If the word awful needs a new jingle, this song is more than worthy of consideration.
Heven’s (God help her and the spelling of that name) “My Gay Best Friend” is the kind of song that makes some people think about glitter, fun, and frolicking. That is, if they’re drunk out of their mind and high on stupid. Or if they have a strong affinity for pop radio.
For me, this is the sort of ditty that gets me to question God and the Lord’s choice to leave us saner folks without an option to mute the less fortunate.
I think the worst part about this song is that I could see it being played on the radio in major markets that are more likely to be gay friendly – especially if it were performed by a notable artist.
Say, if Kelis weren’t sending Nas to the blood clinic and sperm bank (despite him likely netting more from Coinstar given Negro sperm doesn’t go for much) regularly this is a track she’d probably consider to reboot her fledgling career.
Her milkshake…with a penis.
People would probably champion it as some pro-gay anthem if the right name and puppeteer were behind it. I suppose in comparison to all of them “fuck you faggot” themed songs permeating rap it is indeed a step up.
It’s those sorts of realizations that make me wonder if Fred Phelps had a point about God’s heavenly shade upon thee.
This song encompasses so many clichés and stereotypes that I don’t even know where to begin.
I suppose what really vexes me about this song is the fact that I could see a lot of women identifying with the lyrics. And quite possibly some of my own friends will listen to this and look to it as the soundtrack to our lives. The horror.
In a strange and arguably sad twist of irony, I’ve always gotten along more so with women than with men. I don’t spin around all day in ballet slippers in order to do so (no judgment if that’s your thing); but growing up in an environment where hypermasculinity was the guide to life for many I just opted to be myself.
Women tend to take to it more than some of the straight men who think gayness is highly contagious or the multiple closeted men waiting in the wings for some man to hit the daddy stroke in secrecy.
Even now, I still get along with women more so than I do men. In my defense, many LA men seem to have been bred and raised in a land called Cuntville before fleeing to California. Both gay and straight alike, ya’ll.
So, yes, I love women but while I do appreciate the company I keep there have been instances where I have had to wonder if a person was looking for a friend or a caricature the way the “GBF” is depicted in this song.
Ever since I confirmed my sexuality I’ve come across women who are quick to say, “OMG! You can be the Will to my Grace.”
I’ve also been repeatedly referred to as someone’s “gay boyfriend.” As in, this is “My gay boyfriend, Michael.” Sometimes, “gay boyfriend” is all you get.
I don’t really go out of my way to take issue with it because I don’t think anyone means any harm by it. I get that’s playful, thus I usually play along.
“Gay boyfriend” doesn’t offend me so much as the idea of being someone’s hormonally imbalanced Lassie does.
There are some women out there who like to treat gay men as pets.
I mentioned it one of my friends and he said in response, “One of my friends is like that. I don’t think she intentionally does it…which actually makes it more annoying.”
By pet, he means asking him to show up at places to see if a person is gay.
I don’t know why some women think it, but not all gay men have the magical power known as gaydar.
If I did, trust me I’d wave my dick around an attractive room and go, “Bippity, boppity, boo!”
My friend also pointed out that his friend looks to him as a fashion critic and also enjoys placing him in settings where all of her friends ask him “stupid gay shit.”
That reminds of one dinner where some guy was so perplexed at the idea of me not wanting to eat in that he told me if I ever wanted to try the chicken of the crotch, his boy is a pimp.
Yes, he offered me a prostitute after a series of questions that yielded the same response: “I don’t swing that way.”
Believe me, when I score a book deal (insert prayers, well wishes, and knocks on wood here) I will discuss all of the stupid shit people tell me but that one right there is worth sharing now.
Imagine the restraint one has to exercise to not offend the friend of a friend despite them subtly offending you.
To be fair, there are plenty of gay pets running around who enjoy shit like this.
And honestly, sometimes I guess I can classify as a Fido. When this vocally-challenged singer speak-sings, “We hit the club, we drop it low” I obviously see myself.
She’s also right about me never wanting the girls I’m with.
Still, I know I’m more than that and there have been times where I made to make it apparent to people.
Even if this is just a silly little song it very much personifies real annoyance for some gay men.
I gather this is akin to being the “black friend” to inquisitive others. That problem still seems to linger, though. Does that I mean I need to suck it up and simply hope no one asks me how to do so in the near future?