In grudging acknowledgment of Valentine’s Day, I’ve decided to use the occasion as a springboard for talking about how gay I am not.

It’s come to my attention that there are certain unnamed parties that are of the opinion that I am a profligate homosexual who will cheerily exchange a half-hour of backdoor shenanigans for ten dollars and a warm smile.

This is mostly untrue.

Listen, I understand how a misconception such as my alleged fondness for repeated acts of sodomy could come to be.  After all, if a fellow were to watch a music video containing as much sugary pop and ruthlessly synchronized Korean dance stylings as I have in the past week, some eyebrows would be bound to raise.

My favorite is Taeyeon! She's the skinny brunette.

Well, it may surprise my detractors to learn that my infatuation with these perky Korean teenagers is not motivated by girlish curiosity and intense cockthirst, but rather my extreme patriotism.  Think about it for a second – can you imagine the irreparable damage these Asian sirens could wreak on our nation’s youth if exposed on a national level?

It is up to me, and me alone, to watch this video repeatedly and decipher the mysterious secret behind their allure, which is surely coded in their syncopated rhythms and brightly-colored costumes.  Only when I have done this can I contact the proper authorities and allow them to take the proper steps to defending our children.

Until that day, it is my solemn duty to watch this video over and over, learn every one of their dance moves, and sign up for their newsletter.

May God have mercy on my soul.

Exacerbating the rumours of my frequent bumming sessions with similarly-bent young men is my love of high fashion (that is to say, expensive clothes.)  First, let me man up and confirm the events of January 16th, 2009:

- Yes, in a brief moment of weakness, I did rush into a branch of Harry Rosen Menswear.

- Yes, I rugby-tackled a mannequin that had been wearing an exquisite $3000 double-breasted pinstripe Armani suit.

- Yes, I clung to it, limpet-like, whimpering as I fondled the fabric and caressed the nearly-invisible seams.

- Yes, a team of firemen and the Jaws of Life were involved in my eventual seperation from said mannequin.

- No, I do not regret my actions.

In my defense, the mannequin had totally been asking for it.

But rather than considering my actions embarrassing and shameful, consider this: what if a terrorist had bought that suit? Can you imagine how powerful a suicidal madman would be if he were also well-dressed?  I doubt a single one of our brave soldiers would hesitate to fire upon some scruffy jihadist wrapped in filthy rags, because if there’s one thing people can’t stand, it’s a slovenly vagrant with a religious agenda.

Now imagine that same jihadist, only he’s shaved his beard, gotten a haircut, maybe had a little bit of cosmetic surgery done, worked with a personal trainer for a few months, and has dressed in the very same suit I molested earlier.  He’s approaching our courageous servicemen, ticking bomb in hand, except he looks like this:

Chilling!

Our troops would be paralyzed.  Powerless.  And then, by the awesome power of fashion, they would be dead.  I don’t want that to happen.  Do you?

I didn’t think so.  And that is why it is incredibly important that I acquire all of the expensive, beautiful clothes in the world; to save the lives of our countless men and women warriors fighting overseas to rid the world of unfashionable poor people.

I hope that this has cleared some things up, especially for the multiple parties insisting that I think every moment not spent with a penis in front of me is wasted.  In later writings, I may address similar concerns over my fondness for barbershop music, Harvest Moon, animated musicals, Broadway musicals, and feminism.  Join me, won’t you?

But not in a gay way.