Let it be known that I have long disliked the word prop. I felt minimally queasy when we had the prop-is-short-for-property lesson in high-school drama class: it was prop this, prop that, prop prop prop. Later, once I discovered Whose Line Is It Anyway?, I’d get skeeved out whenever Drew Carey announced the “Props” segment, even though watching Whoopi Goldberg and Wayne Brady pretend that two foam cherries are a pair of enormous knockers never gets old. (Strangely, I have no problem with hearing props when people “give somebody props.”)
Other monosyllabic words that end in -op (I’m thinking of pop and crop at the moment) bug me, too. So I’m willing to bet that my dislike of prop is a quirky, sound-aversion thing.
However, my hatred of prop—my burning, throbbing, spleen-melting hatred of prop—has nothing to do with sounds. It has to do with Prop 8’s being passed. Because if there’s anything that’ll provoke a bi girl’s rage, it’s foiling her plans to move to California, lock a bunch of hot chicks in a cage, and make them strip-dance for her so she can choose one to be her lov-uh.
Oh, wait, that’s not me. That’s Tila Tequila.
Actually, I’d rather not make potential mates strip for me. In cages. On national TV. Nor would I want to break up with my boyfriend just because some woman with a foreign accent hit on me. And, for the record, I wouldn’t want to steal anyone’s wife, gayify anyone (yeah, like that’s possible), or stab anyone with an ice pick. What I want is to have a life that’s pretty boring: get married, have some kids, pay some bills, go to temple, take some vacations, and learn how to cook a chicken pot pie from scratch. I’m under the impression that most people my age want some version of that—whether they’re gay, straight, or somewhere in between.
What’s so scary about pot pie?
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