"Yup," I said, "but I'm too cheap to go to Thrift Town and buy pants that fit the new me. I had Twinkies for dinner last night and might again tonight, so tomorrow these same pants might fit again."
Her mouth had dropped open as I was speaking, and she said, "I hope you don't really eat Twinkies."
At this point, I thought she was aghast at the thought of someone consuming so much sugar, so I said, "Sure, I love Twinkies. Junk food made me the man I am," and patted my ample belly.
She wasn't laughing. Her eyes were watering. I couldn't comprehend why she was taking my unhealthy diet so much more seriously than I do.
"Ever since Dan White..." she said, and then I understood.
After City Supervisor Dan White killed Harvey Milk, San Francisco's first openly gay supervisor, White weaseled out of a long jail sentence with what's now called the "Twinkie Defense" — claiming that too much junk food had screwed up his judgment and made him a murderer. America's warped system of justice believed it, and White served only a few years in prison.
The injustice of it baffles me, and maybe I don't even have the facts quite right, but it happened years before I moved to San Francisco, so my knowledge is second-hand. White's easy sentence is further proof — and there's always further proof — that this country is run by cruel bastards and/or imbeciles.
It never occurred to me, though, that it might be socially rude to admit eating Twinkies. Are people boycotting Twinkies because of Harvey Milk's assassination? Hostess is a shitty company, I'm sure, but they can't be blamed for the Milk/Moscone murders.
Of course, I apologized to LeeAnn for any misunderstanding, and explained that it's only the foamy fake pastry and chemical-creamy filling I love. There's no philosophical statement.
She told me I ought to give up Twinkies anyway, just because they're so unhealthy. She's probably right, but I don't actually eat Twinkies. I eat the cheaper generic knock-offs.
♦ ♦ ♦
Pike's girlfriend just walked in on me in the john, while I was losing brown weight. The bathroom door doesn't lock, doesn't even latch, but she's been essentially living here for a month. By now she has to know that a closed bathroom door means someone's on the other side talking a piss or a dump or a shower.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, "I forgot that the door doesn't lock..."
She is so fuckin' stupid, I figure she must be fantastic in bed, else Pike wouldn't put up with her. What I haven't figured is why I put up with her.
From Pathetic Life #11
Tuesday, April 11, 1995
This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.
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