I'm meeting with the big fish of Satan's Journal. He's peering down at me from behind his wood-paneled desk and rattling off his usual list of offenses while I sit on his couch with a measured indifference.
"I find your little feministy digs at this organization to be abhorrent," he says. "You need to go out and schmooze at gay clubs more and masturbate to porn every once in awhile."
While he impugns my gayness further, I begin licking myself like a bloodhound dog, my leg jutting against the wall as I lick my crotch.
"What the hell are you doing?" he wants to know.
There's a dead pause, and without missing a beat, I say, "I think I might have chiggers."
I crumple to the ground and begin smudging my ass against his carpeting. "I'm pretty sure I have tapeworms, too," I tell him.
"Jesus Christ," he goes, "and you call yourself a Manhattan homosexual."