Holy Shit, COJO is Gay!

Like most able-bodied Americans, I work a job that requires me to get up before noon. I'm no hippy or vagrant or Mexican that can just sleep the day away, oh no… I actually have to rouse myself out of bed in the SINGLE DIGIT hours of the morning and drive to work, whether I'm still drunk from the night before or not.

And like most able-bodied Americans, I've got myself a morning ROUTINE. That is, shit I do every day without fail, because repetition reminds us that life is meaningless and we shouldn't feel bad about trolling interstate rest-stops for prostitutes to kill. My morning routine is likely no different than that of most able-bodied Americans: Wake up, vomit, wash blood stains out of underwear, pray to Crom, stand naked in front of window as Special Needs students walk past to bus stop, take stiff belt of Old Grandad, and watch THE TODAY SHOW.

Yeah that's right, THE TODAY SHOW. Don't pretend you don't watch it. And don't pretend Katie Couric and Ann Curry aren't two of the sexiest middle-aged bitches to have their images shot out of photon cannons. Oh, what I would give to love-rape those two vixens in the ladies' room of some skeevy bus terminal... and I'm not talking about the psyche-damaging, lesbian-making type of rape either, I'm talking about the good kind. The romantic kind.

Ann Curry especially -- whose indeterminate ethnicity is the result of several monkey-races melding DNA to create something far greater than the sum of their parts -- fuels my libidinous fire. Just take a look into her deep brown, sad-clown eyes. She's obviously living with a dark secret, like that her womb bears the fetus-anti-Christ; yet she trudges on, bringing us the news every morning, and never burdening us with the truth that will kill us all. This woman knows of the End Times and she rocks that shit all sexy-like.

So like most able-bodied Americans, as I turn down the volume on my Magnavox and imagine Ann Curry's luscious lips are not telling the world of rat-borne plagues in Paraguay -- but rather are addressing me and me alone, spouting sweet nothings like "put it in my dirty dookie-hole, Frenchie" -- I will release my engorged abortion-makyr from it's leather carrying case and proceed to MASTURBATE. Yes, masturbate. Because cum contains Xenu demons. By cleansing myself of positive-chi-blocking space monsters, I can charge through the rest of my day with an elevated consciousness and higher potential to succeed, right? Right.

However, THE TODAY SHOW is not without fault. It is not the pre-commute TV sex orgy it could be. Matt Lauer has that bland and vaguely unlikable quality so prevalent among today's TV personalities (known to TV scientists as "Carson Daly Syndrome"); and Al Roker is merely a less-queeny, Diversity Staffing version of Willard Scott. But neither of these omega males radiates enough personality to buzzkill a hot and heavy session of Curry-inspired self-abuse. If anything, Roker's presence on-screen enhances the fantasy aspect: It's obvious Roker's longed for years to tap that Curry ass, and here I am – in my mind – sodomizing Ann with an Atlantic salmon on the news desk, on national TV, her loving every minute of it, and Al's crying like child, unable to look away. But there is a presence on THE TODAY SHOW far more repugnant that either of these clowns. A presence that's effect on my personal passion could be described as something like Anti-Viagra. I'm referring of course to that fingernails-on-chalkboard man-harpy that goes by the moniker... Cojo.

It's not Cojo's taste for semen that repulses me. Now, I'm not going to lie to you and say that some of my best friends are gay; because that would obviously make me gay. Let's face it, spend enough time sipping apple martinis at Trunks in WeHo and even the manliest of men – i.e. Tom Sellek – would be sampling from the hors d'oeuvre tray that dare not speak its name. Don't believe me? Spend some time in prison. Where on Earth will you find a testosterone-to-buttlove ratio in more direct proportion than in America's prisons? The gay, like AIDS, is catchier than the theme song to TV's "Alice."

That said I have a deep appreciation for gay culture. I admire the taste, decorum, and fashion sense of Genus Homo Sexual. I admire their senses of humor, their ability to exude an air of fun under any circumstances, and their unrepentant embrace of their personal passions. Is it any wonder that gays throw the best parades in the world? I also admire their want to stick their penises into ANY available orifice. Gay men would fuck a colostomy hole if they could.

So I can say without hesitation that I love the gays. And if I were sent to prison for a crime I didn't commit, or even for a crime I did commit, I would not be chagrined to dabble. Say for instance a posse of Crips decides to use me as their personal pin-cushion? I would not cry out in shame "I'm a gay now!" No, I would wipe the gangsta-jizz from my lip, stand proud, and declare for the entire world to hear: "Yes Bobby, I'm a gay now!"

In fact, for many months I was CERTAIN that Cojo wasn't gay at all, just an incredibly ugly woman (instead of an incredibly ugly man). My penis would still recoil in disgust at the sight of him/her/it. It wasn't until I did some internet research on the nature of this creature that I learned Cojo is in fact a practitioner of ancient Greek party tricks. But truth be told, his homosexuality is not exactly a plus. Not for me so much as for the entire Rainbow Flag nation. Here you have this audio/visual disaster -- looking entirely like a middle-aged nouveau riche housewife from Palm Springs -- spouting off his "fashion expertise" on national television. Just what kind of image is NBC trying to project? More so than even those tasteless creeps on "Queer Eye for the Slightly Less Queer Guy," Cojo brings the whole gay culture down. If there's ever any question as to why we Americans, as far as we've advanced technologically and culturally, will still in this day and age commit heinous hate crimes against homosexuals, like tying them to train trussels and so forth, I offer a simple, one-word answer: Cojo. Yes Bobby, Cojo.

So I think it's high time that gays and straights alike join hands, albeit latex-glove-clad hands, and stand up against the network brass that have foisted this wretched abomination upon our psyches. It's time to let them know we've had enough. Cojo's Warhol-prescribed fifteen minutes have long passed, so let's put him to rest -- preferably in a shallow grave deep in the high-desert. They owe it to us, and it needs to be done. Lest I never achieve erection again -- lest I never again spray my Magnavox with the Clorox-scented goodness of Ann Curry's make -- it damn well needs to be done.