10
GAY SAN DIEGO ADVICE FROM THE
July 30-August 12, 2010
Dear Wannabe, As the first and great-
est director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) I know firsthand, as it were, the completely justifiable fear associated with public displays of affection between two men (interracial couples, immi- grants, Tinsel Town Pinkos, etcetera). You are asking this
with J. Edgar Hoover (As channeled through Gay
San Diego’s resident medium, Cuauhtémoc Kish)
Dear J. Edgar, I have a problem. You see,
my 23-year old lover of three months refuses to hold my hand while walking down the street. He says it’s not a question of fear (he’s 6’3” and a bodybuilder), but his personal preference. He just thinks it’s “sappy” for any two adults to hold hands in public— gay or straight. I’ve even begun playing the old Beatles song, “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” but he won’t take the hint. How can I get him to place palm against palm and entwine fingers in a public forum? —Wannabe Hand Holder
question of the person who sacked agents on the spot for merely “looking stu- pid,” let alone appearing like walking, hand-holding “sex deviants.” And, except when engaging in the manly sport of arm wrestling, grown men holding hands does look stupid, so I’m inclined to side with your young lover on this one. Additionally, public
hand-holding might lead to other things you’ll later regret and which might be recorded in the dossiers I’ve been compiling on you both since receiving your letter (just a friendly notification; nothing to worry about). I remember when Meyer
Lansky, the Mafia’s Jew- ish accountant, got a hold of some flagrante delicto photos of me and my alter ego, my hand-picked associ- ate director at the Bureau, Clyde Tolson. Ah, Clyde. Hell, even we messed up one time after too many lunch- time martinis at the May- flower (let’s just say I
The late FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover and his handpicked as- sociate director, Clyde Tolson: best friends, partners in (fighting) crime and oh so much more.
was holding more than his hand). Well, our little slip, which began with in- nocent hand-holding, ham- pered me from going after organized crime for de- cades. I know things have
changed at least in plac- es like San Diego but why provoke heterosexuals when you can simply blackmail them? The unsavory image of your meat-hooks linked together will be fresh in their minds the next time they step into the voting booth to consider issues like this marriage equal- ity thing. (By the way, you wouldn’t believe the infor- mation I’ve compiled on the Mormon Church up here in heaven, so much hotter than they let on in the brochure, and which is available for
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HUMOR
a nominal fee.) My motto is “less is
more.” I remember how Clyde and I would rub up against one another during the workday, ever-so-subtly, and no one was the wiser or if they knew, they didn’t have the balls to say any- thing. Fear can be your greatest ally, as I proved by getting Lyndon Johnson on the Democratic ticket with those damning photos of JFK and his adulter- ess. Anyway, the electric- ity generated from Clyde’s passing workday touches at the office was enough to sustain me through weeks battling the Communists, and that imbecile, Harry Truman. Clyde and I were savvy enough to save our simmering affections for the bedroom (and our base- ment S&M dungeon). Before I died I in-
structed Clyde to destroy all my personal files and photos, even though Clyde begged me (on his knees) to save them for posterity. As a result, there are still enough doubts about our relationship to argue that we weren’t even lovers, let alone hand-holders, as many of my trusty Bureau col- leagues testified after my death. While in hindsight I find it staggeringly naive that anyone would believe that two men such as Clyde and myself, who lived in the same house, took meals together, and enjoyed va-
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cations with one another were simply good buddies, perception often becomes reality. You’re asking a simple
question, so I’ll go ahead and give you a simple an- swer. Don’t entwine your fingers in public. It looks funny and emasculated. I never held hands with Doro- thy Lamour or Lela Rogers while I pretended to date those glamorous babes, so why would I do that with a guy? Show some restraint and save those hands for putting your young lover in restraints in the privacy of your own home. Trust me, it feels much better than hand-holding. As a sign between the two of you that hand-holding and much more will be conducted later, in private, try humming a couple of bars of “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” while walk- ing down the street. (For the record, I’m still keep- ing tabs on John Lennon in the afterlife). Finally, always remember
this, Wannabe: any imbe- cile can hold hands, but only one man can have total and complete control of the FBI and it won’t ever be a pantywaist hand-holder like you!
(Up) Yours, J. Edna ☭
Seller will credit buyer $8,000 in lieu of Federal tax credit with additional credit available up to 3% of purchase price.
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