[PREVIEW] Episode 579: Hate Line: Gay

John Early (0:00)

But the plot of Dangerous Protectors is that there is a... Sorry, this is your novel. This is my novel. There's a woman who is a bartender at a gruff and rough and tumble bar called Dangerous Protectors, who is torn between her love for an Indian fellow and an Israeli fellow.

An Israeli fellow is named Einel.

And she also goes to the bar a lot.

And it's here. I looked around for Einel. I was hoping he'd be at Dangerous Protectors. If not for me, then just because tonight we had an amazing side trance DJ night. But there was just groups of gruff workmen and their pathetic drunken wives eating onion rings and talking ecstatically. It felt like home, but suddenly home felt a little well homely. If Dangerous Protectors was a pair of puckered up perfect lips, think of it like the filler had migrated. The place felt empty without Einel. Speaking of migrants, I felt like a European. Instead of Einel, my hunky Israeli crush, I was faced with a somewhat swirthy unwelcome guest. My date. The podcast bro. There he sat, hunched over his Android tablet on a stool, absentmindedly picking at his cabbage plate in between rips from his hideous vape. He didn't see me yet. My pussy felt like papillon, trapped in my panties forever. And unlike that sexy Frenchman, I wouldn't be surrounded by hot convicts and black people. I sat all up to the bar and sat on my favorite stool. It had gone cold from my beautiful Tushy's absence. So had my date, apparently. He barely looked up from his tablet. I decided to make the best of it. Sometimes good things come in small packages, at least my small, tight package. So if it could ever find a good thing again. I got the bartender's attention. It was Clodjob, a habitual bachelor who I viewed as a father figure. The usual, he says, his lips curling in a way I loved. The usual Clodjob. I don't know why I named it Clodjob. I replied in a singsonging voice, exhaling breathily. He winked at me and started mixing up a nasty thang. Actually looking at my date, make it a double.

Two parts marshmallow, vodka, one part bubblegum gym, a full poppy prebiotic soda, collagen, adaptogens, retinol, salmon sperm, lactic acid, colostrum, matcha, and a gigantic badass ice cube, all served in a cold whiskey glass.

You might have noticed I kept referring to my date. Stop whenever, as well, my date. This isn't just because my carefree personality doesn't vibe with proper nouns. It's just that he was so born for me, I couldn't even remember his name. This happened to me a lot. My phone was filled with names like Hinge Date Era, Bugatti, Hinge Date Impish Gnome, Hinge Date Anthony Weiner, and Bumble Date Hitler. Looking at my saved numbers folder on my Huawei, it felt like Bill Bergen. Every pitch was a strikeout. I didn't even have this new guy's number saved. I wondered if Einel had worked in Unit 8200 and could erase this all for me. Oh my god. Yeah, and then... How long did you...

How far did you get in this? Oh, pretty far.

How many pages you got here? She kept prodding. This is later. You're thinking about him, aren't you, the Israeli hunk? My plump cheeks turned red as a freshly spanked butt. No, I said, trying to sound forceful, but I fear there was a hint of a squeal. Kumiko looked unconvinced. Kumiko? Kumiko's her Asian friend. You are. I knew it. She made a face. Her pout was tremendous. But you promised you were done with these fly-by-night, love-em-and-leave-em Tel Aviv nightclub guys. I gave up. She caught me. I let out a sigh so hard it felt like a Kegel. She said, yeah, but he's different. She finished. Wait, this went out a Kegel? You mean a queef? Whatever. No, no, it felt like a Kegel. Kegel is where you go like, right? Yeah, yeah. So it's like, I laughed so hard that she strained her crotch. Yeah, okay, okay.

But he's different. She finished. Kumiko always knew what I was about to say. Asian people are like magic.

Wait, wait.

Sorry, keep going. It was then that I knew that I had messed up. This is later. I deployed upon her a weeping crane, a move we both learned growing up together. Normally she would have taken the hint and laughed in a tinkly way like a ringtone, but she wasn't laughing this time. Her father had taught us this move. Her father had taught us everything we knew about the mysterious art of Kung Fu. Her father had also perished. Three weeks ago, Marcus Garvey Zhu's car, her father, had exploded on the G560 highway in China. No trace of his body had been found. Kumiko had taken it hard. She had skyped into the funeral for the Dangerous Protectors Conference Room, and afterwards emerged as white as a no performer. I even went so far as to keep an eye on her wazakashi for the rest of the night, in case she committed sapuku. It goes on like this for a really long time. Wait, is she Japanese or Chinese? She's Asian. Okay, she's Pan-Asian. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. What's like a co-prosperity kind of thing? I think this is great, and you should keep going. This is also very genre-bending, which I enjoy.