More Power To You

Back when the Patriots won Super Bowl number 3, in their first playoff game they had to beat Indianapolis on a snowy Sunday evening in Foxboro. Our friend Jake invited me, Mads, and some of our other friends over to his house to watch the game on his new 50 inch Hi-Def TV and to meet his new girlfriend, Taylor.

Well we met her, and she was hot. Like six-feet tall; long, blonde hair; and an amazing body. The one major flaw: his chic was a dude. A real good loking dude as a chick, mind you-- I mean she wasn't like those Priscilla Queen of the Desert drag queens with too much eye make-up and muscular, maculine features. She was a hotter chick than most real chicks I knew.

Our friends couldn't tell, and Jake didn't seem to know either. I felt really bad, because she seemed like a nice enough dude: she gave us all snacks and beer. They seemed to be happy together too. Then the light went off in Mads head. Oh no, I thought, here it comes:

"Hey, Jake, man, did you know your chick's a dude?"

Our friends audibly coughed up their food. Jake and Taylor came out to the middle of the livingroom holding hands. I was mortified.

"Why did you have to say that, you Norwegian moron?"

"No, it's okay, man."

"It is? Did you already know?"

"Of course I did? What, do you think I'm a complete ignoramus?"

"You know she's a he... and you're cool with that...?"

"Yeah, why not?"

I stood up.

"No, I agree, why not? You two seem happy together, so I say more power to you."

At that point all of our friends except for Mads mumbled out excuses on why they needed to leave. I felt bad for Jake, but he understood. They were just uptight assholes, while Mads and I are completely secure in our sexuality.