Putting the Hip Back Into Hip Holsters

Gentle readers,

In case you’ve been living under a rock in a musty-smelling cave somewhere in eastern Slovakia and were not already aware, we’d like you to know that Gayvorites has exponentially expanded its staff. Consequently, our headquarters have gotten a bit cramped. This predicament has resulted in numerous “accidental” ass grabs, “inadvertent“ titty twisters, Sidekick spills, Blackberry busts, iPhone incidents, etc. To increase office elbow room and reduce device accident occurrences, we needed a certain je ne sais quois.

We sat at our stylishly space-saving Ikea desks pondering the problem for days, and eventually decided to hold a brainstorm session on the matter at our weekly staff meeting. Amidst awkward silence and under-the-table texting, intern Theophallus mentioned something that surprisingly sounded like a good idea (which we usually attempt to shamelessly exploit as our own). Typically we are hesitant to embrace the ideas of our subordinates. Despite their Ivy League educations, by and large they’re heavy on the beauty and light on the brains. Maybe we should hire Columbia University students next year. But we digress.

Proving that her parents did not over-estimate their daughter’s smarts by sending her to Brown, bI-vy League intern #2 recounted that on her way home from an interview with John Deere, she noticed a snappy lesbian detaching her Nextel from a clip strapped onto her Coldwater Creek belt.

And there it was, something that had been staring us in the face all along. Something so practical we could hardly stand it. Could hip holsters be the solution to our cellular woes? The power lesbians always have all the answers!

Exhibit A

The more we thought about it, the more we realized that to the average corporate lesbian, hip holsters are not only practical and stylish, but vital to survival. For all you fledgling philosophers out there who’ve ever wondered where the power in power lesbians came from, the holster is your answer. The hip holster functions much like a battery pack—or better yet, an insulin pump—from which the power dykes derive the necessary life- and business-sustaining force to go about their day.

This is not to say that something so practical can't be chic as well! With a look pulled directly from the construction site, how can you go wrong? Holsters come in a variety of sizes and forms, and are available for every type of mobile device imaginable. They make an important visual statement. This simple piece of plastic is able to project: "I'm a no-nonsense woman who stays connected to the busy world I live in. I don't take shit from anybody, especially not those chauvinist pigs I work with in upper management."

The use of this handy apparatus also strengthens the connection between dykes and dads, two groups which Gayvorites has long argued are nothing short of clones. Dads’ motivations are slightly different though. Dads go to finally buy a cell phone, because “who doesn't have one these days?" and then the cute salesgirl convinces them to throw a hip holster in the cart as well because it's only $16.99. They love it because "you don't have to go into your pockets or nothing."

If you thought that hip holsters are limited to the humble duty of cradling cell phones, you can think again. The hip clip has inspired an entire artillery of clip-to-belt products that, when combined, wrap around the entire waist to establish an equator of sorts, a center of gravity that complies with the philosophies of yoga and one-stop shopping. Simply replace Batarangs and stun grenades with a Nalgene bottle and a full set of keys and Presto!—you have yourself a more sensible and dyked-out big sister to Batman’s Utility Belt.

Who knew Bruce Wayne was a trend forecaster?

After mulling over the dazzling possibilities, we decided that with all the success holsters have found in the lezzy community, Gayvorites could ONLY benefit from adding this “hip” addition to our office attire.

The aforementioned holster observations were enough to convince our purchasing office to "holster" our entire staff. We convinced them that if we cut coffee breaks and withheld salary increases for five years, we'd eventually break even. We gave each of our trusty staff members a holster, and then interviewed them about how they felt in regards to their new gadget. Here is a smattering of positive responses we collected:

"It's better than that time we got knitted tea cozies with the company logo for our Christmas bonus."

"I don't have a cell phone, but it does comfortably fit four Nutter Butters."

"Because this is a lesbian thing, does that mean it can also be a straight guy thing?"

"I love having a tool belt that holds my drill as well as the old mobile!"

"What’s a hip holster for? I know it's for phones but isn't that why pockets and purses were invented? Is this another crazy Japanese invention like eye-drop application funnel-glasses?"

“Hooray, my tamagotchi has a home!”

The initial results were incredible. No one bumped into each other at the water cooler or the copy machine. Everyone started labeling their food in the fridge and keeping their hands out of everyone else’s lunchbox. The company email system was flawlessly color-coded and labeled, and everyone emptied their inbox and deleted their trash. At company birthday parties, no one fought over the last piece of cake. Our pink table runners and seasonal flower arrangements were always perfectly in place. Yes, for a while at least, everything seemed to be smooth sailing. That is, until things got a little TOO efficient and “take charge.”

The first negative change we noticed was in corporate attire. Shortly after receiving her holster, our normally fashionista secretary came in to work wearing plaid flannel and a trucker hat. While gay cliches are fully within the company dress code, truth be told, we really just keep the girl around because she's a looker (the poor thing can't file or check voicemail worth shit). Several other female staff members followed "suit" and started wearing butchy ties, shoulder pads and chunky shoes. Our Then, scheduling meetings started to get a bit aggressive, with everyone vying for the coveted Wednesday at 2 pm meeting slot. We knew things had gone too far when Intern #1 smacked Intern #2 in the stomach with a bat during the company softball match, and yelled, "Suck it, bitch!" All the mis-guided, un-informed, amateur bravado was pitiful to watch. We began to fear an uprising or—God forbid—the formation of a union. Astonishingly, our employees were becoming free-thinking individuals and were starting to question our judgment. The hip holsters were producing undesired side affects and we just had to do something about it.

Eventually, a decision was handed down from corporate: the hip holsters would have to go. With a heavy heart, our interns begrudgingly made the long trek back to Radio Shack to return 76 hip holsters. It was extremely disappointing; much like receiving a liver transplant that the body then rejects. We had all learned a valuable lesson: authoritarianism should be—and will be—left in the capable, calloused hands of the power lesbians.

Good to Know: If your company doesn't offer health insurance, don't require your employees to strap radiation-emitting devices near vital organs.

The Bottom Line: Unless you're a Nobel Prize winner or the one "bringing home the bacon" in your domestic partnership, leave the hip holster on the shelf.

Rating: Home Improvement meets “Hips Don't Lie”

Dress Your Sandwhich in Baja & Southwest Sauce

As we live in such a competitive world, Gayvorites constantly stresses to our employees the importance of professional practice and development. When you’re part of the global treasure known as the blogosphere, it is essential to be proficient in shameless self-promotion and guerilla marketing tactics that keep you on top. To promote this initiative, the entire Gayvorites staff attended a mandatory weekend blogging convention in Tucson, for fresh ideas and general schmoozing. There we rubbed elbows with some of the hottest names in the blogging industry and scored some impressive contacts for our Rolodex. Among them was Boston based lesbian blogger, Dykachino, known for her daily ruminations on last season’s baseball stats, butch bargains and gas-station coffee. After swapping blogging tips and tricks, Dykachino revealed that she had been a Gayvorites reader since 1997, and has always dreamed of writing for us some day! Inspired by the revamped Make-A-Wish campaign, Gayvorites decided to go the extra mile to make dreams a reality for our readership. We presented our new colleague/fan an opportunity of a lifetime – a feature article. After fainting into a nearby faux-fichus, Dykachino gladly accepted and quickly left the convention to start brainstorming. We now present you with the musings of our hardened java lovin’ lez...

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If you have ever read David Sedaris, you may have noticed that the title of this post is an homage to his book Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim. Now I’ll admit I’m not one to read books, unless they’re written by Chelsea Handler (queen of sexcapades and lover of midgets), and as of now I’ve read all two books that she has to offer. While I wait for book number three to “hit the shelves”, I find myself drifting back to the work of my man main Dave, in the familiar way that my taste buds crave the zest of my gayvorite ol’ standby: chipotle seasoned, southwestern style dressing.

It was a couple of weeks ago when I had an epiphany. Lean Cuisine had just launched a new commercial, Mimi had just released the first single since her Emancipation, and everything was gAy-OK. I was busy singing along to “Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Obsessed” when the aforementioned commercial stopped me dead in my tracks. Let me set the scene…Three stylish moms on the go make a spontaneous pit stop at the mall to do some afternoon shopping. While riding the escalator to the second floor, likely in search of Ann Taylor Loft, they discuss what they had for dinner the night before. Mom # 2 closes her eyes as she slowly recalls the mouthwatering taste of her Lean Cuisine “Baja Style” Chicken Quesadilla, complete with roasted corn and melted cheese. My body began to tingle all over, the same way it did after I saw Indigo Girls in concert for the first time. I wanted it, I needed it, I had to have it. It was then that I realized, I will eat ANYTHIING as long as its name includes Baja and/or Southwest.

The ladies of Lean Cuisine. Notice the subtle primary color palette.

I’d like to think that me fancying these flavors is a representation of my class and sophistication, a result of my worldly travel and cultural experiences, but let’s face it girls, the farthest this bitch has ever traveled is Florida…or Mississippi (I’m not sure which is farther, probably because I don’t read enough, and David and Chels have never mentioned this in a

ny of their writing.) I’m not even sure which geographical location constitutes as Baja and or Southwestern anyway. These two terms being a little less self-explanatory than, say, my good friend “Tex-Mex”. Do they mean the Southwestern part of the U S of A, which includes but is not limited to Southern California, Arizona, and New Mexico? (Yes, this being a research based blog, I Googled.) This question is likely one that will remain unanswered in my book, a sort of magical food mystery. Partly because I wanted to Ask Jeeves, but in this economy I think he has been laid off, and partly because it doesn’t really matter where the he

ll it comes from. Thus, I will attribute my love affair to what I like to call an “Evolution of the Palette.” And here’s how it happened…

During my elementary years, I spent the days dunking my dino-shaped chicken nuggets in to BBQ sauce, playing it on the safe side with that hickory-smoked goodness. I would then digest my savory meal with an after dinner romp on the Burger King jungle gym (which I’m sure has since been eliminated due to multiple lawsuits.)

A heaping pile of dinosaur nuggets. Where’s the BBQ?!

As you may imagine, during my teenage years I was always looking to take a walk on the wild side. The sauce that answered my calling was a tangy, orange concoction, derived from Cayenne Pepper. Yes, I’m referring to that of the classic college fave, buffalo sauce. My attitude was that a of a frat brother's, proud pledge of Kappa Kappa HOTT, Brotherhood of Buffalo, proud partner of Alpha Blue Cheese. However, I quickly grew tired of my peers trying to prove their machismo over wings. Who could endure more spice? Who cares? I was sick of watching people break a sweat eating dinner, so there I was, left with one hand in my pocket, and the other on a celery stick.

Typical Kappa Kappa HOTT. Guess who’s ass WONT be burning later? Mine. I quit!

During my college years I didn’t completely stray away from the classic buffalo chicken wing, however, I was open to new alternatives. I’ll let you in on a little secret - the aftermath of a basket O’ buff wings from Dominoes was a gassy and sassy one, and how do you expect me to expand my new circle of friends if I was full of shit?! Enter DJ Baja Fresh!

I know that some of you readers at home may be getting frustrated, especially if you are still stuck in Phase 1 or 2 of this evolutionary journey. But don’t get ants in your pants just yet! I want to help make the Baja/Southwestern transition as smooth as possible for you all. I advise you to just let nature take its course, (for those of you who just ate wings for dinner this may happen sooner than others) but if you just can’t wait, I have some suggestions…

g. Subway’s Chipotle Southwest Sauce: I would bathe in this stuff if I could. But this could get messy, not to mention, expensive. After all, this is no regular dressing, not to be found on the shelves of your local Super Stop & Shop. It is my guess that only Jared (Subway's original cover girl) knows how to get his hands on this coveted culinary creation. Then again, he’s lost so many lbs, that these days I bet he sticks to oil & vinegar on his footlongs.

a. Lean Cuisine’s Southwest-style Chicken Panini: This is the dish I just keep coming back to. I like to think of it as my loyal lunchtime delight, the golden retriever of sandwiches. The revolutionary tray grills the sandwich IN THE MICROWAVE! (chew on that Warm Dull-lights)! I assure you that this panini will have you feeling as if you’re dining outside a chic café in Southern California, even if you’re consuming while watching Passions in your sweaty dorm room.

y. Cheesecake Factory’s Baja Chicken Tacos: By far the classiest of the three (pairs well with a strawberry lemonade on the rocks). I suggest taking a date here to impress them with your mature taste, or to convert potential followers into full fledged Chipotle devotees.

I could invest more of my time and energy researching the origins of this delightful dressing, but I’d rather hop in my Subaru Baja and cruise over to my local Barnes & Noble to see if Ms. Handler’s gotten her shit together yet.

The Bottom Line: If more books had baja and/or southwest in the title I just might have been a literary genius.

Rating: Cynthia Nixon puts a ring on it.

Must be Gay-Treanwhore

It was one year ago today that the lesbian world was taken by storm. Yes, dear readers, today is the anniversary of the day Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh won their second summer Olympics, as well as the hearts of lesbians everywhere.

Lesbians have long found solace in sports icons such as the Williams sisters, Mia Hamm and Flo Jo. Look at how many athlesbians there are in softball alone: Ashley Charters, from Beaverton, OR, or Kaitlin Cochran (as in, she ran from the cock), or Cat Osterman (might as well be Oyster-man) or Caitlin Lowe, member of NPF Pride, and of course, let us not forget, glorious, glorious, glorious Jennie Finch.

However, despite the caliber of these toned hotties, it’s always nice to find some new pretty thing to look at, and beach volleyball has some untapped potential. Not to mention the fact that two lesbians are always better than one. So we decided to search for a lesbian powerhouse volleyball duo. We NEEDED a lesbian powerhouse volleyball duo. And that's where Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh came in.

Let's look at the facts. Misty Erie Elizabeth May Treanor (and yes folks, that is her real name according to Wikipedia) was born to a red-blooded, sports-playing father named Butch (a name which May have decided Misty's future). It's a little known fact that Misty May and Kerri faced off against each other on the high school volleyball circuit. Did their eyes meet across the court? Did they know of the greatness that would later come, and come hard?

A few years down the line, in 2000, Walsh missed several of the first games of the Olympics because a drug test came back with suspicious levels of testosterone, which may or may not signal some…you know…masculine qualities. Not long after that, she fatefully auditioned to be Treanor's partner and the two have been throwing bitches down in the sand together ever since. Ironically, the very same day that this dykey duo paired up, Walsh met her future "husband." And he's a MALE VOLLEYBALL PLAYER. We here at Gayvorites have never heard of a beard growing so fast. Shit, that doesn't just work out, it's way too convenient for both sides. Remember Dana and her "straight guy" tennis partner in the first season of The L Word?

Back to business. The pair dominated the beach so much that they might as well have just busted out the whips and chains and gotten the BDSM over with. In 2004, they won the gold at Athens without losing a single match, after which May-Treanor scattered her mother's Angela’s ashes all over the Frank McCourt. In other words the volleyball court serves as litter box for this pussy to dump her old business.

Before the Beijing Olympics, the two were riding high on a winning streak of an unheard of 101 matches and 18 tournaments. Upon their win in Beijing, Misty repeated her ash ritual, and then announced that she and Kerri were ready to have babies. It can be assumed that they meant together.

But we know that all good things, like gay programming on Showtime, eventually come to an end. Walsh and May-Treanor lost to Nicole Branagh and Elaine Youngs. However, this loss was nothing compared to the devastation of being beaten into submission by the next "It" power lesbian beach volleyball duo, April Ross and Jennifer Boss. Not only does this new duo also include a lady named after a month,” but their last names rhyme. It doesn't get much dykier than that, though Misty and Kerri sure made a good run at it. After this trauma, the the original duo went back to their husbands, Misty appeared on Dancing with the Stars, and Kerri got knocked up.

If you still need further convincing that May-Treanor is an A-1 muff diver, Gayvorites has compiled an annotated “best of” list from Misty May’s Facebook status updates proving her allegiance to The Home Depot and Lilith Fair.

l. "Going to Wild Rivers today. Taking my God daughter and her sister. So fun, haven't been there since high school." (Lesbians naturally revisit their “old stomping grounds.”)

e. "Breaks my heart watching what illegal whaling does. Go Sea Shepard!!! Stop the whaling. Reasearch....my butt." (Lesbians fantasy: Spelling errors and protecting large sea mammals.)

s. "Kerri and I shot with Shaq today, what a great individual one of the nicest, down to earth, and fun loving people. What an Awesome day"! (Lesbians don’t discriminate. They love all sports equally.)

b. "Took a hula lesson this morning. I will leave Hawaii tonight, boo hoo!" (Lesbians love grass.)

i. "At the car wash. Rub-a-dub-dub my car gets a scrub!" (Lesbians enjoy getting their Volvos soaked.)

a. "Splurged and just had a bittersweet truffle and hot apple cider at Gayle's Chocolates in Royal Oak." (If it has mulling spices, lesbians will drink it)

n. "Watching Deadliest Catch...such a gnarly job, it keeps me on the edge of my seat." (Lesbians deserve to know where their seared tuna comes from.)

s. "Kicked my own booty at the gym today, I am getting pretty good at jump roping." (Lesbians would give their best summer squash for anything involving a good cardio workout. Extra lez points for using the word “booty”)

Learn Volleyball Vocab: BALL HANDLING ERROR, CAMPFIRE, STUFF, TUNA, PENETRATION, ATTACK, KILL, HIT, DIVE, DEEP DISH, FISH, SIZZLE THE PITS, SHANK, WHALE

The Bottom Line: They wear Nautica bikinis. Enough said.

Rating: Kiera Knightly’s class ten underbite.

Manana Republic

Here at Gayvorites, we like to think of ourselves as an equal opportunity employer. But how can we deem ourselves as such when our staff is comprised primarily of homos? With the goal of improving our diversity rating and leveling the gaying field, Gayvorites posted two positions for “Straight Consultants” on monster.com, and to our surprise, we quickly received over 200 applicants. With that many resumes, we realized that we could never get through the paperwork alone, never mind the interviews and the mandatory in-seam measurements. That’s when we decided that we needed what every serious company has, a good ol’ fashion Human Resources Department. In the style of HBO's Entourage, we shamelessly asked ten of our most organized friends with positive moral values to head up our team. Who could refuse such an alluring offer, especially when your only responsibilities are to water the patio planters every other day and pretend you’re doing paperwork? Coincidentally enough, all of those we “on-boarded” happened to be named Emily, henceforth resulting in the creation of the Human Resources Har-em.

With the help of the Har-em, we were successfully able to weed out the dead weight and select the hairiest, most testosterone laden, baritone-voiced heteros for hire. At long last, we will have some strapping lads around the office to chop our firewood, open up even our most-stuck jar lids, and move our 500 lb shipping pallets. Most likely they'll just sit around and belch the alphabet or work on their slapshot, but we'll let that slide. We are proud to welcome our new recruits, Richard Ironhardd and Manclaw Lazer, to the Gayvorites team! Shalom, boys!

So with gentle and swift pats on the behind, we assigned our new eye candy the Sisyphean task of trying to turn traditional gay cuisine straight. And yes, we realize this undertaking is like asking grilling and boxing legend George Foreman to promote Bethenny Frankel's new SkinnyGirl smoothie line, but we had to try.
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I awoke in the middle of the night with my shirt wrapped around my head and a zip lock bag full of chocolate clenched between my thighs.

In our minds it was simple, there is nothing quite as gay as a chocolate covered banana (CCB). While others would have been quick to judge this dessert as irreversibly homosexual, we put our sexuality on the line and set out to prove that this queer delicacy could be made straight. When presented with the challenge of turning fag food into something even Rush Limbaugh would stuff his face with, we knew we would need to begin with a trip to the Gayvorites Heterosexual Research Facility.

With help from hi-tech imaging software provided by the US Army and the National Rifle Association, we were able to bring the secrets behind the CCB out of the closet. This is when we realized we’d bitten off more of the proverbial banana than we could swallow.

We put our manhood at risk to make a gay food straight.

You see, traditionally the CCB is served on a stick. We knew then and there that the stick would have to be the first thing to go. A real man gets his paws dirty. God forbid the CCB be inserted tip first past the lips of such beacons of heterosexuality as ourselves. Our solution to this problem is straightforward; our banana would have to be consumed laterally.

Our final observation was that this fruity delight is most often prepared and served from a wheeled cart. What could be gayer? The only things sold on such carts are Dior sunglasses and Dippin’ Dots. The last thing we wanted was for our treat to be confused with the concessions stand at a Coldplay concert. Our dessert would have to be assembled in the most masculine of settings: and just like any self respecting straight blooded American man knows, there is nothing more manly than the wilderness.

With bananas in our backpacks and chocolate in our hearts, and after our usual meal of steak and blood pudding, we set off into the wild.

The raw goods. Gay!

We hiked many miles, killing any wildlife that crossed our path and when we finally emerged from the dense forest, we found ourselves on a beach. We set aside our hefty sacs and sank our toes into sand finer than the 600 grit sandpaper in our toolboxes and set up camp.

The first step of preparation was to melt the chocolate; first we used a process of applying fire to wet kindling and breaking the last of our remaining matches in order to prove that it is impossible to create heat anywhere outside of a Weber grill, save for sexual intercourse with a woman. This step was critical to preserving our manhood in case someone should suggest we had used fire in conjunction with a double boiler, a tool we did bring along just in case (a man always comes prepared).

We filled our double boiler from the waters of the Atlantic.

Our next move was one that could only have been conceived by the likes of us Eagle Scouts. We determined that the best way to convert the chocolate from its solid state to a creamy consistency capable of lubricating a long sturdy banana was to use the heat already radiating from within our strong loins.

Boilers are for fairies, we melted chocolate with the heat of our loins.

Naturally, we climbed into our sleeping bags and placed our backpacks between us so we wouldn’t accidentally bump into one another in the night. This was something we’d learned from our Eagle Scout days when we spent extensive amounts of time in close quarters with other men after dusk. Confident as can be in my sexuality, I secured a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips firmly between my legs.

As the waves calmly lapped the shore nearby, we drifted, side by side, into a peaceful slumber. A heterosexual slumber, mind you, filled with big-breasted dreams.

We awoke at 2 am to the screeching of mosquitoes in our ears. Our faces were covered in the insects sucking our iron rich blood. It was at this point of our meal preparation that we found ourselves in our prime. You see, in the metropolitan world we attract women by the dozens. In the wild, nature itself is lured to our man musk. Knowing that if we lingered here too long they would suck us dry, we left the chocolate behind in the warm folds of the sleeping bags and spent the rest of the night strolling the beach, assessing our strengths and checking each other for ticks. Then we sat in the sand in silence and watched the stars disappear and the sun rise.

When dawn had finally broken, we returned to camp to find that not only had the chocolate hardened, but the bananas had been bruised and violated in the midst of the night’s tussle. With uncontainable man-rage, we hurled the bananas into the sea. Finding ourselves too bitter to stay, we packed and began the trek back to our proud patriarchal society.

In the end, one thing was obvious. Chocolate covered bananas are far too gay to contaminate these straight, supple lips. In any case, as we munched on our victory pancakes in the comfort of our hunting lodge, we found ourselves asking; what kind of a man would even want to be caught with such a phallic treat in his mouth in the first place?

Good to Know: We knew it would be a hard task, but at this point Alchemy is easier than this shit.

The Bottom line: Like Cher’s Greatest Hits CD there are some things in this world a straight man must never tamper with.

Rating: St Patrick’s Day and domestic violence.

Gayvorites Exclusive: Leaked photos!

Warning- Explicit content below. The following photos were submitted by a reader who wishes to remain anonymous.

Looks like Lazer and Ironhardd put the boys from Brokeback Mountain to shame.

Ingayder Zim

Hey girls!

So now that the "magical" persuasions of our first Bi-vy Leauge Intern got you up and running to see Mr. Felton melt the silver screen in Half-Blood Prince, its time for a quick jaunt down memory lane with the analytic stylings of our gayzor sharp, Bi-vy League Intern #2, Theophallus.
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You remember 2001, don’t you? The year that Invader Zim made it cool for 13-year-old lesbian mall-rats to watch Nickelodeon again. That is until the network pulled the show in its second season, leaving scores of devastated queers to vent in their LiveJournals, and ushered in the current fashionable phenomenon of twenty-somethings complaining about how there are no good childrens' cartoons on TV these days. If you somehow missed out on Zim in all of it 27 episode glory, the show's premise is simple - angry buglike alien from distant planet makes destroying a darker version of Earth his prerogative. Now dwelling inexplicably in the anime section of Blockbuster, Zim persists as cult classic and chic nostalgia, and its cast of bizarre characters with monosyllabic, Paleolithic names still holds a special place in the hearts of dykes everywhere.

I believe, however, that the show’s gayvorite factor is due not just to its close association with the heavily queer mall goth subculture but to its allegorization of lesbian fantasy and reality. Sound far-fetched? Hear me out. Zim’s lust for destruction and his hatred of the human race, along with Gir’s psychotic ADD, represent the young lesbian’s internal response to social ostracism. And the androgynous human protagonists are quickly recognizable viewer surrogates. Dib, whose obsession with the paranormal alienates him from his classmates, is an especially sympathetic figure to the lesbian, who has her own vivid fantasy-memories of being a misunderstood prepubescent boy—while Gaz, a baby dyke with a video game addiction, is another nod to the gender-bending nerd demographic. The show even tackles "tough topics" like the breakdown of heteronormative family structure, in which Zim’s “Mom” and “Dad” automatons malfunction horribly and wreak mayhem at a parent-teacher meeting.

Can Nickelodeon ever atone for its sins? Of course not, but to me it’s a small wonder that a series so important for the LGBT community was pulled off the air. After all, if gay is subversive, subversion comes to be… pretty gay.

Zim’s creator, underground comic artist, Jhonen Vasquez, now has a marked aversion toward his series and its fan base—a fan base that seems to be on unapproved first-name basis with him, if that explains anything. Both Zim and Vasquez’s other works have been appropriated as lifestyle emblems: fandom as an accessory one dons while hating the man, wearing shirts you grew out of in the third grade, and whining about parents who persecute you for following Wicca. Bizarre dark humor sometimes resonates with a set that cannot necessarily decode social satire, and so ends up mimicking the very behavior being caricatured. But hey, we were all a little confused at that age. Instead of whining about commercial-cultural orgies and Hot Topic hipsters, maybe we should be proud that one of our gayvorite shows continues to strike gold in the underground- mainstream seven years after big, corporate dickheads forced its cancellation. Clearly, the queers are still loving it. Here’s to Zim!

Forewarning Forearms: Nothing says "Don't fuck with." me like a Zim Tat.

Mood: Too lazy for armchair activism.

The Bottom Line: Aliens = lesbians?

Rating: Melissa Etheridge and Tammy Lynn Michaels bake oatmeal chocolate chip cookies with the kids.

Second Summer of the Sistergoodietwoshoes

Dearest Reader,

We realize the hardship you've been going through lately. Gayvorites, too, shares this pain. No, it’s not the economic downturn or even the plight of the Florida sea manatees. It's the familiar feeling of Ann Brashares withdrawal. Now that the sisterhood has gone off to college and Blake Lively has gone off to Gossip Girl, we decided to fire up the old digital video disc player yet again (in case you were wondering, Obsessed was great other than the music editing, which was arbitrarily slapped together by Todd Bozung). The following is a minute-by-minute commentary of the cinematic triumph that is Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2.

With the smart touch of a few excercise balls, Pants 2 Production Designer, Gae Buckley, instantly turns an empty room into a hip yoga studio!

The movie starts off with an update on the girls, now enjoying their first summer since starting college. Carmen is going to theater camp in Vermont and refusing to believe that the guy she likes likes her back, Bridget is doing an archaeological study abroad program in Turkey, Lena is taking figure drawing classes and dating the nude model at RISD, and Tibby is working at a video store in New York while her relationship with Brian heats up! For anyone worried that sequels simply recycle tired old themes from the original, fret no more. Pants 2 offers an entirely new spin, in which the girls not only are separated from each other for the summer, but they also get into bitchy, selfish fights! Sounds good to us. We were getting a bit bored with the nicey-niceness of the original. Also new to the storyline is Lena's sister Effie, fresh out of the womb at the tender age of 16.

We were also tickled by the inclusion of Kyle Mac-Fucking-Lachlan in the role of Carmen's drama coach. We've missed him since we stopped watching Desperate Housewives three seasons ago. Speaking of the arts, it is probable that the same person does art for all movies, because the same ham-handed heavy outline and shaky proportions apply to all drawings of human forms for the screen. We're sure you will be as shocked as we were to learn that Alexis Bledel didn't do her own drawing for the movie. We figured she had to have some other "special skills" to balance out her haunted baby voice. But Pants 2's shameless support for the arts doesn't end there! Generic "ethnic music" is played during Bridget's stay in Turkey, using just the right amount of unidentifiable woodwind instruments and drums.

Which brings us to the costuming for the film, sponsored in part by Anthropologie. Bridget wears an item of clothing that first caught our eye due to the context: she wears a floaty white blouse (paired with white pants) to an archaeological dig. WTF. Then Lena wears a similar getup while drawing with charcoal. WTF 2. In fact, these floaty white blouses (or FWBs) showed up so often that we began to keep count. Keeping with the film's endorsement of underage drinking, you could, if so inclined, drink a plastic cup of red wine every time you spot a FWB, though this might lead to poor decision-making surrounding sexual activity. (Good going, Tibby and Brian) Lord Almighty, the producers might as well have titled the movie Sisterhood of the Floaty White Blouses, especially considering the fact that they show up a hell of a lot more often than the pants themselves.

There eventually comes a time when Bridget must stop playing soccer next to important historical sites and sending her friends packages that spill sand upon arrival. Once she learns a lesson or two from her wise foreign teacher, as well as creepily watches someone else's happy family, it is time for her to return home. (You can practically hear the other actresses wailing, "No fair, she gets to go to Turkey, Greece and Alabama?!") She packs up her FWBs and decides to confront those dark family secrets that were hiding all along under her camping gear in her garage (where most family secrets tend to be). After the special treat of a Kyle MacLachlan sighting, we scarcely suspected we would be equally delighted again. We were proven wrong when we giddily heard the disembodied voice of Bridget's grandma Greta, played by an uncredited Paula Deen. We were disappointed when we discovered that the voice had the body of Blythe Danner.

Blake Lively wonders "Whatever could be in this FedEx box!?"

You probably already know that Blythe Danner is Gwenyth Paltrow's mother. But on the subject of mothers, you probably didn't know that Pants 2 takes place in an alternate universe where there is no morning after pill. However, Brian has a newly formed 'stache, so we don't forget that he is older and more mature than he was in the last movie, when he played that dragon video game. Still, it’s impossible to take seriously his claims to willingly father a child and "move up to New York and get a job" when he insists on wearing those damn hats and sleep-acting through the whole movie. It's OK though, because then Tibby and Lena get to have a classic "friend with a pregnancy scare" bonding moment, complete with the obligatory crumpled white paper pharmacy bag. It also gives us a chance to catch up on Lena's storyline, which we haven't cared about since before the trailers started.

Tibby - "I'M PREGNANT!!!"

Only Alexis Bledel could make eye-fucking your nude drawing model boyfriend look so boring. It's possibly the lamest summer romance since your math teacher took his wife out to Chili’s last August. Luckily, the producers were just as tired as we were with the lack of sparks flying in this reckless summer fling, so they started playing up the sister drama. We learn what to do when your younger sister starts dating your best friend's ex…apparently you talk neutrally about it while she yells at you. Effie accuses Lena of "always choosing [the sisterhood] over me!" Note to Lucy Hale: so do the producers, who left you completely out of the first fucking movie. Later, when Brian breaks up with Effie so he and Tibby can get back together (during which he lovingly strokes Tibby's Forever 21 earrings) Lena realizes what a mistake she has made in always shoving her sister aside. She also realizes that she probably shoved her aside in the first place because Effie is a crazy ho. She and her mysterious disposable income hop a plane to Greece, with magical pants in tow.

Let the smackdown begin! The girls have all already been pretty crappy towards each other (concealing pregnancies and major familial revelations from each other, yelling at a friend who just drove several hours to see them, etc.) so there's a lot of shit flying around. Unfortunately, just when it's getting really, really juicy, you remember that it's a movie about friendship and the girls have to make up at some point. And they do. But wait, one last moment of drama! Little Miss Fuck Up, aka Effie Kaligaris, calls Lena from Greece to inform her that she has managed to lose the threadbare manifestation of her sister’s sisterhood. Somehow Alexis Bledel musters up enough acting skill to appear upset, and follows Effie to Greece to track the pants down. Apparently these international flights from Maryland to Greece run every few hours, because the rest of the Sisterhood shows up soon after, eager to get in on the pant-hunting action. Cue the montage of "fun times" in Greece, although we think it might be difficult to see poorly patched pants from a speeding moped.

Update on the terrible artwork in the movie: Lena supposedly goes to the best damn art school in the country, and yet she struggles over an outline drawing of jeans. They look like they belong in a coloring book you would get at the dentist's office. They’d appear on the page following a shaky sketch of a summer picnic in which only the torsos of the guests appear above the checkered blanket to eliminate the need for accurate drawing of human facial features.

This movie just wouldn't be complete without Lena "collagen lips and fogged contacts glued onto a wooden spoon face" Bledel reuniting with her true love (in a nightgown in the dead of night, no less). We didn't think it was possible to care less about a romantic interest of Lena's, but Kostos has proven us wrong. Luckily this movie is rated PG-13, so we are spared from viewing the midnight tryst. The poor fishing village of Santorini, however, is not so fortunate. The happy lovers are seen on a god damned illuminated boat on full fucking display like a couple pieces of baklava in the window of Mama Kanaras’s Pastry Shop.

Visions in White: The Midnight Tryst

The movie comes to a close with the girls jumping from a cliff into the water, which IMDB informs us was not scripted, but was a gloriously spontaneous event! Apparently the girls are just as free-spirited, adventurous and friendly in real life as they are in the movie! Legend has it that America Ferrera, Blake Lively and Amber Tamblyn saw some boys cliff jumping and decided it would be fun. Notice which “wet blanket” sister opted out. The story arc is as predicable as we hoped—blah blah blah, some life lessons are learned, the friendship is renewed and the credits roll—and just when we were expecting a nostalgic photo montage of the post-summer fun, Pants 2 pulls yet another switcheroo and does the credits in PowerPoint format with a denim background. They foolishly let a 7-year-old fan design the credits because they needed to cut costs after all those floaty white blouse expenditures!

Least Gayvorite Moment: Kyle MacLachlan's smug "we've got a winner” face and accompanying arm pump. You're in a theatre, not at a hockey game, and nobody got body slammed into the glass. Carmen simply didn't forget her lines, so there's no need to see your stupid mug over-reacting.

P.S. We haven't seen you in a role this good since The Flintstones.

Good to Know: Using your last name in a joke (we're looking at you, Blake) is super cute!

The Bottom Line: We can't wait for the pants to inevitably reemerge from the Mediterranean Sea for another five-minute-yawn summer of sisterhood, but we're not holding our breath. Same goes for the Twilight hype dying down so Pants 2 can get back in the Top 10 Netflix rentals list.

Rating: Rediscovering your old Lisa Frank binders (right under the camping gear).

Slytherin To My Bed...

Due to recent economic hardship, the Gayvorites Team has decided to follow the trend set by many other corporate headquarters, with the philosophy - cut jobs, hire interns. Being a recent startup, our Corporate Office decided to let go staff members that hadn’t even thought of applying yet. (Gayvorites strives to follow major business models in every way possible. Just because we're a small operation that turns no actual profit, doesn't mean we can't play with the big kids! We've already purchased John Thain-style $131,000 area rugs and a $1,400 wastebasket, squandering countless taxpayer dollars, and we're on our way to getting bought out by afterellen.com.) That said, we weren't hiring any old schmuck or bored housewife who wandered in off the streets.

We were willing to settle for nothing less than the best and brightest of the gay community, namely, Ivy Leaguers. Of the eight prestigious institutions, the gayest in our book, of course, is Brown University (Harvard being a total closet case). Notable for it's lack of structured course requirements and nonexistent majors, Brown ensures that its students have room for one or two Queer Studies course at some point during their matriculation, making it the ideal feeder school. We selected two bright-eyed hopefuls with impressive resumes and even better looks. And with that, we sent the new recruits hoofing to find relevant and timely topics on which to blog. Without further ado, we present the findings of Bi-vy League Intern Number 1, Cherry Dactyl.

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One recent night at the local multiplex, as I pondered the delicate balance between how many boxes of “Buncha Crunch” I could eat versus how big I was comfortable with my ass growing, I noticed from afar a glossy aura of gay emanating from a movie poster. Faster than a Seeker in the Quidditch World Cup, I pushed moviegoers out of my way and moved in for a closer look. My strutting was brought to a screeching halt when I accurately identified the image, and all four boxes of “Buncha Crunch” tumbled from my hands.

Standing in font of me was Tom Felton, sporting eye shadow and a turtleneck, his hand firmly grasping a wand. I’m as straight as a segment in Euler’s approximation—and that being said, clearly enjoy spending my time solving differential equations more than competing in drag shows—but I must admit I had to gird my loins a bit after my eyes met his penetrating gaze. It seems that Tom Felton's success is rising much like the shorts of all the male theater-goers upon seeing his performance, earning him an instant nom for hottest gay-crush of the year.

Now I know some of you will feel that I am misreading the issue and that Tom Svelton has a case of Legolas Syndrome, a condition identified in 2001 when Orlando Bloom captured the gushing hearts of horny middle school girls worldwide. However, WebMD states, “Legolas Syndrome can only be confirmed if an actor’s fan base is over 80% of the little buggers,” and as the survey on uppityschoolgirls.net proves, Felton’s fan base in only 30% schoolgirl as of 2008. It could be a lot worse.

Thankfully, he isn’t some sparkling vampire that’ll give you weird shaped hickeys and educate you on all the latest emo fashion trends available at Hot Topic. Pattinson’s unfortunate accident with a truck full of facial glitter may initially catch the eyes of some naive rainbow wavers, but his hollow personality and shallow character can only be desired by his true fan base—teenage girls who mistake mood swings for depth. I mean, when you have more appearances on Entertainment Tonight than you have film credits, we definitely have a problem. TomTom, on the other hand, has more layers than the labyrinth in the Triwizard Tournament, although the riddle his sphinx presents is a bedazzling hex, designed to protect his ambiguous sexual tendencies. In my opinion, it’s only a matter of time before Tomboy comes hurdling out of the closet, ready to serve some lucky lad’s every whim in the role of loyal house-elf.

The reasons for my prognosis are numerous. As the porn industry has deftly taught us, it’s what’s on the inside that really matters. Draco Malfoy, Tom Felton’s character, has all of the closeted qualities that make men yearn to teach him how a man taps his wand on another man’s caldron. For starters, he dates Pansy Parkinson, but she simply represents the beard that he is unable to grow. For Christ's sake, his wand is made with fucking unicorn hair!

Furthermore, he expresses his true feelings towards men by turning Crabbe and Goyle into women with the help of some polyjuice potion and doing who-knows-what with them in the bathroom while Moaning Myrtle catches an eyeful over the top of the stall. I don’t know about you, but I always have to take a cold shower after ruminating over that steamy scene.

Need more proof that Tommy F. is the next gay messiah? Look no further than the single lock of hair woven and placed in front of the rest of his mane, hands-down the most closeted haircut this correspondent has ever laid eyes on. His eyes may scream evil, but his hair whispers that he wants a friend. I’m sure even Queer Eye’s grooming guru, Kyan Douglas, would approve of the subtle way in which those platinum tresses flow with mind-blowing perfection.

As a result of viewing Felton’s incendiary performance in the next Potter installment this summer, I’m predicting we’ll see more than one pair of moviegoer britches ignite into flames quicker than you can cast an “engorgio” or “erectus” spell.

If you want more titillating writings on the subject to tide you over until our favorite squeeze hits the big screen this week, read some online fan fiction, and make sure you employ the “Hary Potterr Ficton Selecshun” search method: there must be at least one grammatical error and misspelling in the first sentence and the title.

So eventually when Rowling, riding off the success of Felton’s queer following, needs more publicity and off-handedly reveals that Malfoy is the second gay Hogwarts-goer, remember – you heard it here first!

Rating: Rollerblading on a Sunday in neon pink spanky pants.

Good to Know: Just in case you were wondering - his wand is a whopping 10" boys, which Ollivander notes is "reasonably springy".

The Bottom Line: Straight as I may be, Tom Felton can take a ride on my broomstick any time he likes.