Closet jokes? Really?

Wink-wink-I-might-be-gay was coy and titillating 20 years ago, but now it just makes you look afraid, ashamed and pathetic.

You are entitled to come out on your own terms and in your own way, obviously, but you insult what we've achieved and you forfeit our look-the-other-way professional courtesy when you repeatedly play wink-wink-I-might-be-gay on national television in 2017. Those of us who are never-look-back out and those of us who are resolutely-in-the-closet not have made our choices and are living our lives the way we decree. But our culture still dictates that you can't have it both ways. And your self-indulgent behavior tonight made you look like a childish coward, Kevin.

Here's an idea:

If you're nominated for a Tony, prepare a speech and use your celebrated actor skills to memorize and deliver it in an efficient, umm-free manner and you won't get played off.

No. I'm not done being furious about this.

The ACA -- like any early-generation social program -- has its flaws, but it's designed to allow for those flaws to be addressed and corrected as they manifest themselves. The ACA has given millions of Americans -- including me -- reasonably affordable access to vital healthcare that was actively denied to us in the catastrophes of our country's supply-side healthcare model.

For you to actively -- HATEFULLY -- mischaracterize any sick HUMAN BEINGS the ACA may have failed as "Obamacare victims" to make them pawns in your divisive political propaganda instead of working to fix whatever failed them so they can get the medical attention they need is so beyond immoral and unethical that it should bring us all to our knees. And I'm so beyond tolerance for this administration that I'm not afraid to say I actively wish catastrophic medical victimhood on everyone who conceived of and works to perpetuate this moral terrorism.

Kellyanne victims

I've seen "Obamacare victims" in other trumpaganda this week, so little Kellyanne here is just staying on (morally vile and intellectually repulsive) point like she was told to. But she can't even do it right. She just vomits together meaningless talking points without spending a half second to struggle with the non-complexities of context or voice or parallel and then waits by the pellet dispenser for her reward. She's so inept that she's inept at being inept. And she somehow keeps flaring up like a herpes outbreak or a meth relapse. But thankfully not as often as Hair Furor.

Celebrating D.C. Pride in an Iowa gym with a couple of disinterested straight guys

It's way too hot to be dealing with The Macarena -- which is exponentially worse than you remember it -- on the gym sound system. But it's never too hot for a gym selfie on the lat pulldown machine.

Plus the camera's over HERE, you moron

#AmericaFirstEmoji!

Is Ivanka still gonna make all her Imploding(R) brand knockoff shoes in China too so she can keep empowering Chinese women with below-poverty wages?

Oh, wait -- those people still don't matter. Especially now that we have a hashtag proclaiming we're all about #AmericaFirstPatrioticEmoji!

The tenacity and the fortitude

Sometimes being bipolar means waking up with your head covered in a gray wool blanket in the middle of a hot drenching rain and the weight of it is practically crippling but you know you're not depressed and you know you're not confused and you know you can breathe and you know you're invested in fighting your way out so you treat every blink and every word and every thought as fuel that sparks the next blink and the next word and the next thought and even though you're foggy and slow and maybe even late you're MOVING and no matter how long it takes and how hard you have to work just to achieve your minimum for now you know that it's just for now and you'll sooner than later find your way out of that hot wet scratchy gray wool blanket and you'll know from hard-fought experience that you may not have the power to make the rain go away but you have the tenacity and the fortitude to outlast it and find your clarity and focus again in the warm, restorative sunlight it was trying to hide from you and even though you're never entirely sure you know exactly what that unclouded sunlight feels like you'll always get close enough to know what you're fighting for and how to be stronger and smarter and even more certain of your indestructibility the next time.

Can you read my mind?

I continue to be horrified by the artifacts I'm uncovering from my childhood that 1) were really gay and 2) for reasons known only to the gods I never had sense enough to throw away instead of storing them in boxes I was condemning myself to trip over for all eternity.

To wit: every freaking issue of my years-long subscription to Sheet Music Magazine, which delivered to my piano monthly collections of themed sheet music augmented by an occasional interview with a theme-relevant musician. The whole thing couldn't have been any gayer if it included magazine covers devoted to Muppets, the Annie and Superman movies, or beribboned teddy bears pretending to play piano duets.

Pop the popcorn, scoop the borscht and pour the vodka. The show's about to start!

I try not to make gratuitous remarks about physical appearances ...

but someone who looks like Eric Trump dismissing anyone as "not even people" is like the catastrophic intellectual, moral and human failure Donald Trump calling someone a loser.

Is this how you please YOUR dad, Ivanka?

I trust Ivanka Trump HQ for shopping insight and gift recommendations from the heart, so I ordered the pancakes on the bottom left for my dad.

If you want to indulge in a Trump-related gift for yourself this morning, find this tweet on Twitter and read the comments. They will lighten your heart, give you insight into the minds of today's consumers and restore your faith in humanity.

Bridget is visiting!

And it took only 467 tries to get a selfie with her where she's finally kind-of looking at the camera!

Gym selfies are so gay

It's pride month so I'm proudly wearing my Proud to Run annual pride-weekend 8K race shirt from when I was a proud Chicagoan today at The Gym With No Gays Or At Least None Who Make Eye ContactTM. But there's nobody here to see it, so I'm forced to focus all my Rainbow Sparklepony efforts on outing myself on here instead. So cue the glitter cannons because I have an announcement that will totally surprise you ...

The D is for Draft Dodger

There's no way you even KNEW today was D-Day without some random staffer having accidentally seen it on your Selfish Entitled Cowards of 2017 calendar. And it's troops *who*, you pants-wetting black hole of emotional need. You're (at least on paper) a grown man. If you're going to pretend you're nobly fighting for isolationist American nationalism and issue such a heartfelt tweet (Wow! A whole tweet! With a PICTURE!) about the American sacrifices that have grotesquely allowed you to become the American president, LEARN TO SPEAK AMERICAN.

GOD! There aren't enough words in all the languages on earth to describe how much I hate you.

Seriously?

Man-boy is STILL so obsessed with the size of his ... crowds that he's using this photo as his Twitter banner. Not a picture of him showing familial love and support for any of the so-recently traumatized children from his multiple wives. Nothing showcasing his celebrated bipartisan deal-making accomplishments. Nothing representing international diplomacy or a show of solidarity with, say, any G7 country that may have dealt with multiple terror attacks in the last 48 hours. Nothing promoting the coming together of a deeply divided America. Nope. Just a tightly cropped crowd shot outside of his plane. Because his pathologically desperate need for validation and popularity is the Number One message he wants to telegraph to the world.

Him first. And only him. Him, him, him.

I swear ...

man-boy's only goal in life -- after personal financial gain at the expense of everyone but him, of course -- is to test my resolve not to use blistering profanity at or about him.

Paradiddle!

If you thought you were finally safe from my unrelenting I'm-in-a-show posts, you're in for a big singy, dancy -- and now tappy! -- surprise. Because a mere 24 hours after my Victor/Victoria divorce was finalized, I've jumped taps-first back into my on-again/off-again affair with Billy Elliot. So to speak. And this time I think it will last. At least through July.

Anyway, here's my first-of-thousands rehearsal selfie of me in my beloved, super-awesome tap shoes that cost $200. But they've improved my tapping exponentially so I've gotten way more than $200 of happiness out of them ... along with some killer pullbacks. They're weighty and balanced and solid and perfectly hollow under the taps so they make resounding, satisfying, machine-gun-like THWACK sounds over and over exactly the way I want them to. If you think the perfect shoes can't be life-changing, I have some deliciously full-bodied paradiddles to show you. So to speak.

Jeez

I'm beginning to think you don't know how to run a country. Or understand democracy. Or remember Mitch McConnell's "proudest moment." Or tell the truth. Or not whine. Or drain a metaphorical swamp. Or define "metaphor." Or probably even flush a toilet. It's like you're a petulant, inarticulate man-boy or something.

This tweet aged well

You just days ago whined that your 11-year-old son was traumatized so you dropped everything and rushed to the golf course -- your 23rd time in your 19-week presidency -- where you paused just long enough to tweet a commercial for the American gun lobby in response to a mass murder in London before presumably getting back to your game before your divots dried out. You're worse than everything and everybody.