Homophobia Is Gay

Cold wind blew in my face, and the rain splashed into my shoes. I squinted in an evil manner at the puddles on the ground and sniffed helplessly at a lady who was passing me on the footpath. She screwed her face up at me and walked faster, moving to the other side of the footpath. I stopped and turned around, pouting. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder and began running. I blinked and shrugged; she was ugly, anyway. I beamed at the cloudy sky, expecting the rain to vanish from the gleam of my perfect, white teeth. Subsequently, the clouds did not part to show the sun, and it did not stop raining. I frowned and instead, hugged the pole of my froggy umbrella tighter, spinning around on the footpath. I thought about breaking out into a magnificent song about moisturiser and oak trees, but decided against it because that would ruin my reputation and strain my voice. I was in a musical once, but I had to retire before the first performance because three of my nails broke and I had been accused of using too much make-up. The poor love, Beck, didn’t know what she was accusing me of. After she had made quite a spectacle of her ugly, red face, I had quietly offered to give her some tips about foundation and the uses of concealer. Of course, being stubborn and rude like she is, she defied her place in the social status and slapped my wonderful face with her semi-clean hand. I was thoroughly offended and never set foot in that school ever again.

I tugged out a small purple iPod from inside my rain jacket and turned it on. I placed the ear pieces in my ears and began dancing to my favourite-est song ever. After hitting a man’s head and almost beheading an elderly woman with my umbrella, I turned the little machine off and slipped it back into my jacket. For safety reasons. Actually, no, I wouldn’t really care if I beheaded anybody with an umbrella. But I’m sure that police man over there would. And I don’t think I’d like to be shut away in a jail cell for ever. The colour of the walls would not go with my nails.

Immediately bored, I decided to summon my friends. Yes, such perfect people like myself are allowed to summon friends. I dug around in my pockets for my phone. As I pulled it out, the other less-important pedestrians on the footpath gave me wary looks and eventually crossed the street. I snapped my teeth at them and sent Raoul a text asking where the hell he was.

A burly man on a tractor trundled past, chewing a piece of hay. Obviously, one of the lower classes of society: the hay eaters, also known as ‘the Hill Billies’. Deeply insulted that this country trash was in my presence, I stared up and down the street, wondering where the hell this infectious beast had come from. If the pen where all these farm-dwelling creatures lived had broken, I hoped to god that someone had fixed it and rounded up any strays.

The hill billy lazily turned his head. Unfortunately, we made eye contact. I glared at him viciously before turning on my heel and flailing my green frog umbrella around. I threw a quick glance over my shoulder and saw the hill billy frown in mock confusion. Stupid, stupid goat-like hay eater. I attempted to spit on the foot path, but accidentally spat into someone’s shopping bag. The shopping bag did nothing. The owner of the shopping bag got cross. I narrowed my eyes and slammed my umbrella shut, quickly strutting across the street out of the range of the furious lady’s handbag. I enjoy putting the less beautiful people in society down; it makes my ego dance like a man prostitute on hormone pills. No joke. Really.

By now, the rain had stopped, but it was still a depressing grey sky. Blah, blah, blah. Grey skies remind me of … of burning buildings. And melting duct tape. Um, ew.

I sized up a red letter box and, deciding that the red was too vulgar, turned my nose up in disapproval. I made a mental note to order the council to make all letter boxes yellow. At that moment, a number of significant things happened. One: my phone vibrated in my pocket. Two: I spied the most gorgeous-est guy on the opposite side of the street, causing me to have a disturbance in the trousers and, three: a small Christmas beetle crawled over my shoe, destroying the perfect whiteness.

I read Raoul’s message while stepping away from the hideous bug which I had kicked under someone’s shoe as they walked past. Ew. I don’t think squished bug goes very well with the cement. But I guess cement is just cement and so, it doesn’t really matter. I wish cement was pink or purple. Grey is so drab and fugly. I had a grey cat once, but I spray painted it blue and it died. But that was a long time ago. I think about … 6 months ago. Bah.

I frowned at Raoul’s reply: ‘Porsche, you idiot. I’m in school.’I shook my head and clicked my tongue, walking but not looking at where I was going. You must always be walking if you’re by yourself in a busy street. If you’re not walking, then you look like a douche that has no where to go and people might mistake you as one of the low-classed people. But that rule only applies if you’re a high achiever like me. If you’re in a group, though, with lots of semi-perfect people, then it’s okay to sit down somewhere. Even if it’s the middle of the footpath, it doesn’t matter because the bottom-feeders [also known as the Street Carp] should have to step around you. But really, love, if you’re with me then you could be wearing last season’s hair accessories and still look absolutely one eighth as good-looking as me.

Deciding to hang out with Raoul for a while whether he was in school or not, I spotted a taxi cab across the street. I crossed the road, causing several angry cars to stop abruptly, and got into the taxi.

“Excuse me, driver. I think I would like to be taken to Pen Dale Valley High immediately.” Not bothering with my seat belt, – let’s face it, they’re for middle classed people – I stared out the window and batted at my hair.

“Sorry, mate, but this is someone else’s cab,” My face twisted painfully as I was called ‘mate’. I ground my teeth together and calmed myself down. Insults could never get any worse when it came to the word ‘mate’. The car moved slightly as the door opened and someone else got in. It was then that I realised that the taxi driver was wearing sunglasses and had a moustache just like the “Remain on the ve-hi-cle,” policeman from Meet the Fockers. I burst out into a fit of laughter, scaring probably both the stranger and the ve-hi-cle guy.

“Er … you can ride, too if you want,” a voice said in a bewildered tone that sounded like honey and pink bathwater flowing delicately down the drain. I ended my laughter and straightened up quickly to see who the lovely voice belonged to. Ohhhh em gee.

I giggled very homosexually and swatted at the air, “Oh, thanks.” The sound of my reputation going down the drain filled the air as I spoke. I frowned at myself when the guy looked away, turning away his handsome scene face. The ve-hi-cle guy started the taxi and pulled out onto the road. I pretended to check my nails, but really, I was observing the very nice scene boy in the passenger seat. Unfortunately, he caught me in the act twice, so I decided to look out the window. I spied a partially-attractive male human sitting on the side of the road. Poor love, he deserves better than to be a bum in the gutter with his looks.

Breaking the awkward silence, I put on an American accent, “Ohh, look. Someone’s thrown out a perfectly good white boy,” Fail, fail, fail.

The guy in the passenger seat turned around and blinded me with his perfect, foundationed face, “Uh …” his expression was sympathetic. The ve-hi-cle guy let out an exasperated sigh, his fugly moustache amazingly managing to not move. I dug my nails into my arm and mentally abused myself for being such an idiot American impersonator.

The scene kid cleared his throat, “So …” He began, turning around more in his seat, “You have a name?” Of course I have a name, beautiful human. Let me pay you to follow me home and I shall tell you.

“Um … Porsche. Like the car.” I smiled uneasily. He nodded and glanced at the ve-hi-cle guy in disapproval. To our distaste, he had turned on the radio; to some freak hill billy station. Bah. I see this is another of those escaped hill billies in disguise.

“Awesome name. Porsche …” My mouth dropped open at the sound of his honey-bathwater voice saying my name. “Mine’s Keyru. It’s a little strange …”

A million choirs up in heaven sang. And the car stopped. And the ve-hi-cle taxi driver cleared his throat. In what little things I’ve learnt through-out life, it’s times like these when procrastination come in very handy. I also know that old grumpy policeman look-a-likes from Meet the Fockers ruin the procrastination moments.

“Hurry, kid. The meter’s running.” He grunted, picking his nose behind his hand. I really don’t think he should do that. He might grow snot on his fingers and then become bulimic and then die. But really, no one cares about fugly men in taxies, so no one would be too upset.

Flailing my hands around and pretending to accidentally miss the door handle, I stubbed my finger on the window and broke a nail. “Aweh, LOOK.” I held my wrist with my free hand and shoved the broken-nail-finger in Keyru’s face.

His mouth sympathetically turned down at the corners. He flipped his flippy-scene hair out of his eyes and kissed it better, “Run along, Porshie, dear.” My jaw dropped open and I groped around for the door handle blindly.

“Er … thank-you, goodbye.” I mumbled quickly before half falling, half rolling out of the taxi. I swore I heard the ve-hi-cle guy mutter to himself about gays and their overdramatic behaviour problems. Still sprawled on the footpath next to the car, I stuck my finger up at the ve-hi-cle taxi driver and waited patiently for him to look. He caught my reflection in the review mirror and frowned. I up-righted myself and strutted to the school gate. Ignoring the Pen Dale Valley High sign, saying that trespassers will be prosecuted, I stepped over a foaming snail which was inconveniently placed in the middle of the footpath and entered the school. I threw a quick glance over my shoulder and saw that the taxi had already disappeared. I wondered if the ve-hi-cle guy was related to the teleporting fat guy and had installed a teleporting glove to the car somewhere. I used to know a very nice man I called the teleporting fat guy. He used to sneak up on me and run away with my food. He died the other day from being too fat. I did not attend his funeral because I am against all funerals and funeral receptions. Actually, I’m not too fond of dead fat people.

I crossed the empty school yard, stepping over unusual brown substances and discarded syringes, and sat down in the middle of the outdoor basketball court. Or, what was left of it, anyway. I texted Raoul again to ask him which class he had.

At that moment, a shadow loomed over me, making everything darker than it already was. I looked up slowly, preparing myself for Darth Vader to slash me in two with his light sabre.

“Ahh, bonjour, Porsche!” No, it was worse than Darth Vader. “Comment allez-vous?”

I smiled mockingly up at my old French teacher. Her fake-French face leaned closer and her magnifying glasses threatened to slip off of the bridge of her crow nose. If I had remembered any French, I’m sure that it wouldn’t be any nice vocabulary. I racked my brain for the reply to ‘comment allez-vous’. What did that even mean, again? Hello, may I take your picture? Comment on Allan’s voodoo? “Er … J’ai été violé, merci, Madame.” I replied with what I thought was: ‘I am very good, thank-you.’ When in doubt of what something means, just say ‘everything is fine’ or ‘I’m calling the police’ and they should leave you alone soon enough. Yes, yes; works every time, I tell you.

Madame’s eyes widened behind her ridiculous glasses and she stepped back a few paces. Her hand fluttered up to her neck and she briskly walked off to the LOTE block, muttering to herself in French.

I shrugged and picked up my phone. Raoul still hadn’t texted back. I sniggered and remembered the time I got his phone confiscated when I rang him while he was in detention. He didn’t talk to me for a whole two minutes. Bwahaha.