Bathroom Monologue: Telling Dad

There were only my parents left to tell. I rolled up to the house and found Dad on the porch. An extension cord ran through the window to power a fan that blew into his face while he smoked his pipe. Maybe that’s why he was smiling. It was a rare event.

My bowels tightened as I approached, but it was probably better to catch him in a good mood for this.

"Hey Dad," I said. "Can we talk a minute? I have something to tell you."

"Is it that you're going to pay back-rent for the eighteen years I raised you?"

“You don’t have the legal grounds for that, Dad.”

“You going to pay me back for sending you to law school, then?”

I smiled into my sleeve, not wanting to show him too much positive reinforcement. Dad took encouragement like others took alcohol, and he was an abusive drunk.

“You know how I’ve had the same roommate for three years?”

“How is that lease?”

And down we went. Sucked directly into an inferno of topics on his mind. I bided my time, weathering complaints about the Dodgers’ line-up and the Republicans' concessions to Obama. There was a pause around what we were going to do for Memorial Day. Charcoal was a tenuous issue for him.

Charcoal is not how most people come out, but it was a break. I jumped in.

"Dad. I need you to know: I'm gay. Danny isn’t just my roommate. We’ve been together for almost a year."

He studied the handrail of the steps. I put my hand on it, and he studied another part of it. There was this big opening, and honestly I didn’t know how to fill it. Then Dad looked up, lower lip puckered.

"Okay," he said. "I tongued your mother's asshole last night."

My mouth fell open a little.

"You... what?"

"Kind of makes you want to throw up, eh?" His lip wasn't quivering anymore. "But you're not going to stop me. So what are we doing for the grill?"

And that was it. He even helped me break it to Mom, which was nice because it was another week before I could look her in the eye.

I swear he's a good man.

Bathroom Monologue: But then you’ll marry your dog!

There’s an old chestnut in the Gay Marriage debate that, if we change the definition of marriage for this, then it can be changed for anything. If Aunt Sally marries Rebecca, then in another year Uncle Ron will marry his dog.

To this objection I say: let Uncle Ron marry his dog. Let everyone marry their dogs.

You cringe from human/dog marriage because you imagine the honeymoon. But friends, there are millions of pets in this country. If the owner wants to screw the pooch, he’s already doing it. In the privacy of his bedroom, or basement, or sound-proofed kennel, you really can’t catch or stop him. The inability to marry the dog isn’t stopping anyone.

Human/dog-marriage would simply give the dog a chance at half her owner’s stuff if he cheats on her. Now their romance will be public. You’ll know to watch out for that guy, both around his pets and the pets of others. If he’s a monogamous pet-porker, then he’s safe. Or maybe he’s not.

After all, you could turn it into the Benny Hill of laws, and anyone who applies for pet-marriage can be tossed in jail automatically, with their marriage license as evidence of bestiality. It depends how cheeky you feel your state’s Senate is.

And what if Uncle Ron and his dog have a fulfilling relationship together? I know plenty of crazy cat ladies. My sister sleeps with her pet cat in the same bed. They hug, they cuddle, and she even buys him more sweaters than she does for her actual boyfriend. The emotional link is already there. The sexual link isn’t there, but if it was? Then let her pay a fee at the courthouse and flag herself.