Tracy W. Bastard

I've known Tracy forever, and aren't the rest of you jealous? He is talented, charming, and almost as witty as I am. In the past we did faire together, crawled through the Castro on Halloween, raised the bar on what constituted a social faux pass, and never dated the same woman (a key factor to our continued friendship). Alas, he no longer lives in the same time zone, but I await his eventual return. Texas can only hold him in prison for so long (that's figuratively speaking, folks). If you are lucky enough to spend a significant amount of time with him, I recommend the following hard and fast rules:

1) Bring your mental "A" game. If you can't keep up, you won't be happy
2) Have some appreciation for music
3) Be prepared to hear how wonderful his daughters are (better yet, have brag stories for your own children)
4) Never, ever, ever ask him what a Bush Bag is

You couldn't get a pen in your foot, y' swine.

He's not your grandfather.

He's a human being, isn't he?

He fought the war for your sort. I bet he's sorry he won.

He's not hiding behind a smokescreen of bourgeois cliches.

His nose is very.

He's not taller than you. You're shorter than he is.

Don't interfere with the basic rugged concept of his personality.

He knows how to behave. He's had lessons.

It's his considered opinion that you're a bunch of sissies.

I just have one thing to say to you, Tracy Bush: you're a swine.

Writing a testimonial for Bushbaby is a daunting task, as you know that eyebrow thing is going to start, and he'll be sitting there, reading it, with that look on his face. We all know that look, now don't we?

Super hanc supercilium aedificabo ecclesiam meam, baby, if you'll permit a Petrine paraphrase. Tracy is the founder of The Church of the Arched Brow and the Dead Pan Delivery.

Okay, I can't think about that, and must continue.

TB = the measure of the man. Take one TB as many times a day as you can.

TB = a communicable disease which makes you cough stuff out of your nose, and gets you committed to a sanitarium. No, wait, makes you cough stuff out of your nose because you're laughing so hard, and gets you put in an terrarium. No, wait….Nevermind.

TB(A) – To Be Amused. Profoundly. And often.

I'm so glad we never shared Faire dirt. It would have gotten really ugly, really quickly.

I could have forgiven him his youth (an accident of circumstance), his height (an accident of genetics and good diet), but not his blazing wit (an accident involving being dropped on his infant head, from a height, permanently rewiring the lad so that he has a dedicated tranny snap queen's wit trapped in a giant straight boy's body).

And he's a talented musician.

And his children are cuter than mine.

And he's taller then I am (oh, right, I mentioned that already, but size doesn't really matter, does it?)

But, seriously, folks.

Only had the pleasure of meeting the Divine Thunder Bird online about a year ago, but it seems as if we've know each other much longer. The more I learn, the more he worries me. And who else could answer Gwen Stefani sampling questions and not laugh at me (at least to my face)?. When he did that, I knew I was sunk.

To paraphrase Johnny Mercer, "Speaks German, that vermin, doll."

Like one of those weird European digestifs: pungent, spicy, bitter, acerbic, dark, and surprisingly addictive.