Brad Pitt Nude

A few years ago, my wife found “Brad Pitt Nude” on my browser history. She refuses to let it go. She’s relentless. She’ll just blurt, “B.P.N!” out of nowhere and fall over laughing.

She’s whispered it during sex.

Before we go to dinner parties, she threatens to tell our friends. She never would, but she mouths, “B.P.N,” every time I get up to grab a beer.

I break out in sweats. My heartbeat gets all wonky.

My wife thinks it’s hysterical.

She taped this in our bathroom.

She likes seeing how flustered I get. She owns me and she knows it.

I can’t take it anymore. That’s why I’m typing this, why I’m telling the world, “I LOOKED UP ‘BRAD PITT NUDE!’”

And it wasn’t just once. It was TWICE. Go ahead and judge. I don’t care. I’m taking back the power. My wife can’t hold this over me anymore.

Thing is, it has nothing to do with me looking at a naked man. If my wife came home and I was beating off to two dudes on my computer, she’d say, “Oh, sorry, I’ll let you finish.”

It’s the fact that it’s so specific, that it’s Brad Pitt Nude.

She knows I’m a fan. We see all his movies. I own most of them.

And not that it matters, but I wasn’t jacking off to BPN when I Googled him.

I just wanted to see the picture.

Here’s why:

In high school, Brad Pitt was arguably the coolest man on the planet, at least for me. Fight Club changed my life, and after seeing Se7en I actually outran a cop.

In the same way boys idolized Steve McQueen and James Dean, that’s how I felt about Brad Pitt. I didn’t want to kidnap or rape him; I wanted to meet him. I was a fan.

And in 1997 there was an issue of Playgirl. There were pictures of him naked. People were talking about it. It made the news. I was curious. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. But it was 1997, and the Internet wasn’t like today. You couldn’t just Google “B.P.N.” and scroll through a million images.

You had to get a hard copy.

I was too scared to buy it, so I got my girlfriend, H., to do it. She was grossed out at first. She thought I was gay. I told her that wasn’t it. There was a lawsuit. They were going to pull the magazine off the shelves. This thing would be worth money. I convinced her it was a business investment. She wasn’t very bright.

The next day she brought it over. I tried not to look too enthusiastic as she pulled it from her backpack. And there it was, B.P.N. Problem was, it was sealed in plastic. I couldn’t see the pictures.

The front door unlocked. It was my dad. I hid the magazine under the couch. Later, I hid it in my closet. It stayed there for months. I couldn’t open it. It was one thing to “accidentally” flip to an image, but to break the seal somehow made it perverse.

And to be honest, I was afraid of what would happen if I saw the pictures. What if I really liked them? What if they turned me on?

So B.P.N remained in plastic. It protected us both.

Over the years, I moved a lot, even across the country. BPN stayed in boxes, until eventually, he was lost.

I’d actually forgotten about it until a few years ago. My wife had bought us tickets to a double-feature of Se7en and Fight Club. Se7en actually held up better than I remembered. But Fight Club really jogged my memory.

And so later that night, after my wife fell asleep, I typed twelve letters into Google and finally saw what I’d denied myself all those years ago. I wasn’t giddy or aroused.

I was sad.

I thought about that kid in high school who just wanted to see a picture. He was curious, but he was scared. He was ashamed. He worried people would think he was gay, or that he really was, and he’d lose his girlfriend and maybe even his father.

But he had nothing to be ashamed about.

He was just curious.

And gay or straight, who doesn’t want to see a little B.P.N?

Have you ever been busted for something in your browser history?

My Two Moms

Val was my mom’s first real girlfriend. I liked her from the moment we met. She was sweet and supportive. I wasn’t surprised when she and my mom bought a house together. They moved in with Val’s adopted kids. I flew to Kansas City and spent Christmas at their new place. We opened presents in the living room and stuffed our faces with turkey. Val wanted to know about my standup and writing. We became close over the years. She has always wanted to write. She likes to pick my brain. My mom and Val struggled like every couple. Eventually, they weren’t able to make it work. They decided to split, but when they came to our wedding, they didn’t mention the breakup. My mom didn’t want to dampen the day. I could tell something was up, but I didn’t push it. I shared a dance with Val, and she told me she’s always thought of me as her son. Until that moment, I’d only thought of her as my mom’s girlfriend. I suddenly realized she was also my mom.

This is How Mom Came Out

2001

I’m standing in my parents’ garage and my mom tells me she’s gay.  Her face is red and she’s laughing, which is what happens when she’s nervous or drunk.  It’s obvious she’s both.  She’s talking a mile a minute, but I don’t hear a word.  “I’m gay!” just keeps repeating in my head.

This can’t be how she planned to tell me.  When it’s cold outside, sometimes the garage is where we take the dog to poop.  It’s Kansas City, the day after Thanksgiving, so it stinks.

Other words start filtering in, words like, “I wanted to tell you,” and “I’m still your mother,” and “One time I tried cocaine.”  It’s a floodgate and she’s rattling off every secret she’s had since grade school.

She says she’s been attracted to girls since she was thirteen, that she fantasizes about women at work.

I feel woozy.

My mom starts crying.  “I just can’t keep sleeping in the same bed with him.”

“Dad knows?”

“Of course.”

She says she told him the truth years ago, that they’ve been staying together until my sister finishes high school.  My parents have been married for a quarter-century and they’re still sleeping in the same bed

I hear my buddies outside the garage yelling for me to get my ass out there.  It’s my last night in town.  I head back to L.A. in the morning.  I’m twenty-two years old, but right now, I feel like a child.  Someone starts banging on the garage door.

“So what do you think?” my mom asks.

“About what?”

“About what I just told you?”

“I don’t know… Are you really gay?”

My mom covers her face.  “You hate me!”

“What?  No.”

My father comes in and wants to know what the hell all this racket is.  He hits the button and the garage door crungles up.  My buddies stop punching each other in the arms at the sight of my father.

“Mr. Szpak,” one of them says.

My mom pulls me to the side and says, “We should keep talking.”  She’s trying to whisper, but the booze has removed that particular skill.

My father can tell my mom’s been sharing.

“What did you say to him?” he asks.

“The truth.”

“I thought we discussed that you wouldn’t say—“

“You can’t tell me what to say!”

My buddies pull me towards the car.  It’s like an undertow, but I don’t fight.  I just let them drag me away.  My father’s leading my mom towards the house.

“Get your hands off me,” my mom says.  She runs over.  “Where are you going, Anthony?”

“Strip club,” one of my buddies slurs.

My mom’s eyes widen.

Another friend starts to say it was just a joke, but my mom cuts him off—

“Can I come?”

My father forces a laugh.  “All right, let’s go back inside, Kathy.”

“Come on, Anthony, it’ll be fun,” my mom says.

There are moments in every child’s life, which cause parts of the brain to fizzle and burn.

My buddies give my mom a hug and say that’s why they love her.  She’s so cool, they tell her.

My father finally corrals my mom.  She knows not to push it, because she’s staring into my eyes.

I’m crammed in between two guys who played on our high school football team.  Someone hands me a beer as we drive off.  I watch my father finally get my mom back inside.  The garage door closes.

Crisis – Part 3

Other parts in series:

Crisis – Part 2

The following took place January 2008.

Part 3

At any given moment, without proper context, all of us can look deranged.  Your kid kicks the back of your seat while you’re trying to merge, some dirtball at Applebee’s grabs your ass on the way to the bathroom, the placekicker hooks it left, a mouse skitters out from under your bed, you get stung by a bee, a gallstone passes, or maybe the air conditioner just broke and it’s really fucking hot.

Take a snapshot of a person during these moments and you’ll record the eyes of madness.

Without context, one can only assume you’ve lost your mind.

It’s with this understanding lawyers and representatives have made it difficult to have someone committed.  The rules and guidelines are very strict, which I’m sure frustrates a person trying to save a loved one, but these laws keep many of us in our homes, allow us to walk the streets, and raise our children.

This is why after the crisis center I’ve decided to continue navigating the Los Angeles Mental Health Gauntlet.  With my wits and self-awareness, I feel I can avoid long-term confinement.  I’ve contacted Dr. Marcos to make me the appointment tomorrow in West L.A.  I’m fairly certain it won’t end with me in a straitjacket, but I am still worried.

In California, they can hold you for 72 hours if they feel there’s eminent danger.  Usually, this comes in the form of a confession.  A person admits he’s going to do something awful.  That’s why Dr. Marcos asked if I had a specific plan for killing myself.  If I’d said yes and they let me go, they’d be liable.  Thankfully, I lied and kept myself free for another night, which I am using to scour the Internet.

I need to know what I’m up against.  Obviously, I want to get better, but I don’t want to be locked up.

I also realize the crisis center was nothing compared to what I’ll face tomorrow.  The facility in West L.A. is state-run, meaning there’s going to be bureaucracy and a lot of pitfalls.  In Culver City all I had to do was not shit my pants or try to bite someone’s dick off and they were happy to shuffle me out the door.

Tomorrow, I’m going to have to be on guard.

Jess and I wake early and drive to West L.A.  We park down the street from the concrete citadel.  It’s like someone decided to build a prison next to a 7-11.  The elevator smells like vomit.  We get off on the wrong floor.  There’s an entire wall of children’s drawings, but I don’t see or hear a single kid.  For some reason my heart starts to swell.  I feel the tears coming and my face tingles.  I shake it off and push the elevator button.  The stench of puke helps stifle my emotions.

The waiting area is packed.  No city in America can compete with Los Angeles when it comes to crazy.

Jess helps check me in.  There are forms we have to fill out.  We take a seat next to a nice Hispanic family.  The kids are crawling on the ground, while the mother stares blankly at the wall.  Her husband strokes the back of her hand with his finger.  Their little boy struggles to his feet.  His legs shake like a newborn calf as he tries to keep his balance.  His father smiles and the boy looks at me, almost as if he’s expecting applause.

I give a little wave.  Jess takes the clipboard from me and starts filling out my info.   I see plops of smeared ink on the top form.  I didn’t even realize I was crying.  I wipe my face and focus on the social workers moving behind the partition.  I have to get a hold of myself.

It’s fine to be sad, that’s why I’m here, but I need to stay in control.  I can’t slip up.

An hour passes and I tell Jess she can leave if she wants, get a cup of coffee or some lunch.  She tells me she’s fine and stays focused on the TV in the corner of the room.  It’s CNN.  You’d think they’d be running cartoons or PBS.  The ticker on the screen says there’s been an earthquake in the Philippines.  It says hundreds have died.

I look at my shoes, at the wall, a bulletin board of support groups.

A young woman calls my name.  I get up and follow her down a hallway.  She looks like she’s in college, probably getting clinic hours for this.

We get to a table with no chairs.  She says she needs to go over a few things.

“So you’ve been having suicidal ideation?” she asks.

“Yes.”  I just learned that word last night.  It says I’m thinking about death, but not necessarily in specific terms, which was why I wrote it down.

She continues to ask me questions.  Two women pass by, and I move to the left.  I don’t understand why we’re not in an office.  I feel like I’m in everyone’s way.  A guy wheels through a mail cart.  I’m turning, angling.

“Are you okay?” the young lady asks.

My head feels like a water balloon filling with tears.  It’s going to burst.

The lady looks scared.  She goes over to a female coworker, who comes over.  The woman brings me to a seat, hands me some tissues.  I’ve sprung a leak, but I’m not gushing, not yet.  I smile and eek out, “Thanks.”

“Can you tell us what you’re thinking?” the woman asks.

“I just…really don’t want to be here.”

“In the office?  Or do you mean something bigger?”

I nod at the second one.  And I see their faces.  It’s the look of pity, and it makes me want to rip out my eyes.  These women see people at their most frightening, most disturbed on a daily basis, and I’m breaking their hearts.  I’ve never hated myself this much in my entire life.

Their supervisor comes over and I secretly dig my thumbnail into the side of my finger, focus on the pain.  I need to pull myself together.  I need to do it now.  The supervisor is calculating.  She’s assessing the situation, placing me into a category before I open my mouth.  I calmly wipe my cheek.

“I apologize,” I say.  “It’s just been a long last couple of days.”  I’m smiling.  My back’s straight.  This is the image they need to see, this is not the face of someone in eminent danger.

They call over a doctor, and we go into an office.  I answer questions.  The doctor is short, pudgy, and wearing a corduroy jacket.

I’m trying to look relaxed.  I feel like a lab animal.  I make eye contact, but not too much eye contact.

The supervisor asks, “It says you drink?  How many drinks would you say you have a week?”

“Depends.”

She scribbles something.

“It’s not a lot.  I haven’t had a drink in weeks.”

“I see…” More scribbling.

Fuck!  It sounds like I have a problem.

“I don’t drink when I get depressed.  I don’t touch it.  It’s not a big deal.  I’ll go months and not even think about it.”

The three confer.  I try to breathe.  I know I sound like I’m trying to cover something.

The supervisor is not even trying to whisper.  “We should think about including some substance abuse counseling in his treatment.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck…

This is what happens.  These are the pitfalls.  You can’t bring up alcohol.  You can’t even mention it.  Once you do, they put you in N.A. or A.A.  Doesn’t matter that I don’t do drugs.  Doesn’t matter that I don’t even think about drinking when I’m depressed, which would be the exact opposite of someone with a problem.  But substance abuse takes the pressure off of them, because they don’t have to get to the root cause if I’m just an addict.

The pudgy doctor says, “I don’t know.  From what he’s saying, I don’t think this is a dependency issue.  I’d like to talk to him more, if that’s okay”

I want to thank the doctor, give him a high five, but I keep my mouth shut.  The supervisor clearly has control in this room.  I don’t dare enter the discussion.  It won’t be me that sways her.  Finally, she’s says:

“Alright, but keep it as an option.”

The two women leave the doctor and me alone.  His accent is Eastern European.  I think he likes that my last name is Szpak, even though he doesn’t say it.  His name is Dr. Jimenz.  He seems like someone I’d like to go fishing with, quiet, calm, willing to give me my space.  I also get the feeling he enjoys a cold beer, which is probably why he just saved me twelve steps.

Dr. Jimenz asks me some follow-up questions, but he can tell I’m drained.  He asks if I can come back in a few days.  I say sure.

He says, “I would like you to attend at least one group session between now and our meeting.  Just to give me some piece of mind.  Will you do that?”

I agree to it just so I can leave.  I came here hoping for answers, but I’m more confused than ever.  The next day I go to group and sit in the back and listen to sad people talk about sad memories.  They talk about medication and trying to hold a job.  One guy is getting evicted.  A girl just gained forty pounds.  She’s also really horny lately, she says.

I go home and help Jess make dinner.  We don’t say much, but I can tell she’s happy I’m seeking help.  She doesn’t ask too many questions.  She can tell I’ve answered enough.  We fall asleep on the couch watching TV.

A few days later I have my next session with Dr. Jimenz.  They’ve moved him to another office.  All of his stuff is in boxes.  He asks me how things are going.  I tell him alright.  I’m a little more open about the depression and suicidal ideation, but I keep the specifics to myself.

“How long have you been experiencing this current depression?”

“A month, maybe a little more.  It comes and goes.”

“Describe what it’s like when you’re not depressed.”

No one has ever asked me this before.  “Uh…happy, I guess.  Really.  Happy.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know.  I’m just good.  Emotionally.  Mentally.  I’m a writer – for a living – sort of…and there are these times when, I don’t know, I just can’t stop.”

“You mean you can’t stop writing?”

“Yeah, it’s strange.  I just get zeroed in.  It’s like a freight train.  I don’t even sleep.  I just sit and type and…  It’s like a puzzle, you know?”

He shakes his head no, that he has no idea what I’m talking about.  I can feel my pulse rising.  I start speaking faster.

“Like if you break a story into pieces.  You’re, uh, left with the words, right?  You’re left with characters.  Plot.  Themes.  Setting.  Beginnings.  Ending.  They’re pieces, right?  Pieces of a puzzle.  And when I’m in this place, this electric place, I can see all the pieces in my mind and I just know how to put them together.  I see how they fit.  When I’m writing, it’s… it’s the only time I fit, if that makes any sense?”  I give a little laugh, realizing I’m jabbering and sounding more insane than when I was sobbing the other day.

Dr. Jimenz stares at me.  It’s making me fidget.  Puzzle?!  Writing is like a fucking puzzle?  I do it like a freight train?!

Dr. Jimenz stands and walks towards the door.  I know he’s going to open it and call in the supervisor.  They’re going to sedate me and shove me in a padded room.

“Are you familiar with hypomania?” he asks.  He rummages through a box in the corner.

“No…”

“Oh, where is it?”  He goes to another box.  Pulls out picture frames.  “Ah!”  He yanks out a copy of the DSM IV and flips through it.  “See, hypomania is mild form of mania, where a person experiences elation or ‘happiness.’  They also go through hyperactivity, like extreme productivity.”

He hands me the book and for the next few minutes he explains the basics of bipolar II, which isn’t as intense as bipolar I, which often comes with delusions.  Dr. Jimenz says there’s evidence a lot of writers, composers, and scientists suffer from it.  The hypomania allows for long bursts of production.  It can create a certain euphoria.  But when the pendulum swings back it often leads to severe depression.  The drop is so steep, it can destroy a person.

As Dr. Jimenz continues to explain the symptoms and treatments, I start to cry, but for the first time in years, it isn’t sadness.  I finally have an answer, some explanation as to what’s happening inside my mind.

“I take it this sounds familiar?” he says.

I nod and sob and curl into my knees.  Twenty years.  That’s how long I’ve been unraveling.  I just assumed I’d die without an explanation.  I thought I was doomed, but this sweet, pudgy doctor is telling me I’m not.

Dr. Jimenz sets the book on his desk.  “How long have you been writing, as you say, like a ‘freight train?’”

Why did I use that stupid phrase?

“I don’t know… A long time,” I say.

“Approximately?”

“I guess…” I picture the countless nights in L.A., pacing the floors, guzzling coffee.  But it started before that.  When Jess and I were living in Brazil to write our theses, I had plenty of all-nighters clacking away at my laptop.  Then there was grad school.  I’d go days without a wink until I could barely string together a sentence.  But as I think back further, I see more and more pacing, more and more writing.  In New York.  In Florida.  In Kansas City.

And then I finally hit it, the first frenzy.

I was twenty-two years old.  It was the week after Thanksgiving.

My mom had just come out of the closet.

I didn’t sleep for six days.  My friends almost took me to the hospital.  I couldn’t stop writing.  No one could keep up with what I was saying.  It was like someone had shoved an electrical wire into my brain.  Visions and ideas sparked and crackled in the dark unused matter of my mind.

As Kay Redfield Jamison would say, I was “touched with fire.”

My mother coming out didn’t make me bipolar.  My disease was stamped into my DNA long before my mother told us she was gay.  But her declaration shook the foundation of me and set off my first real hypomanic episode.

Now, seven years later, the invisible monster finally had a name.

***

This is the last post in the crisis story, but that doesn’t mean the crisis fully went away.  If you or anyone you know needs help, please don’t hesitate to call 1-800-273-8255

photo credit: <a href=”; via <a href=”; <a href=”;

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Chick-fil-GAY

I started writing this blog a few weeks ago, but the actual spark happened August 1, 2012 when it felt like the entire country was lining up to buy chicken sandwiches in a united front against gay marriage. 

Look, lately I’ve been writing a lot about butts and buttholes and I’m tired of it, so tonight I’m just going to share what I wrote on Facebook that day.

“My mom came out of the closet a little over ten years ago, and it shook the foundation of me. I had, and have, no problem with homosexuality, but I wasn’t ready to hear the woman who’d been married to my dad for 25 years had been lying about who she really was. Then we talked and hugged and she explained being a lesbian wasn’t really an option in Kansas City during the 70s. Until that moment I didn’t realize how impossible it was for so many people to tell the truth. Not everyone was tied to a fence like Matthew Shepard, but I’m pretty sure that’s what some feared would happen if they did. 

But times changed. People evolved. Heck, a few months ago, the President of the United States said he supported gay marriage. Most thought he was a little late to the party, but then the CEO of Chick-fil-A openly admits he spends our money to stop same-sex marriages. Obviously, he has the right to express his opinions. This is America and everyone deserves free speech. But I also have the right to never purchase a sandwich during Chick-fil-A’s six days of operation. I feel bad for the franchise owners who don’t share Dan Cathy’s bigotry, but I cannot, in good conscience, fund a company that wants to dictate who my mother can marry.

Feel free to defriend me. You will not be missed.”

Since then, the company has changed their policy to openly fund anti-gay organizations.  It gives me hope that bigotry won’t win this fight, and reminds me that maybe I should spend a little less time writing about buttholes.

photo credit: <a href=”;Elvert Barnes</a> via <a href=”;photopin</a> <a href=”;

 

Super Bowl Sodomy Timeline


Every year my wife and I make an for the Super Bowl. This is yesterday’s timeline:

7:58 A.M. – Wake to sleeping wife. She looks smug, like she’s dreaming of a Baltimore win, dreaming of the things she’s going to stick up my butt.
8:03 A.M. – Sit on the toilet and cry.
8:15 – 8:40 A.M. – Pace the floors of our apartment.
8:43 A.M. – Remember the dog needs to go out. Watching Sunny poop makes me anxious.
9:45 – 10:25 A.M. – Turn on the computer. Type a poorly-written blog post.
10:35 A.M. – Start biting nails, which makes me think of my wife’s nails. Refuse to cry.
11:02 A.M. – Sneak into our bedroom and quietly pull out my suitcase. I accidently wake up my wife, who sees my pathetic attempt to flee. “Oh right, Super Bowl!”
11:03 A.M. – Taunting begins with wife slowly worming her finger towards my face.
11:04 A.M – 12:15 P.M – Field texts, calls, and Facebook messages from friends asking who I picked (Niners), wondering how I’m feeling, and wishing me luck. My mom calls and asks what I’m cooking today. I tell her I don’t want to talk about food. She asks what’s wrong. I make up an excuse to get off the phone.
1:35 P.M. – I feel like I’ve been watching the pregame show for a month, but I can’t look away. I’m hoping they’ll tell us one of the Ravens is dead.
1:49 P.M. – After an interview with Ray Lewis, my wife starts trying out his war dance. I ask her to stop. She keeps dancing. She says, “I’m gonna stab your butt like Ray Lewis.”
2:38 P.M. – We place an online order for hot wings. I already regret it. My stomach is in knots.
3:15 P.M. – How the hell is this pregame show still on?
3:29 P.M. – Alicia Keys starts singing the National Anthem, which means it’s almost kickoff. I wish it was still the pregame show.
4:07 P.M. – Flacco drills one to Anquan Boldin for a touchdown. Ravens take the first lead. Wife claps and dances around. She shows me her finger and repeats, “Gonna stab it in there like Ray Lewis.”
4:29 P.M. – San Francisco settles for a field goal. The delivery guy buzzes. The wings arrive.
4:50 P.M. – Ravens force a fumble and recover. I wonder if I’ll ever recover.
5:20 P.M. – Wife just starts picking up objects and showing them to me. There’s no way that ketchup bottle is going to fit.
5:22 P.M. – I’m so stuffed, but I defiantly eat a wing as my wife pantomimes spreading my butt-cheeks and crawling her whole body into my butt.
5:30 – 6:30 P.M. – Each live-Tweet I post tears through my heart. I’m trying to be funny, but I’m miserable. It’s clear the Niners are overmatched. Beyonce does give me a small reprieve, but only an act of God will save my rear.
6:32 P.M. – POWER OUT AT THE SUPERDOME! Act of God! Act of God!
7:00 P.M. – Power back on. So are my wife’s taunts. She’s doing a form of the running man in our living room. Our dog starts spinning in circles. I feel betrayed.
7:29 P.M. – Holy crap, the Niners have pulled within 5! Just under two minutes to go. It’s 4th and Goal. Kaepernick chucks it to the corner for Crabtree. I close my eyes and listen as Jess screams. It’s a happy scream. It’s over. Almost. We watch as the last seconds tick off. Ravens win.
7:33 P.M. – I’m taking off my pants as I walk to the bedroom. Jess says, “Come on, let’s savor this for a bit.” “DON’T USE THE WORD ‘SAVOR.’” I get on my back, hold my knees, and close my eyes. My wife pushes a button. The buzzing fills my ears. I start giggling. I can’t stop.
“Why don’t we just tell people we did this?” Jess says. “No one will know.”
“I’ll know.” Three deep breaths.
And we have penetration!
I start to scream, then suddenly stop.
“What?” Jess asks.
“It’s…not bad.”

photo credit: via

I Don’t Do the Gay Guys, Man

Yesterday I attempted a humorous post about the media’s coverage of Manti Te’o’s sexuality.  I was trying to find something funny in a situation that made me sick.  Even in this enlightened time when our President calls for equality for every human being, I realized that an NFL-hopeful, even a finalist for the Heisman, could never come out before the draft.  He’d probably get scooped up by a team eventually, but he’d lose millions, because to take on a gay player would mean more scrutiny, more vitriol, more interviews, and possibly fights in the locker room.  With dickfaces like , the CB for the 49ers, saying, “I don’t do the gay guys man.  I don’t do that.  No, we don’t got no gay people on the team, they gotta get up out of here if they do.  Can’t be with that sweet stuff.  Nahcan’t bein the locker room man.  Nah.”

I like how he said, “I don’t do the gay guys, man,” leaving the possibility that he only does straight dudes.

I also like how other players are getting asked if they’d have a problem with a gay player.  , linebacker for the Ravens, responded, “Absolutely not.  We don’t care.”  He said, “On this team, with so many different personalities, we just accept people for who they are and we don’t really care too much about a player’s sexuality.  You know who you are, and we accept you for it.”

His teammate, Brendon Ayanbadejo, has also been an outspoken advocate for same-sex marriage.  He’s using the Super Bowl as a platform to speak about equality for the LGBT community.  Ayanbadejo has even said Chris Culliver’s anti-gay remarks have inspired him to reach out to Chris Culliver, who apologized yesterday.

reported his words:

“[I was] really just not thinking. [It was] something that I thought. Definitely nothing that I felt in my heart,” Culliver said.  “I support gay people, gay communities, and different racial [backgrounds]. It was just something I feel apologetic to, and I’m sorry that I made a comment and that hurt anyone — that I made a comment that might affect anyone in the organization, NFL, or anything like that.”

The apology doesn’t erase what he said, but it shows that progress is being made.  Minds are opening.  One day a player will have the courage to come out, and an owner will have the resolve to give him a contract.  A lot of fans and players will scream and rage, but the bigots of the world need to realize their ignorance and hate will not prevail.