Went to the doctor. Doc, I says, you gotta help me. What’s wrong, he says. I’m all messed up, I says, I think I’m gay. Whaddaya want me to do about it, says him, you want a pill or something to not be gay? Can’t happen. No, I says, that don’t bother me, but my wife’s stopped talking to me. You’re married, he says, and you think you’re gay? Sure, I says, I’d rather kiss guys than my wife. Here, let me give you the number of a good plastic surgeon, he says.

Don’t like that one, huh? It’s okay, it’s a long night, I’ve got lots of ’em. My kid’s a real bright boy, a real smartie, always comes home with good grades, always does real well on tests, says he wants to go to college. Whaddaya want to go to college for, I always say, all they’ll do is teach you how much better you are than us and make you unhappy. It’s not like that, he says, what do you know. What do I know, indeed. How much do you make, I says, it’s not as much as I do, I bet you. You come back and tell me I don’t know anything when you’ve got a wife and a good job.

Tough crowd, no fooling. Throw me a bone here, folks, I’m doing the best I can, it’s not easy for me, since they outlawed freak shows at the circus, I can’t make people laugh with just my face anymore. Oh, that one you like. Sure, sure, it figures.