How to do the wrong thing right

Fall officially arrives this week, but somehow, it feels like it’s been autumn all year. Thank you, Rona, for your eternal specter of staved death looming behind every face mask! Additionally, sweet readers, I’d like to personally thank all of you who, throughout this past year, have so kindly inquired about how my old “Pumpkin Tartlet” tomcat, Boo, is doing: Boo, 107 in human years — whom I lucked across 20 years ago on the Katy Trail back when it was still railroad tracks; a fluffy orange kitten all alone by itself with nary a concern in this world — would have turned 21 the upcoming Ides of March.

Alas, that milestone was a bridge too far. Boo steadily began fading a few weeks back now, growing indifferently less interested in sustenance by the day. I attempted every crooning lure: fresh shrimp, goat’s milk, sardine omelets, heavy cream, roasted chicken, pan-seared ahi tuna (his favorite). By trial and error, I discovered the miracle of Reddi-Wip, which Boo could not only digest easily but devoured exclusively during the final two weeks of his life. Who knew that Reddi-Wip worked such feline, life-extension wonders?

Boo had never known the cruelty of hunger or a life not lovely; nevertheless, even protected hothouse exotics can’t live forever. The last I saw Boo alive — contentedly curled motionless in his cat bed, tucked in a corner of the kitchen nearest his elegantly spiraling pyramid of Reddi-Wip — was around 2 in the morning. Come dawn, when I checked on him again, Boo had already departed our world, his ninth-life deflation, serenely, on the ninth day of this, our ninth month: Boo always did things stylishly. I contacted a good pal of mine, whose backyard just happened to host (of all urgent serendipity) a pet cemetery, swaddled Boo’s birdlike remains inside a pillow case, and within an hour we were tapping down the soil atop his improv grave. “I think Boo deserves a marker,” said Tim. “Howard, you know anybody offhand who’s handy with wooden crosses?” I nodded, solemnly, “I do.” Tim just shook his head, wiping at his blue irises, “Damn, this is a wicked year.”

No argument from me: Let’s just get right to it.

Dear Howard: I came to Twitter late and, honestly, still don’t understand what personal niche it fulfills other than just being yet one more clarion soapbox for sociopaths. Man, for instance, could you fill me in, please, on what is this cryptic “Ten Little Gays” thing all about? Occasionally, from out of plain nowhere, I’ll discover an anonymous thread notification encouragingly “touching base” with, apparently, my secret, inner gay-basher? “Today’s number is 8, gurl! Kill ’em imaginatively!” Like, WTF? Howard, have I totally missed something? I feel like everyone’s in on a joke eluding only me. What’s going on here, bro’? — Twinky Twunk

Dear Twotter: Yeah, TwitterLand went punch-drunk crazy for a spell with “Ten Little Gays.” Contentiousness began due to a majoritive chunk of its contributors failing to murderously realize its premise is based upon an Agatha Christie conceit, her classic mystery novel, And Then There Were None (originally titled, Ten Little Indians; itself, based upon an underpinning stranglehold of a poem entitled something far less, umm, BLM-sensitive). Still with me here? Christie’s plotline hinges upon 10, idle-rich participants’ unsuspected entrapment on an isolated island where, one-by-one, they each seemingly succumb to randomly bizarre deaths.
“Ten Little Gays” is nothing less/more than just a fun-spirited spoof employing Christie’s structure. Nothing pejoratively “subterranean” should be read into it: A “whitegays” homophobic resentment disguised as satire, it is not; nor is it a Nietzschean, diversity-and-rainbow usurper of social justice. Hell, it’s just a steam valve, is all: Ten Little Gays’ sole purpose is to release a bit of life’s daily pressures. So, for killer’s sake, kidz, just have some fun with these dumb ditties! Here’s my own compilation of some hilariously anonymous favorites:

Ten little gays swallowed absinthe and wine: One drank poppers, and then there were nine. … Nine little gays, out on a blind (very) date, one plowed Rona; then, there were eight. … Eight little gays brunched well at 11: The “Melange of Fresh Oysters” wasn’t. Then there were seven. … Seven little gays orgied madly to Little Mix: The sling unhinged, then there were barely six. … Six little gays danced black-faced, to jive: BLM caught wind and then there were five. … FIIIIIVE … GOLDEN … COCKRINGS! … Five little gays, hard-sweating their core: One kissed a dumbbell; then, there were four. … Four little gay subs a-sucking Master’s pee; one spilled a drop, then there were three. … Three little gays, lamenting they were few, partied at Geffen’s, then there were two. … Two little gay cops twirled a mean strippergun: The safety was off; then, there was one. … One little gay cruising Grindr for fun, ignored post-midnight instincts . . . and then there were none.

That Twitter world, of course, went gaga over “Ten Little Gays,” with everyone trying to gaily out-slaughter the other: That Twitter would obliviously grab hold of old Agatha and run with her seems but only natural, too, where in this Instagram/TikTok world, the concept of “reading books” has been relegated to just something old people isolate to in their sunny rocking chair patch at the assisted living home.

Dear Howard: All right. I’ll be the brave, bitchy size queen here and admit what everybody’s been thinking since the day COVID first struck and left us single boys abandoned, all alone by our slutty selves: My private toybox is nothing but a cruddy pile of poorly-made, unfulfilling junk — a mass of tangled electrode wires, greasy stray batteries, anal bullets, grommets and porn star penises of various sizes promising erotic ecstasy at 12 separate speeds! And not a single one of my euphoria-makers actually delivers on their promise, granting they even buzz at all. I’m so over Fort Troff, Tom of Finland, Extreme Restraints and even Dr. Sado, too. I’m not looking to win the Big Butt Slut Gape Contest; by the same wrecked token, I don’t want to have to ask myself, “Are we destroying yet?” There must be some smutty boy/toy products of “real feel” latex legitimacy out there, but where? — Footballer

Dear Loosey: Everyone knows if you want a fine drink of water, you gotta get it from the well/if you wanna get to Heaven, you got to raise a little hell. Foots, I think it’s time you graduate to the big boys’ toys, and Uncle Howard here may have discovered just the place for all your one-stop shopping satisfactions: mrhankystoys.com (a frowned upon plug, I know, but unavoidable in this case).

As Hanky’s homepage headline titillates: “Stop the spread. Stay inside. Get a dildo.” “We’re one of the most-awarded and well-recognized sex shops around, online or otherwise,” they crow, with high-grade silicone and extensive testing with skin sensitization, with Realistic, Fantasy and Sci-Fi dildos. Bingo!
Keep in mind, Loosey, these are the Rolls-Royces of dildos … with prices that match: Just for doing what your boyfriend can’t, one of Hanky’s “lovely monsters” is gonna set you back a Benjamin or two, Oh, and a word of caution, as well, for all you girth enthusiasts: When shopping at Hanky’s just be sure your wallet’s not bigger than your sphincter: a mere size Medium at Hanky’s would be considered Jumbotron by normal toy standards anywhere else, and XL or XXL (Remove-O-Balls sold separately) is the circus comes to town!

Dear Howard: When I was young and gnawed hunger, I thought, “If only I can get rich enough to eat every day, life would be gravy; well, now that I’m affluent, I’d like everyone to know that money can, indeed, buy happiness. Lots of it. But I also found out along the way just what money can’t get. Should I tell ’em, Howie, or can you handle this one? — Once Busted-Flat Kye Ki D.

Dear Gravy Train: Kye … Ki Ki … Dee? Elton’s Kiki? not The Kiki Dee? Gurl! Don’t go ghostin’ my heart now, lest I go gyrating too far down ye ol’ “lyrical trailblazer” trail (accompanied by fellow, shooting black-hole yesteryear stars, a la Helen Reddy/Toni Tennille/Carly Simon ilk). I think I can take control of them biscuit wheels from here, Busty. Much appreciate the offer, though. You’re a legend and a scholar.
Bois, there are 10 things money cannot ever buy: 1. Manners. 2. Morals. 3. Respect. 4. Character. 5. Common sense. 6. Trust. 7. Patience. 8. Class. 9. Integrity. 10. Love.

As for everything else? Well, money changes everything. Enough said. Sang it, Miss Thang … whine it, Cydi … I said, moneeeey! … Right from the staaahrt … Keep your masks on, men … Don’t let Rona win … la lah, la lah la laaaaaah!

— Howard Lewis Russell
Send your questions to AskHoward@dallasvoice.com!