Read this on The New Yorker last night. Really Funny.http://www.newyorker.com/shouts/content ... ts_rudnick
Charles Roselli set out to discover what makes some sheep gay. Then the news media and the blogosphere got hold of the story.
―The Times.
Enough already. I’m Troy, a gay sheep, and I’ll tell you the truth. Although I’m conflicted about calling myself a gay sheep, because I don’t like to think that my sexuality defines me; let’s just say that I’m a sheep who happens to be gay. Being gay is just a simple biological fact, like having a fleecy undercoat or bleating while you’re being shorn, or getting aroused whenever you see a bulky turtleneck sweater.
When I was growing up, I assumed that I’d be just like everybody else, and that someday I’d be bred with a ewe and slaughtered. But, of course, those other feelings were always there; even when I was only a few years old I would gaze at another male lamb and think about sharing a stall, with just enough hay and maybe a nice mid-century trough. I tried not to focus on my urges, and whenever my mom caught me rubbing up against the fence post that I called Skipper I’d pretend I had lice. But as the years went by I started to act on my desires, first with Ed, who was a ram, if you know what I mean. Later, I became involved with Rick, a sheep my own age, although after our encounters Rick would always claim that he was drunk on compost, and he’d butt me with his head and insist, “Dude, let’s go get us some mutton.”
Finally, my dad found me with Rick, and he flew into a blind rage, yelling that he had no son, and that if I was lucky I’d end up as a cheap Peruvian cardigan worn by a truck-stop hooker in Alaska. And so I ran away, and I went wild. I experimented with everyone and everything. Bulls. Mules. Duck, duck, goose. I found out exactly why they’re called the Three Little Pigs. Call me Old McDonald, because I had the farm. I even made some adult films, and maybe you’ve heard of them: “Wet Wool,” “Lassie, Come Here,” and the mega-selling “Hoof and Mouth.” Then, one morning, I woke up next to a horse, a hen, and an ear of corn―that’s right, all the food groups. And I was disgusted with myself. What was I, livestock?
And so I re-joined my flock, up on Brokeback. I didn’t expect to be accepted; I just needed some time to graze and grow. I had some terrific long talks with a wise old mountain goat, who told me, “Look, you can be anything you want to be―gay, straight, pashmina, whatever.” And I found my faith again, when I realized that, hey, there were sheep on the ark. There were sheep in the manger. And at the Last Supper there was stew.
At long last, I found the strength to come out to my family, my friends, and even my co-workers, to say right out loud, I’m Troy and I’m gay, but I hope that isn’t the most interesting thing about me. I’m just like you: I like to stand around in the rain and get caught in barbed wire and defecate while I’m asleep. And the amazing thing was―it was no big deal. Everyone nuzzled me, and my mom said that deep down she’d always known, and that she’d hoped that I’d grow up to be an artist or a performer or a cashmere crewneck. Of course, Little Bo Peep, my shepherdess, got a little teary at first. “Are you sure?” she wondered. “I mean, you’re so masculine.” And I informed her that being gay doesn’t mean you have to act like a hummingbird or a Chihuahua. And then she asked, very confidentially, “Is it true about Elsie the cow? And Ellen?” And I just rolled my eyes and said, “Darling.”
Right about then is when I met Doug. I saw him across the pasture, and I just knew. I assumed there’d be talk―he’s a black sheep. And, I’ll confess, I used the oldest line in the barn. I sidled right up to him and I said, “Baa baa, black sheep, have you any wool?” And he looked me right in the eye and murmured, “Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full.” And I replied, “I can see that.” We’ve been together ever since, and we don’t care what anyone thinks. Because, baby, at the end of the day we’re all just animals.
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