Freshly ground

I do like grindr.

I get to see the boy who works down at the Safeway with his shirt off every evening. I know exactly how many gays are within 200 feet of me any point in time – always handy information in the event of a wardrobe malfunction or cocaine drought. One evening when we were in Portugal, there wasn’t a gay man with an iphone within 30 miles of us, which I found quite depressing. I’ve even been invited on several occasions to watch people do things to each other that I thought were impossible without elective surgery and ongoing access to a qualified physiotherapist.

Anyway, anything that helps my boys rub their pink bits together is good with me.

It does become a little silly sometimes, though. Late last year I was at a Romney fundraiser with Sandra Roberts. I had my phone on vibrate and every time I went near the toilets I thought it was going to explode. We spent so much time trying to work out which of the respectable Mormon youths at the next table was the flag-draped headless torso calling himself “Gingrichwife4” that we missed the speeches entirely. Always a blessing. We did, however, find time to bribe the kitchen staff to spike the chocolate mousse with so much laxative that I don’t think he (or anyone else at the dinner) was able to sit down for a week, let alone give Newt Gingrich access to his pink bits.

I quite enjoy Douchebags of Grindr, as a fine demonstration that where ever there are people, there will be dickheads as well.

I also confess that these boys and their drunk grindr made me laugh. So cute. So young. Such little shits.

I do know that the ginger one can come and sit on Grammy’s lap any time he wishes.

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