According to today’s Chronicle, Supervisor Chris Daly wants to impose some kind of monthly public grill session upon my boyfriend, San Francisco Mayor Gavin Spotswood. Apparently, this happens all the time in British Parliament and that aptly named nut wants to rip this concept off, having Gavin placed on a chopping block before the Supervisors and berated about all of the wonderful things he does to make San Francisco, California, America and the world a better place.
I am ALL for it.
First of all, I have immense faith in hottie’s political abilities and relish in watching him beat those Supervisorial bitches down while looking dapper in a pinstripe Armani. Second of all, why make it so civilized? I say, strip down, oil up and wrestle in wading pool of Bloody Mary’s. Because, if we’re voting on sheer foxiness, my betrothed will always dominate.
Understandably, the love of my life isn’t feeling Wackjob’s idea and is in no mood to endure a monthly session of whining and bitchiness. After all, that’s a woman’s job. But I really don’t see what the big deal is. I mean, when Gavin walks into a room, anyone that doesn’t bow down and roll around in ecstasy at the mere sight and scent of him is either jealous or crippled.
Truth be told, I simply want more access to his genius and his gel, and if I had my druthers, I’d subject him to a monthly drill session of my own. But in the meantime, I’m with Fruitcake Daly on this one. Dance hottie, dance…