My father came into town for a visit this weekend. He seemed rather excited to tell me about his new lesbian landlord. Apparently she’s one of the butch types, which of course is all the more exotic to my father who, although being well-traveled and a native New Yorker, is still unaccustomed to gay people. He’s not *afraid* of them; he’s just a tad overenthusiastic. No, that’s not the right word. He just hasn’t been properly socialized around them, so he can sometimes seem–uh–overinterested. Or excited. Like a novice birdwatcher or something. “We had a few beers! I watched her throw an old electric range into the dumpster behind the house–” She’s the new owner, so she’s gutting the building, “–and I said, ‘Hey, I could help you with that!’ So then we had a few beers and talked about stuff. She’s very nice. She’s looking for a new girlfriend. Do you know any lesbians back home?”

“Dad, when I left for college, the lesbian population of our town was reduced by 25%.”

“You’re not a lesbian.”

“Everyone assumed I was. It was decreed by some lesbian gestalt theory.”

“I never knew that. Was it because of your hair color?” {It must be said that in my family, the type of family in which the elders do not speak the word cancer aloud, hairstyles seem to possess some sort of supernatural power. “She killed him with those crazy hairdos of hers!” has been uttered at more than one family wake.}

“Yes, well, that and my archery talents didn’t help much.”

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