I went to a fag party last night.

At someone's well-appointed fag house. A restored Victorian beauty.

A fag party is where all the homos recognize that this isn't a company function, so they leave their girlfriends at home; there's no one to fool with protestations of not being a fag when you ostentatiously drag your girlfriend around trying to convince people that you're not as queer as you obviously are. At a fag party, there are no such pretensions to straightness; you can suck some dicks if you want to and no one will mind. People figure you probably do that anyway, what with being so obviously gay. And get out of my theater, by the way.

So all the homos want gay marriage. I couldn't care less. I'm more concerned about finding a date, someone who will complement my dazzlingly attractive personality. So let's not put the cart before the horse.

Vermont's got some gay marriage legislation sitting on the Governor's desk, awaiting his expected veto.

The homos wanted me to put in a good word. Again, I don't actually care. But here's the good word.

Obligation fulfilled.