Is Manti Te’o Gay?

Answering a question as complex and historically important as Is Manti Te’o Gay? requires such advanced journalism skills that few would dare venture into this sexual labyrinth.

Luckily for us, pulled out her big balls and asked the stud from Notre Dame, “Are you gay?”

Te’o responded, “No, far from it.  Faaaar from it.”  He laughed.  The audience laughed.

Case closed.  Nothing to see here.

But Dr. Phil wasn’t satisfied, and Dr. Phil’s balls are almost as big as Katie’s. So he sat down with the man behind the girlfriend hoax, Ronaiah Tuiasosopo, a man so devious he’s taken a name so delightful to say you forget he’s an evil mastermind.  Speaking to NBC’s Mike Taibbi on , Dr. Phil recounted how he whipped out his hairy testicles for Tuiasosopo.  “I asked him straight up, ‘Was this a romantic relationship with you?’  And he says yes.  I said, ‘Are you then therefore gay?’  And he said, ‘When you put it that way, yes.’  And then he caught himself and said, ‘I am confused.’’’


The earth rumbled as these two investigative Titans clacked their giant balls over the heads of us mere mortals, and we opened our mouths as the droplets of truth spilled over our tongues and down our throats.  We savored and swallowed the seeds of knowledge.

The conclusion to Manti Te’o’s sexuality, we would discover, actually consists of two completely different answers:

#1: Who cares?


# 2: Who gives a shit?

Come On, Just Lick It

I’m seven years old and this kid from the neighborhood is telling me to blow him.  He’s older than me.  He’s saying all the girls in his seventh grade class love to suck his ding dong.  He says one girl claims it’s the most super awesome penis she’s ever seen.  He says the girl’s gobbled everyone, so she knows what she’s talking about. 

We’re in the woods behind my house.  There’s no one around for about a mile.  The boy brought me here to show me where he camps.  He’s got a little metal pot and a can of beans.  Now he’s unzipping himself and fishing out his wiener.   I haven’t seen many, but I’m pretty sure no one calls this “super awesome.”  It’s purple and veiny, like when you wrap dental floss around your finger and it cuts off the circulation.  It looks like it’s going to fall off. 

“Just lick it,” he says.

“No,” I say.

“Come on, just tell me what you think.  Just–”

“Get away from me!”

“Stop being a baby and just lick it.”

“I’m not licking anything!”

I back up and he’s shuffling towards me.  He’s still choking his wiener with his fist.  His pants are falling down.  They’re around his knees.  I turn, take off running.  I hear him screaming.  Then I hear a thud.  I’m pretty sure he tripped, but I don’t look back.  I just keeping running and crunching over the dead leaves until I make it to my house.  My dad is out front cutting the grass.  He sees me crying and asks what happened.  I tell him about the boy, how he wanted me to put his ding dong in his mouth.

The boy is now across the street.  He’s out of breath.  His pants are back on.  My father charges over and grabs him by the throat.  I think he’s going to kill the kid, and I realize it’s my fault.  My father’s going to murder a child and he’s going to go to jail and I’m going to be an orphan.

I run over, beg him to stop.

My father pulls the boy up to his face.  My father says, “You don’t ever come around here again.  I mean ever.  You hear me?”

The boy nods.  His face is almost as purple as his pecker was.  My father lets him go.  The boy tears off down the street. 

I see him a few more times that summer, but he always heads in the other direction.


When friends find out my wife and I have threesomes with girls, a lot of them ask if that means I have to do stuff with guys.  It doesn’t.  My wife is the one into girls.  It’s not the other way around.  If we brought a dude into the bed, I’d just be sitting there hanging out.

My friend asked, “Would you ever do anything, you know, if that’s what your wife really wanted?  Like that’s what she needed to see?”

“I don’t know…”

“You would.”

I said I guess, but I’d need to be positive that’s what she really wanted.  It couldn’t be a prank.  Like “Ha ha, you blew a dude!”

But if that’s what she really wanted, sure.  I wouldn’t be excited, but I wouldn’t be freaked out either.  I’d probably suck a dick the way I’d eat a Subway sandwich.  Meaning I’d do it, but I’m not gonna brag about it to everyone.  Like “Holy shit, people!  I just ate a motherfucking Cold Cut Combo!”

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For God’s Sake, Cover Yourself

I posses a very unique skill set.  I can eradicate all evidence of a Burger King meal.  I’m so meticulous I think I missed my calling as a serial killer or “body disposer” for the mob.  You’ll find no trace of Whopper, fry, or ketchup pack in my home or car.  You won’t even find a rogue grain of salt.  I scrub my nails with rubbing alcohol.  I triple-bag each wrapper and dump everything a block from my home. 

I don’t have OCD.  I just don’t want to have to explain to my wife that I broke my diet.  She wouldn’t yell or get angry.  I just like how proud she’s been of me.  I don’t want her to be disappointed.  I like seeing her happy, knowing I’m getting healthy.  So I cover the truth.  

How often we do that?  How many times do we lie so others won’t be disappointed?  We erase our search history so no one will know what we’re jerking off to.  We clam up when someone asks us if we believe in God.  It’s why we wax our eyebrows and suck in our gut.   We just want to be liked. 

But does anyone really know us?  

My mother hid her truth until she was forty-five.  She played the role of dutiful, heterosexual housewife.  She focused on her children.  She didn’t want us to be punished for her secret.  Kansas City wasn’t exactly progressive.  She knew people wouldn’t just judge her; they’d judge us.  She feared folks like my aunt might try to damage her reputation in order to rip us from her care.

I know this fear.  When I was diagnosed with bipolar II, I didn’t want anyone to find out.  I was terrified of being institutionalized. 

I kept quiet about my thoughts of suicide.  I told the doctors I wasn’t a danger to myself.  I didn’t want people to stop trusting me.  I didn’t want to limit my options, so I buried the darkness.  I told people I had the flu, that I had bad diarrhea so they’d stay away.  I needed to keep up the lie.  

But it’s exhausting.  Maintaining a fake identity chips away at your sanity until finally one day you just say, “Fuck it!  I don’t care.  This is me.  I’m a weirdo.”

That’s what happened to my mom.  After years of lying, she finally came clean.  It was good and terrifying.  She was out, and there was no going back in.

She’s an amazing woman, and her courage inspired me to start this blog.


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Boy Scouts Might Let Gay Kids Wear Sashes and Neckerchiefs

Today I read the Boy Scouts of America might lift their national ban on homosexuals.  Individual troops will still be free to discriminate against gay children, but there will no longer be a national policy.  As a boy I was forced to join this weird organization, where I learned to sew, wear sashes, and lie about helping old ladies in order to earn a badge.   I have no idea why anyone would want to be a member of this peculiar group, but this news makes me smile.

For thousands of years, to openly admit you were gay risked not only your standing in the community, but often your life.  You were either strung up, shunned, ridiculed, or simply cast off.  But things are shifting.  The Internet allows millions to mobilize at the first sign of bigotry.  Companies and CEOs are realizing they cannot survive if they publicly discriminate.  There will be backlash.  They’ll lose sponsors, customers, and the almighty coin.

Obviously, we still have a long way to go, but this is progress.  This is change.  In modern America, you can be openly gay, but you can no longer be an open bigot.

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The Unholy Bet

This post is going to be about putting things in people’s butts.  If that offends you or if you’ve just eaten pancakes, you might want to skip this.  Or bookmark it for later.

Okay, now that it’s just us sophisticated adults, let’s talk about the place farts come out.

I’ve heard some people receive quite a bit of pleasure from this orifice, but I’ve always considered the brown-eyed monster to be far too hilarious, inappropriate, and gross to even imagine reaching euphoria by shoving things up there.  My tolerance for pain is embarrassingly low, and I’m prone to giggle fits when I’m nervous.

Just the thought of a finger creeping towards that area causes me to tremble.  It’s why I’m so nervous about this Sunday, Super Bowl Sunday, to be precise.

My wife and I, you see, well, we have this bet.  Every Super Bowl we each pick a team, and the winner gets to poke the other in the tushy.  Yes, it’s juvenile and disgusting, but it does make the game more exciting.

The bet originated seven years ago.  Jess and I were living in New York.  We’d only been dating for a month.  For the Super Bowl, we went to a bar with one of her friends.  The place was loud and we weren’t really near the TV.  Somehow we got onto the subject of anal sex.  Jess told the story about her ex-boyfriend and how he asked her to use a strap-on on him.

“Did you do it?” I asked.

“Oh yeah.  It was fun.”

“Thatsounds like the opposite of fun.”

“Well, I wasn’t the one getting fucked in the ass.”

“Can we please talk about something else?” Jess’s friend interjected.  “This is really gross.”

I turned towards the TV and saw the first quarter had already ended.  We’d hardly seen a play.

“I feel like we should be paying more attention,” Jess said.

“I know,” I said.  “But I don’t really care about the Steelers or Seattle.”

“Ooh, we should make a bet!” Jess said.

“Okay.  Like what?”

“I don’t know.  Not money.”  We were both in grad school and broke.

“It should be something interesting then,” I said.

“Okay… Hmmm…” Jess was clearly coming up with something devious.  Not wanting to be outdone, I blurted:


“God damn it, fucking stop,” her friend said.

I kept my eyes locked with Jess.

“Alright,” she said.  “Winner gets anal.”

“Okay, it’s a betWait!  Winner gets to GIVE anal, right?”



“NOT cool,” her friend said.  “I’m seriously going to leave.”

That night, Pittsburg and I celebrated victory.  It was glorious.  The next year, Peyton Manning brought me my second championship.  I was unstoppable.  I got cocky.

Then came the New York fucking Giants.

I won the coin toss, but I let Jess pick first.  I knew she couldn’t resist her beloved hometown heroes.  The years of cheering on the Giants with her dad made this a lock.  She loved talking about the victory lap they took around the living room when Bill Parcells raised his fists into the air.  But those were the old Giants.  Eli and his buddies were facing the mighty Patriots.  Undefeated.  Bill Belichick.  Tom Brady.  The return of Randy Moss.  The puny Giants didn’t stand a chance.  The game was just a formality.  In a few hours the Patriots would finally rip out the hearts of New York, New Jersey, and the ’72 Dolphins.

I almost felt sorry for Jess as I sat on the couch smugly eating nachos.  I asked her if she wanted to get this over with during halftime.  I told her she looked nervous.  With two minutes left, I started strutting around the room.

Next, it was third down, barely a minute to go.   Four Patriots broke through the Giants’ line like jackals.  Eli scrambled.  He looked terrified.  I started to howl.  But then Eli contorted his body and escaped.  He chucked the ball to a leaping David Tyree.  Who the hell is David Tyree?  He caught the ball, pinning it against his helmet.  The most ridiculous catch the world had ever seen.  Jess jumped to her feet.  She danced.  She pointed at my face.  “Oh, yeah!  How you like me now?!”

I took a deep breath, told myself the Patriots were fine.  Belichick was a defensive mastermind.  There were still thirteen yards to go.  But after a bullet to Plaxico Burress, a man who would become famous for shooting himself in the leg at a nightclub, the Giants and Jess roared in celebration.

“Get in the room, pretty boy.”


“I’m serious, go.”


“What, honey?  You lost.”

“Youyoudon’t even have a strap-on.”

“I have a vibrator.”

“Oh, God damn it.  Come on.”

“You made the bet.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…”  The walk to our room felt like the green mile.  To be honest, electrocution actually sounded more humane.

Jess opened the dresser, pulled out her little friend.  Its tip was curved.  I started to well up.

“Anthony, hey, I’m just joking around.  We don’t have to do this.”

“No, we made the bet.”  Jess had never backed out of the wager.  I couldn’t either.  I unzipped and crawled onto the bed.  “How should II mean, uh…?”

“I don’t know…”

“What’s easier for you when…?”

“I guesson my back.”

I positioned myself, propped up a pillow, grabbed the backs of my knees.

I’d never felt more vulnerable.  I realized this is what women must feel at the gynecologist.

Jess twisted the knob.  Buzzing filled my ears.  It sounded cruel.

“Do you have to turn it on?”

“No…  I just thought it might be easier.”


“I don’t know.”

“Oh, just do it.”

I closed my eyes, felt the vibrating wand tickle the hairs on my butt.  I started giggling.

“Anthony, come on.”

“I can’t help it.  I’m nervous.”

“Well, it’s making itclose up.”

“Alright, alright.  Just give me a second.”  I took a few deep breaths, tried not to picture what was about to happen.  I thought of the beers in the fridge.  I should’ve drank more.  I shouldn’t have been so confident.  I should’ve been preparing myself.  How the fuck did David Tyree catch that?!

“Okay, Anthony, I’m going to count to three.”

“Fine, whatever.”  I counted along.  “One…”

Why did I come up with this bet?


The tip entered my private space, but she hadn’t said three.  Why hadn’t she said three?  How rude!

I’m sure my scream could be heard from space. 

“Stopmoving!” I said.

“Oh, okay, sorry.  Do you, uh, want me to pull it out?”

“UhnoyeahI don’t know…”

“Do youlike it?”

“No!  But I’m afraid of what might happen if you pull it out.”


“Just stay still.”

And we sat there, neither of us moving.  Finally, I opened my eyes.  Jess clearly felt bad.  I told her it was okay.  “We’ll get through this.”

“I think I should pull it out.”


It was over.  I curled into a ball.  Jess held me.

“You still want to marry me?” she asked.

“Ask me tomorrow.”

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Skeptically Yours Podcast

Hello, lovely people!

I’ll be on Skeptically Yours at 2PM PST!  I’ll be talking about the blog, the boy who tried to get me to lick his penis when I was seven, and the horrifying Super Bowl bet my wife and I make every year.

The following folks will be in the studio:

Andy Andrist - 

Chris Castles - @chris_castles

Ken August - 

Anthony Szpak -



My wife’s biological clock went off, and like any honorable husband, I took cover and hid.  We were living in a small apartment, so it didn’t take long for her to find me.  I was frightened.  I didn’t recognize this woman.  She just kept saying, “Baby, baby, baby…” At least, that’s all I heard.  It was like a zombie movie, you know, the moment when the husband realizes his wife’s been bitten.  He doesn’t have a choice.  He has to kill her.  She’s no longer human.  She only has one purpose, only instead of “brains” it was “baby.”

The thing was, we’d had this talk.  She knew my feelings.  Long before we said, “I do,” I told her I would never bring a child into this world.  I was very clear.  There was no deception, no manipulation.  I’d been diagnosed as bipolar II, and I’d made the decision to never put that on anyone, especially a child.  Studies show that it is, in all likelihood, hereditary.

My youth was filled with darkness.  I was in third grade the first time I thought of killing myself.  I should’ve been chomping on Big League Chew.  I should’ve been playing with my Hulk Hogan action figure.  I should not have been dangling my feet outside my second-story window telling myself to lean forward so I’d land on my head and not just break my legs.

It’s hard for me to write that.  It might be hard for some of you to read.  That’s why I had no problem with my decision to never have kids.  No one should have to go through that.

Now, I’m not saying people with bipolar should remain childless.  There are a lot of parents out there who can provide for a kid suffering like I did.  My parents couldn’t.  They didn’t even fully know what was going on.  I kept most of the awful thoughts to myself, because even as a boy, I knew it wasn’t “normal.”

And I don’t blame or hate my parents for having me.   They didn’t know what they were getting into, and when I was growing up in Kansas City, people didn’t go to shrinks.

But I know exactly what bipolar means, and to risk passing it to a child would be selfish at best, and bordering on abusive.  Yes, I’d love to have a kid, teach her to read, ride a bike, to hide a dollar under her pillow as I swiped a fallen tooth, but I couldn’t live with myself when the tears came, not the crocodile ones from skinning a knee, the ones that come with the need to end everything.

I reminded my wife of this.  She said, “I understand, Anthony, I do, but you’re not hearing me.  I need to take care of something that’s not you.”

It broke my heart.  There was no question she’d be an amazing mother.  It was criminal to block her from sharing this gift with another.  Still.

“I just can’t risk putting this on a child, Jess.  I’m sorry.”

The look on her face told me I’d made a grave misstep, that’d I’d woken the zombie.  In any second, she’d be feasting on my damaged brains.  Then she said:

“I’m not talking about a child!”

“Jess, I’m… You’re…not?”

“No!  We can’t even take care of a plant without killing it.”

“So…you’re saying…?”

I don’t want to have a baby.”


“I want a dog.”

“A dog…?  A DOG!  Oh, thank God.”

The next morning we rescued Sunny from a shelter.

It’s the best decision we’ve made since walking down the aisle.  Every morning, Sunny wakes me with a few licks and her wagging tail.  We’ve taught her a half-dozen tricks and sat by her side at the hospital when she almost died from a reaction to a bee.  She’s given me responsibility and shown me that even when the depression hits, I can still get out of bed to take care of this sweet girl.  She might never cure cancer, run for office, or learn to drive a car, but she’ll also never need braces, bail money, or college tuition.  She’s a dog, but sometimes we treat her like a baby, wrapping her in a blanket and singing “The Rainbow Connection” in our best Kermit voice.

I’m still not ready for a child, and honestly, I don’t know if I ever will be, but if in a year or two my wife wants to have a discussion, I’m not going to just immediately say, “No.”

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The Strip Club at JCPenny

When I was little my mom had to take me into the dressing room with her at the mall.  I couldn’t be trusted on my own.  I broke things, knocked over mannequins.  I wasn’t destructive by nature; I was clumsy.  My feet were growing at a disturbingly disproportionate rate to the rest of me.  I toppled into objects.  I hurt myself frequently.  My mom had no choice but to bring me with her to try on blouses.  I hated it.  There were pins all over the carpet.  I’d get stuck, bleed, and cry.  Mom would bribe me by saying, “If you be good, we’ll go to the toy store after this.”

I’d pout and mope on the ground.  Sometimes I’d spot a fellow prisoner under the partition – a little kid trapped with her naked mother.   A few of the boys tried to sneak peeks of my topless mom.

Over time, I did the same to theirs.  It was fascinating and completely inappropriate.  I saw big boobs and long boobs, droopy bellies and jiggly butts.  I discovered a world of panties – dirty ones and see-through ones; the kind that grannies wear; others with rips or tiny little hearts.

I no longer cared about the toy store.  I started suggesting outfits my mom should try on.  I needed to return to the strip club in the back of JCPenny, where I’d take my seat, lean over, and gaze at the delightful nipples.  A few women caught me.  One smiled.  Another shrieked.  Mom just shook her head and tried to hurry, often ending up with ill-fitting dresses because her son was a pervert.

But what I supposed to do?

I now wonder if my mom was jealous that I got to do all the peeking?

It also makes me realize how impossible it must be for parents to raise a child while tiptoeing around sexuality.  How do you moms and dads do it?

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So Gay

When my mom came out, my sister and I were using “so gay” a lot.  It was tail end of the 90s and it was fairly common, at least around Kansas City.  My sister and I weren’t as freewheeling with it as a Smurf uses “smurf,” but we had no problem chucking it at anything we thought stupid or lame.

It wasn’t until one day I noticed my mom crying.  I don’t remember the full context, but I know we were at the mall and my sister or I had just called something “so gay.”  It could’ve been someone’s pants, a movie poster, or a new restaurant in the food court.  Honestly, we used it so often I didn’t even hear the word “gay.”  But my mom did, and she said, “Will you two please stop using that?”

What?  Gay?” my sister said.  “Gay, gay, soooooo gay?”

My sister wasn’t handling my mother’s declaration well, and it pissed her off that my mom wanted to police her vocabulary.  My sister started screaming how it doesn’t mean “faggot,” which only made everyone in the mall take notice.  My sister said that it was just a way of saying something “sucks,” and that just because my mom decided to tell everyone she likes women didn’t give her the right to dictate what other people could and could not say.

I took my sister’s side and defended her dumb logic.  Eventually, my mom backed down.  She was embarrassed and hurt.  I felt awful.   I knew she wasn’t trying to control us.  She was just tired of hearing “gay” used that way.  I can’t imagine how many derogatory comments and bad gay jokes she’d endured over the years, fake laughing and smiling to keep her cover.

Still, even to this day, I don’t think “so gay” is that offensive.  I think it’s lazy, and I think plopping “so” in there makes a person sound like an idiot.

But I understand some are offended, so I’ve stopped using it.  “Gay” by itself isn’t derogatory.  Even with the addition of “so,” it’s not really that bad, but it’s still using a word that defines a group of people in a negative light.  It’s diminishing.  I mean, if you see something that isn’t very tall, you don’t say, “That’s so Chinese.”  Or maybe you do.

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