Breeder's Digest

I’m sorry if this comes as a shock to you, Dear Breeder, but your dinner parties suck. The small talk is uncomfortable, the food uninspired, and the cloth napkins wholly un-monogrammed. Remember that time I canceled on you at the last minute because I was having “an ironing emergency”? That was a lie. Remember that other time I canceled on you, because I was certain if I stepped out of the house, I would be swept up by a giant, hawklike bird of prey? Okay, that was not a lie, but I could just as easily have come up with one, if you’d really put me to it.

The reason no one enjoys your food, home, or company is because you clearly have no idea what you’re doing in the domestic realm, and yet you stubbornly refuse to call upon the expertise of a more learned, more experienced homosexual point of view.

As an opportunity for growth, Dear Breeder, let’s take a gander at two dinner parties: one demonstrating a textbook lack of gay involvement, and one with a somewhat lighter touch.

Before:

“What time is Jeopardy on in 1953?”

As is clearly evidenced from the above photo, these women know how to have what they reluctantly refer to as “a good time.” Our charming hostess Gladys P., pictured extreme right, isn’t afraid to invite her friends over for an evening of oversized Swiss Cake Rolls, Magic Eye wallpaper patterns, and tragically comedic teeth. But what are her guests saying behind her back? Sue C., pictured extreme left, was heard loudly complaining from behind a full eyebrow that there wasn’t enough “sugar” for her “coffee.” I think we all know what that means. Jacqueline R., pictured second from right, pasted on her best Child Protective Services smile and wondered what her kids were doing right about then. And Misty W., second from left, simply grinned and bore it. And bored she was.

But now, Dear Breeder, through the magic of GayVision, let’s have a look at this selfsame dinner party, had you simply chosen to involve the various opinions and aesthetic sensibilities of any homosexual, anywhere.

After:

“Could someone fist me a grape?”

Oh, yeah. I like what I see here. In the interim, our valiant hostess has learned to keep her mouth shut, concealing her ridiculous teeth, and effecting instead a deeply erotic scowl. This bored housewife knows, with a single glance, how to communicate to her guests such popular phrases as, “Why, yes! The secret to my Swedish meatballs is grape jelly!” and, “Now get ready to have a series of small objects inserted into your anus!” The strong influence of a gay is evident here in the voluminous and silken fabrics draped across 90% of the banquet chamber, not to mention the headdress adorning the hostess, the delicate ringlets cascading down her back, the soft, moody lighting, the palpable sense that a violent orgy could break out at any moment.

We want your next dinner party to be a success, Dear Breeder—or rather, what we homosexuals consider a success: An evening full of unapologetically hedonistic sexual debauchery and barbaric feasting, culminating in a wildfire of coerced boundary-pushing and the destruction of thousands of dollars worth of personal property, and ending in the inevitable police intervention and series of arrests. Forget about those monogrammed napkins, Dear Breeder, and hand me a roll of Bounty. We’re all gonna bleed tonight.

Bon appétit!