to Kmart’ range of tween clothing. Fag Hag, like ‘anal suppository’ is an ugly word. Why do we refer to our straight girl friends, who stalk, I mean support, smother, I mean love and reject once they get married, I mean respect us? These devoted women have selflessly given up their own lives to be our support system. It must have been cold there in our shadows, to never have sunlight on their face. Considering these ladies have danced around their handbags with us from the moment we realised we preferred penis to pretzels, I think we owe them a little more than to refer to them as hags. Fat, maybe -hags, no! Tina Addicts. We’ll I own the cassingle to ‘Chains’ by Tina Arena so I guess that makes me one. As Meth becomes the drug de jour and sisters are dropping off like country singers in light air craft accidents, We need to come up with a better word for this killer drug than Tina. To me Tina says a chocolate and strawberry flavoured wafered biscuit by Arnott’s. Tina is the name my mother uses for my obese aunty Christina when she is patronising her. Tina was my bantam hens’ name who shared the same hairstyle as the infamous Ms Tuner. Tina is not a name for an addictive drug. Charlie is. Diesel Dyke is not only insensitive, it’s environmentally unfriendly. In a time where the earth is a pop tart ready to implode, one might think that lesbians may want to switch to natural energy rather than fossil fuels. The term Solar Dyke, is not only more responsible it’s a lot sunnier too. The new age solar dyke has thrown away the denim overalls and CAT boots for a Laura Ashley pant suit and a Jenny kee knit. They tend to smile more as well. Yes, It may be time to re-write the gay terminology handbook, and take a long hard look at the type of words we use to describe one another. We can start as soon as we re introduce electro shock therapy as a cure for the mental illness that is homosexuality.

O.K , I'm addicted to fabulous 70's T.V ads. Sooo much better than the naff crap we have today. I'm not sure what I love more about this one. The dolls in Drag or the kids trippin on acid ? You decide. http://www.retrojunk.com/details_commercial/3011/

Of all the places you can cruise a guy, the supermarket can be the most lucrative and also the most treacherous. Some of the city’s hottest guys can be seen flirting their way between Nair Wax Strips and Chocitto bar fun size packs. The success rate of getting a hot guys phone number whilst shopping for food depends entirely on what is in your shopping cart. The items in that little basket can mean the difference between going home with him or going home with Martha Gardner .For this very reason your cart must NEVER contain any of the following: • Doritos, Pop Tarts, Nutella, laxetives (you’ll look like a fat, manic depressed, constipated junky) • Toilet Rolls (don't want him thinking of your ass in that way) • Personal lubricant (no one likes a slut) • Tabloid magazine (no one likes a nosey bitch) • Toilet air freshener (again with the ass!) • Paul Newman salad dressing (you will give away your age) • Environmentally safe products (he may think you have morals and wont put out on the first date ) • Rubber gloves ( I don’t care how sensitive you are to soap suds, PUT THEM BACK ) The exact areas in which you cruise this meat Market is also a deciding factor in your success. Strictly avoid these supermarket no go zones: • The Frozen Food area (It'll shrink so fast he'll think your a handsome lesbian ) • Pet food aisle ( he’s gonna want to be your only bitch ) • Canned beans aisle ( wind issues ) • Generic Brand aisle ( your a cheap bitch ) • Express lane for 6 items or less ( your unemployed ) Final golden rule is NEVER put a product in your basket that does not have a barcode on it. A simple price check over the loudspeaker for hemorrhoid cream and the game is over. Apart from the obvious things to avoid, like guys using shopper-dockets, the rest of the market is fairly safe. Remember, when people shop on empty stomachs they often take things home they would normally 'eat'. Use that to your best advantage.

Ok, so you and your best buddy have been single forever. You’re the Sonny and Cher of single men, trawling nightclubs and bars picking up hot trade. Life is great, you phone each other in the morning and compare notes on last night’s conquests. It’s all going swimmingly until your best buddy starts to date one of the notches on his Dolcce & Gabbana belt, and without mincing words you can’t fucking stand this bitchy little ‘notch’. It’s not that you don’t want to see your best chum happy and in love. You want that for every important person in your life; Kate Moss, Kylie, Naomi Robson. The problem here is that your best chum’s bum chum has peroxided highlights, wears mid-drift t-shirts that say ‘meow’ in diamantes on the front, and still ‘vouges’ when he dances. He’s got to go, and it’s your job to ditch him. Here are the top 5 tips for breaking up a perfectly happy but otherwise annoying-to-you relationship. 1. Out him as straight (this can be challenging considering his ‘vogueing’) 2. Have him kidnapped by a church group that specialises in sexual re programming. 3. Plant a Kelly Osborne CD in his collection. 4. Spike his Pina Colada with Female Hormone Replacement Therapy pills and watch him grow a mean set of jugs. 5. Buy him off. (Granted, 60 bucks isn’t much, but throw in a bottle of peroxide for that hideous hair and he’ll go) Soon, ‘mincing mid-drift’ will be gone and you and your chum can return to being the ladies of the night you were born to be. Like a good friend you will turn a blind eye to the fact that you may have just destroyed the one true chance at happiness your best friend may have ever had.

I don’t know about you, but as a gay man I naturally seem to reject the term ‘hero’. Is it because the archetypal hero we grew up with were so far removed from anything we could identify with? I mean, other than lycra, what do we have in common with Superman, Batman, or any other Justice League heroes in form fitting pantage ? A hero to me is someone who is not afraid to fuck you on a first date to the sounds of Kenny G. A person who listens to Celine Dion on their ipod at the gym and sings along for all to hear..in French.. A person who makes up his own lyrics to the theme of ‘Dynasty’ and publicly broadcasts it. To all of you Sirs, thank you for being yourselfves. You are my heroes !

I was a die hard Dynasty fan when I was about 12. Even then I thought 'What the Fuck is going on with Linda Evans' bangs' ? Anyhow, found this classic scene and wanted to point out the highlights. 1. The initial double slap administered from Crystal to Alexis. Top form. 2. The fact that Crystal then tries to fist her with a mannequins dislodged arm. Controversial ! 3. An attempt to strangle a person with a feather boa. Very CSI

O.K, I am a nice homo homosapien. I know this, so the revenge story I am about to share should not reflect on the rest of my loving personality. A few years back I was dancing to a delightful 12 inch remix of Vanessa Amarrosi’s ‘Absolutely Everybody’ at the old Ceasars Bar on Parramatta road. I was going off and am semi-confident I was the last person in 1999 to wear lycra, so I think I may have looked hot to boot. Anyhow, less about me , more about the incident. A few straight girls somehow found there way to Ceasars and were dancing around their handbags and cardigans. I always find this funny and if the girls are having a great time with us , and not at our expense, then I’m the first to join them and bust a move around their fake louis' and Prada purses. This however was not the case. These were mean girls. Nasty molls who thought they were gonna have a great night out , laughing at denim wearing dykes, and lycra wearing fags. ( it was 1999 remember). Anyhow, a guy was dancing with his trannsexual friend and they were having a great time, until the straight girls noticed them and started making disturbing remarks about her. My first instinct was to kick their purses onto Parramatta road as a Linfox truck rolled on by. Alas I resisted. I waited until she walked off to the bar and approached her. ‘ Excuse me” I said. ‘Are you having a good night ?” She giggled and said “yeah this place is hilarious” . I thought to myself ‘nothings funnier than your crimped fringe and that holter-neck cotton blend nightmare wrapped around your skeletal frame which you shoplifted from Supre’ but I bit my tongue. I proceeded with “ I just want to pay you a compliment. I think you are the best looking drag queen I have seen in ages, and I think without the makeup you’d be hot looking guy too’. Molll recoils in shock “ What? I’m no fucking drag queen or trannie! What the fuck do you mean ? “ I clutch her hand and say to her “ Are you serious? Are you really not in drag ? “ Moll’s eyes begin to water and lip quivers as she gives me a filthy. Then I snap out of character and inform her that we don’t need the likes of her, hanging around us to feel validated or in their case violated. “If you are so offended with my accusation, and find gender re assignment, drag or being gay so disgusting, then go back to Panthers.” For a split second I felt harsh, but got over it when I saw her open toed shoes and poorly applied nail polish. It never ceases to amaze me how appalling people can be, and how their happiness relies on making others feel miserable. Now, can someone please re-open Ceasars Bar ?

Getting called a fag, is an unusual sensation. It feels like your being abused, but at the same time you feel it’s only polite to turn around and face the person who’s just addressed you. What’s with that ? Any time I hear the word ‘Faggot’, ‘Homo’ or ‘Desperate Housewives watching gaylord’ I immediately turn around. Not because I am one or more of those things, but more so out of a morbid curiosity to see whom the genius yelling out these vilifications actually is. I’m never really surprised when it’s the same archetypal Neanderthal. Usually it’s a guy who wishes his girlfriend had a penis, or who spits at himself in the mirror after he watches gay porn when his penis-less wife is at a Jenny Craig meeting. Boo hoo, so sad. I can’t imagine getting any sort of satisfaction yelling out “filthy ‘Deal Or No Deal ‘ watching hetro “ out to a straight person every time they walk by, mostly because I don’t get why there are 20 drag queens in blonde wigs holding briefcases on that show, but also cause it’s bad manners. Either way, zero satisfaction there. I know I’m guilty of secretly hoping that the gayer kid at school got called fag before I did. It’s almost as bad as admitting Showgirls is my all time favourite movie, but it’s true. The point is, although I didn’t yell the word out, I did do it by proxy by hoping he would take the heat of me. I know this is common with a lot of gay guys and girls. If we knew then what we do now, we would have burnt our Roger’s Thesauruses and Jakarta World Atlases in protest of the homophobic institutions we were schooled in and started the Fairfield primary school Stonewall riots. All at the age of seven.

They are the wind beneath their idol’s wings, their dear pal's bum chum, their best buddy’s bitch; they are the closeted cartoon sidekick. Perhaps the most noted member of the cartoon closet is Yogi Bear's bitch Boo Boo. This nasally, stoner-cub is hopelessly devoted to a bear who don’t care. Crushed by the fact that he will never actually swing his buddy Yogi, Boo Boo does what all closeted young punks do for the guy they secretly love; they assist them in picnic basket robberies. This role was made famous by Sal Mineo in ‘Rebel without a cause’ and homo cartoon sidekicks have been ripping off theact ever since. There's no question in any of our minds that Boo Boo is a total bottom. The relationship between Quick Draw McGraw and his short assed donkey sidekick Baba Looey is another textbook case of unrequited love. By playing the role of the accidental hero, Baba Looey expresses his devotion through subtle rescue attempts. The occasional train track rescue and cactus pricks removal routine from Quick draws ass are Baba’s way of saying 'Fuck, I love you ’. Asterix and Obelix look like any other couple in Ikea, but this is another one-sided love story. Obelix represents the classic case of a fat closet that acts out his sexual repression by beating up Romans. One can’t blame Obelix for lusting after his handlebar mustached buddy. Asterix is fit, cute and packs a great lunch in those tights, whilst Obelix is a Euro-queen with man boobs, chubby fingers and a fat ass. Like all chubby closets, Obelix will one day come out, lose all the weight and move to New York, where Asterix will seem like a bad gaydar date compared to the city slicking gaylord studs. Although they aren’t exactly sidekicks, the Smurfs still qualify for the queer toon history museum. Clearly the Smurfs have ‘daddy issues’ and with the ratio of one Papa Smurf to a thousand needy fag Smurfs, there ain't enough daddy lovin’ to go round. Let’s face it: throw in four hundred spandex wearing blue gnomes around a campfire along with a fag hag named Smurfette and it's Mardi Gras. From Boo Boo throug to Baba Looey, these queer cult closets were one of our earliest glimpses into gay characters on television and showed us the perils of falling in love with our straight best friend.

It’s a sign of the times, when gay bars are half empty whilst chat rooms are almost too full to let you in. Rather than bitch about it, you need to join the herd or become extinct. Think of yourself as Olivia Newtown John, ditching the roller skates for leg warmers and move with the times. When online, your profile is your only selling tool. It's like the Danoz Direct of online crusing and you're Moira.It’s a gay eat gay world out there so if you have some flaws you need to cover them up with cyber-bandage language. You’re not beating your children with wire coat hangers, you are colouring the truth in a more positive light, so don’t feel bad about getting creative when choosing your words. The correct use of language is the only thing standing between spending the night watching The Biggest Loser or getting busy with ‘hotnhardtony28’. Down To Earth Guy: This is a great term to use if you want people to think you’ll ask them a little bit about themselves before you ask them to go down on you. It shows you care enough about the environment to only use three tissues and not a whole pack to clean up afterwards. Stocky, Solid Frame: Perfect for those on a strict Ben & Jerry’s diet. Your profile photo was actually taken 8 years ago after you had the bubonic plague and lost 12 kilos. Today you have a fat ass and a gut to match. This is a fat smoke screen type of terminology. Seeks Same: This says, ‘I’m perfect and if they could clone me, I would be fuck myself and not wasting my time online’ . A great term to use if you are a slow typer and can’t be bothered banging out a whole list of what you like in others. It’s time effective and easier on the fingers. Rugged Good Looks: Great for those sporting a broken nose from being called a poof in high school. Also another word for 'acne scarred' Meet Up And Take It From There: The get out of jail free card of cyberspace. Your horny as hell, the photo of the guy your planning on meeting is slightly blurry so you need a better look. Meet for a drink, check him out and if he’s more Leo Sayer than Leo Dicaprio, excuse yourself to the bathroom and keep on walking. In Cyberspace, no one can hear you scream…or exaggerate.

Every now and then you may come across a neighbour who is straight, yet unusually friendly towards you once he knows you are a poof. It’s a little bit of a phenomenon. Like Celine Dion’s fan club, it can’t really be explained, however it’s important to know how to handle the situation. More often than not, (and if there is a God), your neighbour will speak to you with his shirt off. He does this on purpose of course, in a vein attempt to grab your attention. This doesn’t make him a rocket scientist. You’re gay, you’re going to look, go figure! As your friendly, straight (and insanely hot) neighbour talks randomly about the weather, the football and the latest Vin Diesel movie, you may notice him motioning toward his privates by re-adjusting himself rather obviously. This is not a case of crabs, but rather a very well calculated move on his part to see if your eyes will shift from his gaze down to his graze. Don’t be intimidated by the situation. Do what comes naturally and stare down there without a second to lose. Stare long, stare hard and if no one is watching, lick your lips. It may sound sleazy, but it’s how men used to hook up before the days of the internet. Ask anyone over 35 and they will tell you its vintage and it works. Now that he knows you have read his signal, invite him in by asking him to set your DVD timer. This will immediately reaffirm his position as the dominant male, and that’s exactly what your in the mood for. Whilst seated on your unusually small sofa, make sure there is adequate leg contact made and hand him the remote. As you pass it to him drop it clumsily in his crotch and fumble around that area, whilst making a poor attempt at reclaiming it. Once its back in your hands, accidentally let the gay porn play and look surprised and embarrassed as to what has just ‘popped’ up on the screen. If he watches more than 4 1/2 seconds of it, then you can quite confidently move to plan B, which involves saying ‘I know your straight but, this is getting me hot’. If he doesn’t get up and leave at this point, then the rest is history, and every gay mans fantasy. Once it’s all over, speak his language by ignoring him almost completely. This works with him and women, so you need to bring it to a level playing field. The rule here is ‘don’t make a fuss, and he’ll be back in a rush’. He’s not used to being ignored in this way, so he will be back to play another day.