My Guilty Pleasure is Reading Salon Magazine,

which, in my self-defense be it said, I only started reading when Glenn Greenwald was its featured, major political columnist:  When Greenwald went on to the Guardian, I admit, I should have gone with him, and not lingered to laugh and jeer and shudder deliciously at what an hysterical twat-rag Salon has become without his serious, male, proportionate insight and example.   

On the other hand, how inexhaustibly hilarious it is that the females Greenwald left behind are utterly incapable of distinguishing the (serious, brutal, injurious) style of ¡rape! of Mr. Ghomeshi from the (funny, clever, non-injurious) style of ¡rape! of Mr. Cosby.  The one hurts and the other does not hurt--What could be simpler?   I'm so glad I'm gay, and that I don't have to pretend: to take ¡rape! seriously, as if it were the moral equivalent of mayhem or murder; or that I give a shit whether women have orgasms or not; or that I don't recognize a self-serving, face-saving lie when I hear one.  'Cause I'm really good at detecting lies--even if it takes me a while to conceive of their intended purpose and to whom they are necessary.  I have not the iridium steel in my bones, or the near absolute zero in my heart, that many worthy straight men have, who live with women, and love them--or at least have sex with them--and answer lie with lie, and, with a practiced pretense of affection,  conceal their complete indifference to them.