Lesbians in the Mist: CSA Edition

As I’ve already explained in this blog and posted numerous times in the town square, lesbians are good friends to have. Doing neighborly favors comes just as naturally to lesbians as changing the course of Western literature came to famous lesbian authoress Marcel Proust. And just like Proust, we’re all too happy to assist in building multi-tiered decks, making Dolly Parton seem androgynous, and dog-sitting for entire lunar cycles—without losing a lick of temps! Sure, all of this sounds good but, you may find yourself asking, How do I meet these gentle, bighearted creatures? What do they look like? How can I make them notice me?

Well, Dear Breeder, for once you’re asking the straight kinds of right questions! And now it’s time to do what you really know how to do: HUNT.

A low-key, summertimery place to track industrious, useful lesbians is at your local community supported agriculture (CSA) project. I know you think you can smell a co-op or pyramid scheme from a mile away, but I swear it’s not like that this time. Just put your $40,000 baby back in that $300 stroller and look around you, Dear Breeder—look deeper into the mist! There, can you see it? Behind the barrels of organic, expensive but free-range agriculture and dairy products? Yes, an entire world of civic-minded, green-thumbed lesbians is right at your fingertips!

Supermarket Schlep

Here are a few things you’ll want to check off your grocery list if you want to get a lesbian in your crosshairs in time to let her carry your groceries out to the car for you.

Marking Your Territory: Open Season
If your CSA offers a choice of days to pick up your bounty of fresh, locally grown produce, trust me: Choose the weekend not the weekday date. Choosing the right hunting season will magnify your chances of casually encountering a casually-dressed lesbian by about 400%. The reason for this is that locally-grown lesbians, like American Black Bears, are a hibernating species. Lesbians lie dormant during the week (apart from their tireless work at the non-profits that make your city worth living in) so that they may rise again, well-rested, for their weekend-long pursuits: like hiking the Appalachian Trail in a few days, feeding the homeless the food you don’t eat, or hosting weekend-long BBQ binges that make your college Greek life look like naptime at the lesbian-run charter school up the street.

Baiting the Trap: Pattypan Squash
Have you ever heard of this varietal of squash before, Dear Breeder? Do you know sixteen different ways to make this into a delectable side dish (or chilled wine) that will make your neighbor, boss, or high school crush willing to do anything (and I do mean anything) to get invited to the Labor Day party that your soon-to-be lesbian bestie is going to plan for you and then not attend? I didn’t think so. Pay attention.

“I never knew anal could be so…comfortable!”

Proper Hunting Attire: Take Off That Visor
You may be surprised to know that the only thing lesbians like to see visors on are LPGA golfers—and even then only during televised tournaments. You hear me? Do NOT wear a visor when trying to lure a lesbian into your “kill zone.” No visors are allowed on strollers, heads, or strapped to your hip like those straight cell phone holsters you carry around with you everywhere. To the lesbian tribe, straight people wearing headgear is weak and lazy. Once confronted with tacky shade, we will retract and fly away like a flock of demented birds, after a Hitchcockian fashion.

Going in for the Kill: Your Go-To Conversation Line
Next time you bump elbows with a hungry-eyed lesbian of the wild in front of the cheese-choosing fridge, go ahead, ask her what she thinks of a Palestinian embargo. Ask her about Hillary Clinton. Seriously, break the ice with an enticing question about the evolution of American folk music. I guarantee she’ll have you laughing all the way to the bank—by which I mean your cheesy, undomesticated Lexus—with promises of giving you clippings from her award-winning garden, or teaching your kid how to read any number of romance, or lost, languages. For FREE.

Hemingway: Professional Lesbian Hunter

Before long, you’ll have a stable of reliable, hard-working lesbians mounting tofu on your wall, providing you with the kind of backyard, emotional support you really need. And by the end of the day, you’ll realize that friendships with lesbians are like investment strategies that you’ll never have to shell out for, wild adventures akin to unaccompanied safari in foreign lands. We will give and give, just out of the kindness of our well-worn hearts. All we ask in return is for you to stop referring to our significant others as our “friends.” And maybe for that extra basil puree/rack of ribs it doesn’t look like anyone’s going to eat, anyway.

How to Talk to Homosexuals

How many times have you found yourself at the florist, Dear Breeder, or the fabric store or off-track betting parlour, and wished you could communicate more effectively with the obvious homosexual working behind the counter? You’ve seen him give vigorous, award-winning customer service to other floral enthusiasts/stay-at-home seamstresses/gambling addicts. What’s so wrong with you?

You and millions of clueless heterosexuals just like you are not alone, Dear Breeder. That’s why I’ve drawn up a few handy tips, to help you get the service you’ve come to expect from the minority group you’ve come to despise. Once you’ve got the hang of these basic guidelines, I guarantee you’ll be thinking, talking, and acting like a homosexual in no time!

Without any of that sinful wriggling around in feces your religious leaders and congresswomen can’t help but picture us engaged in, of course…

“Wait a minute, you mean most nights you guys just
make dinner and argue about what’s on tv?”

First, take a deep breath and picture yourself in the homosexual’s shoes, platform boots, or gardening clogs, as the case may be. To demonstrate your newly-feigned sense of empathy, you should begin the conversation with a simple, yet heartfelt apology. It doesn’t matter what for, just make something up. Remember, it’s not a lie if you yourself don’t believe it. This may seem counterintuitive, Dear Breeder, but once you too have spent an entire shared cultural history diminishing and making amends for your very existence, I think you’ll find that the words “I’m sorry” roll right off the tongue.

Next up, try lightening the mood with a joke. We gays spend a lot of time brooding about all the many ways we’ve been wronged, and love nothing more than a hearty chuckle at the end of a long, humiliating day of public visibility. And don’t worry about bringing your A game! We gays will laugh at almost anything, even if your material is as tired as Dan Choi’s Grindr profile.

Pushy activist seeks same for steamy equal rights fantasy play.

Finally, take every opportunity to pepper your language with what little gay slang you’ve managed to cobble together over the years. I’m not asking you to become fluent in Polari overnight, simply suggesting that, under the right circumstances, a well-timed “Queen, please!” will go a very long way toward getting what you want. (As may a casual reference to hot yoga and butternut squash, depending on the gender aspect of the listener.) Best case scenario, you’ve cracked the code and made yourself a new friend! Worst case scenario, you’ll come across as the incoherent, babbling member of the general public we’ve already pegged you to be. Either way, it’s another victory for modern gay rights!

If, after several attempts, none of these techniques has proven effective, Dear Breeder—take heart. It’s not your fault. Like Navajo, ours is a language impossible to master unless you were born into it. We gay people communicate through a finely-woven tapestry of verbal and nonverbal cues: elaborate series of low-frequency throttles and rumblings, high-pitched buzzings and hisses, pheremonal signals and glandular secretions. And of course, our patented Ojos Brillanticos™ Technology.

Our eyes are the windows to the closed doors of our parents’ souls.

When all else fails, just keep on grumbling, pointing at things, and sweating all over the counter. The gay-in-charge will eventually figure out what you want—most likely by rolling his eyes and deciding for you. And when you get home and find you have to explain to your wife why the minivan is stuffed with lemon yellow crinoline or silk magnolias or losing pull-tabs, I strongly suggest you take a reflective moment, look into her eyes, and tell her you’re sorry.

Just like I taught you.

The Froth of July

As every red-fearing, god-blooded American knows, there’s nothing gay about the Fourth of July. Nothing at all. In fact, the only thing more heteronormative than the largely incoherent celebration of our own oblivious patriotism is the landscape of Matthew McConaughey’s dreams. Yep, we’re sure you’ve got everything covered for the long weekend: a twelve-pack of Corona Light (with matching board shorts), hamburger patties that have been frozen since the Bush Administration, and a sneaking suspicion that you may in fact be The World’s Greatest Dad.

But there’s one item we hope you haven’t left behind in the garage, Dear Breeder: your unassailable heterosexuality. The last thing you want at the family barbecue/shooting range/racist block party is for someone to think you’re of the violet persuasion!

“Can you believe how much fudge I packed into this cake?”
“I know, and just look how everyone’s weenies plumped up!”

In the spirit of totally-Platonic brotherly camaraderie, we’ve come up with a few tips to help you and your loved ones avoid any embarrassing sexual orientation mix-ups during this weekend’s inescapable pageant of frustrated masculinities!

• Don’t look too longingly at the franks but also try not to stare at the buns.
• Always demand to see the boat first, before accepting invitations to participate in group watersports.
• When sampling deviled eggs from a lesbian aunt or cousin, don’t make a dumb comment about her smart pantsuit. Just trust us on this one.
• Never allow your sparklers—not even for a moment!—to twinkle. The trick is to deaden your eyes.
• Why mock a toddler when you can punch a bald eagle?
• Bocce balls are for Europeans, wimps, European wimps, and people who refer to themselves as “European-Americans” (read: wimps). Stick to horseshoes, the less intellectual choice this Fourth of July.

So, fire up the grill, unfold your canvas folding chair, and kick off this Fourth with a frothy fifth of Seagram’s Seven! Now you can really cut loose, knowing that the homophobic panic and unshakable paranoia of American manhood will be kept firmly in check through yet another family holiday. And don’t forget to bring along a designated driver, or at least keep some bail money in the glovebox, while you’re celebrating the many freedoms this great land of ours promises to someday promise us!

The Truth About Gender-Neutral Parenting

We here at Breeder’s Digest have been nothing short of frazzled by the rising trend in gender-neutral parenting. In fact, we’ve been so stirred up about it that we decided to read. From what little actual information we could glean from NPR’s bewildered hallucination of an article “The End of Gender?,” we now know we are definitely headed for this summer’s second man-made apocalypse: A gender apocalypse!

I’m so glad we had this hastily-assembled “article” (complete with a dictionary definition of gender) to warn us about the four horsepersons of the apocalypse: a hot androgynous model who walks both male and female runways, a blogger mom who posts about her “boychick” child, another kid who got hir hair braided, and these gender-neutral parents who haven’t a clue in the world of what they’re not doing. Obviously, once again straight people have saved the world by ending it, destroying the gender binary once and for all!

America’s Next Top Hangover

But before you go getting any big ideas, Dear Breeder, think just for a second about what your gender-free future might look like. Are you really so sure you’re going to be able to survive this dreadful apocalypse of doom?

We know, for instance, that behind all of your “clever,” “non-gendered” baby names (Parker, Ashley, Octavia Butler) and “gender-free” toys you’re espousing with big shit-eating grins on your faces, there’s a creeping low-level anxiety that haunts your every gender-neutral move–some sense that THIS is not really, truly how the world should be. We know you’ve thought it, and we certainly know Grandpa has come right out and said it on at least two occasions, one of which involved him holding a loaded rifle in what he normally refers to as his “vodka hand.” That was scary for all of us, Dear Breeder, and was just one of many warning signs that come with this media frenzy known as “gender-neutral parenting.”

Parent-free parenting

The problem with gender-neutral parenting, Dear Breeder, is this: You have churned out sissies and tomboys, butches and femmes, twinks and leather daddies like baby factories since the beginning of time, and we really don’t want you to stop now. Unlike you, we queers like gender and still continue to do interesting things with it. But lately it’s starting to feel like we’re the only people on Earth who don’t want gender to end! Just because you and your wife can wear each others’ jeans and still find each other attractive doesn’t mean we can.

The truth is, Dear Breeder, that for all of your heterosexual showboating you are about as gender-neutral as they come. We understand that it’s a lifestyle choice but why impose such bland nonsense on your innocent, perverted children? Doesn’t every child deserve the right to become a piss-guzzling, moustacheod cartoon of the gender of his/her/hir choice? We damn well thought so.

RIP Grandpa.

Listen, what we may have never confessed in family therapy sessions (or while prying the bottles out of grandpa’s cold, dead vodka hand), is that your good old-fashioned fucked-up parenting is what makes for the best queers. My parents let me play on all-boys sports teams as a child–and my father even called me “Luke” at certain hardware stores–and take a look at me now! I’m just your run-of-the-mill mannish queer blogger who still has no idea what shiz my gender is. As usual, your self-congratulatory efforts help no one but yourselves (and burned-out NPR bloggers).

So please, if you know which goose is good for the gander, discontinue your hair-braided schemes of bleeding heart progress and return to your more terrifying, baldly narcissistic brand of parenting.

Sure, we’ll hate you for it then, but we’ll love you for it now.

The Four Stages of Gay Sleep

Although blacking out in a heap on the living room floor has its merits, nothing feels better than crawling into bed for a good night’s sleep at the end of a long, hard day at the office or bathhouse. Unlike you straight people, however, who do everything as efficiently and ruthlessly as possible (and frequently, while wearing sweatpants), gay men have turned the basic physiological act of sleeping into an elaborate and baroque process, complete with all the bells, whistles, and high-pitched screeching noises you’ve come to know and expect from us.

In an attempt to demystify the process for once and for all, scientists at the Breeder’s Digest Institute of Gay Sleep Technology have recently classified the four stages of gay sleep:

1. Tossing and Turning
During this initial stage of sleep, the gay man settles into his nocturnal environment, languishing in alternating currents of comfort and misery. This stage is accompanied by a series of world-weary groans, dainty coughing fits, and deep sighing. As he reflects on the events of his day, the gay is likely to make his greatest verbal triumphs, crafting all the perfectly-timed, witty retorts he should have said in the moment. By the end of this stage, he has determined to compose, first thing in the morning, a restrained yet incisive letter to a father figure, ex-lover, or Ann Landers. But don’t worry, Dear Breeder: most gays can barely hold a pen, much less remember bedtime promises.

“I played Betty White in my own autobiographical mini-series!”

2. Astral Journeys
Having finally achieved a state of natural unconsciousness, the gay man’s soul breaks free from its earthly shackles and hovers near the ceiling of his bedroom or men’s shelter. From this vantage point, the gay man is truly able to admire—from within his soul—the beauty and rapture of his very existence. The gay soul whispers things like, “You really came out of your shell today, kiddo,” “You’ve got the chiseled physique of a male reality show contestant,” and, “Shh-shh, sister-soul star-child,” to its physical counterpart.

Stage 2.5: The Choreographed Ghost Ballet.

3. R.E.M. Sleep
During this most restful period of gay slumber, the sleeper is met by the ghost of still-alive singer, Michael Stipe who, having crawled in through an open window, forces the gay to account for all the music he listened to in college. “Really?” Michael Stipe has often asked, “Was Lisa Loeb ever all that good?” “No,” I explain again and again. “It was the mid-to-late 90’s! I was so confused!” Michael Stipe shakes his head in disgust, opens his mouth as if to say something, then sits on the edge of my bed and weeps. Only after coaxing him outside with the promise of soy protein and bus fare, does he actually leave. At least, I think that was Michael Stipe. . .

He sure did suck dick like Michael Stipe. . .

4. Dream State
At last, the gay has unlocked the door to his own subconscious, and is flooded with a steady stream of images, sounds, and scents—all of which hold important clues to the inner workings of the gay mind. Common themes for gay dreams include: public nudity/private dressing rooms; making love to an early-career Ted Danson; writing genre fiction; ladies’ fashion for men; improbably oversized genitalia; The Cosby Show, seasons 1-3; Classical themes; mastery of the sports metaphor; animal husbandry; dystopian societies in world literature; riding a unicorn; riding Lady Gaga through a field of unicorns; full equality in the eyes of our families, and the federal government.

“No, you can’t read my ponyface.”

As you’re sleeping soundly tonight, Dear Breeder, dreaming about real or fantasy football, try to remember the plight of the homosexual sleeper. Next time you’re going on and on about your toddler’s dance recital, don’t take it so personally when I stretch my arms wide, yawn loudly, and stumble from the room in search of the perfect place to nap. I’m not bored, just exhausted. After all, I haven’t slept properly since my own gayness first began keeping me up all night. Wait, what was that you said about your wife’s cousin’s mobile home park?

Zzz. . .

Leave it to Breeders: Thanksgiving Edition

Straight people love a good charity case. They love to put on their finest buckles, armor, and smug expressions and spend all afternoon feeling sorry for those they deem less fortunate than themselves. Never mind that the Native Americans—like the homosexuals before them—were doing pretty well in the first place, without the help of a bunch of straight, white people zooming around Plymouth Rock in their gas-guzzling buggies and building thatched-roof McMansions as far as the eye can see. “Oh, if I could only help them in some way,” Sally Farthington thinks to herself, “If only my fried chicken were good enough—maybe they’d learn to be more like us…” Thanks but no thanks, Dear Breeder.

Oh please, painter of group nationalistic portraits foregrounded by fuzzy buildings and trees: We know this representation is a bold-faced lie. We know, for instance, that chocolate chip cookies were not served to a seated crowd of Native Americans by a Jane Austen character. We know that it would not become fashionable to wear electric blue stockings with green velvet pants (and to cross your legs in such a manner) until 1885, the year of Boy George’s birth. And we also know that Shirley Temple and her dog Sparky most certainly were not the guests of honor at what you so artlessly hail as “The First Thanksgiving.”

I will, however, compliment you, Painter of a Thousand Inaccurate Details, on your fine rendering of male facial hair. The drag kings who read our blog are going to be ecstatic.

And isn’t that, after all, what Thanksgiving is really about?

Gay Paris!

Finally, it’s happened. The people of France have begun a love affair with Breeder’s Digest. And we, in turn, have fallen back in love with France—as we remember it from our high school textbooks. Frankly, we’d forgotten how much we have in common with one another. Thanks, France, for reminding us once again that gays and the French share a mutual admiration for the finer things in life…

Midday drinking.
Decorative plant life that may/may not be fake.
Fur collars that may/may not be fake.
Impossibly uncomfortable wrought-iron chairs.
Plexiglass windows.
Giant pant legs, tiny shoes.
Things that spurt.
Street signs that get blurry after lunch.
Dogs who are just as snobby as we are.
Pink triangles.
Bald painters who feel entitled to paint just because they’re gay/French.
Men who take up too much space.
Unrealistic hair colors on women.
Waiters in mom jeans.
Leather bags with handles.
Faceless straight couples who read in silence.

Bonjour Paris, je m’appelle…

Lost and Found at the National Equality March

We don’t know about you, but over here at Breeder’s Digest we’re still pulling ourselves together after last weekend’s National Equality March in D.C.! We never knew that living history could be so much like just living our lives! The numbers are still coming in, but it appears that anywhere from 17 to 250,000 gay people just like us descended on our nation’s capitol. In order to get a better sense of all that we gained from this public demonstration of gay solidarity, we must first take stock of all that was left behind.

If any of the following items belong to you, please let us know…

– One oven mitt, a baker’s dozen of vegan honey butter croissants

– One tear-stained copy of Khalil Gibran’s “Sand and Foam”

– One unfinished sign reading “Gays Will Not Rest Until”

– Kim Cattrall

“Who’s here for Cindy’s alternative lifestyle affirmation ceremony?!”

– Nineteen handfuls of glitter

– Nineteen copies of Mariah Carey’s Glitter on Blu-Ray

– 165 iPhones, 11 complete sets of Crate & Barrel mixing bowls, and 47 pairs of 2(x)ist underwear

– One copy of Socialist Protest Chants inscribed “This book belongs to Josh!”

– Handwritten notes for Lady Gaga’s groundbreaking (and ear-shattering) speech

Blue means scream, green means grass.

– The shadow of Cleve Jones, predicting 6 more weeks of gay winter

– Something about Maine

– Abandoned HOPE and loose CHANGE

– Joe Solmonese’s toupette

He might not be able to drive a movement, but he sure can drive a clutch!

Incidentally, there are still loads of baby dykes lounging on the lawn of the Capitol Building, waiting to find (or in some cases, lose) their nascent identities. And can someone please come claim Lady Gaga? She’s still talking…

Total Lesbian Recall

Gee whiz, it’s hard out there for a straight. How can you possibly be innovative, when gays have already thought of everything? I mean, we give and give, and you just sit there twiddling your wife’s thumbs. To date, the only things you’ve managed to contribute to lesbian culture are khaki Dockers and Point Break. As usual, Dear Breeder, your best just isn’t good enough. We’ve taken a vote, and we want our stuff back now!

That’s why we’re officially instituting a TOTAL LESBIAN RECALL of all the things you’ve stolen from us over the years.

SERIAL MONOGAMY

You’ve really made a mess of this whole marriage thing, haven’t you? Haven’t you?! After all your self-righteous moralizing, it turns out you’re not even all that devoted to the institution you continue to clench in your cold, dead fists. Unlike you, however, our fists are alive and fisting! That’s because we prefer girlfriends to come in multiples, just like our orgasms. Our relationships are monogamous (like yours are supposed to be) because we don’t take part in your once-in-a-lifetime woman-trading ceremonies. By involving ourselves instead in a series of committed relationships, we know we’ve always got a replacement wife waiting in the wings. That’s right, we’ll be in charge of the woman-trading around here!

Dear Breeder: 1990 called, and a bunch of angry, militant, yet deeply-fulfilled lesbians want our serial monogamy back. Make up something on your own for once!

SHAVED HEADS

A shaved head never goes out of style if you’re one of the following: an aging NBA star looking to showcase elaborate, meaningless tattoos; a stepdad with something to prove; or, a man whose receding hairline can no longer be considered “intellectual.” Like most things, though, the shaved head started with lesbians. You see, shaved heads make for the clearest indication that a woman is gay, and therefore uninterested in male attention. It can be momentarily empowering to shave your head in this tried-and-true lesbian rite of passage (right, Natalie Portman?), but the real display of audacity comes when you look your withered grandparent in the eye and defiantly say, “The all-women’s college you broke your back to send me to isn’t what made me gay. I can’t help who I love!” Good thing every detail of your facial expression and scalp is unobstructed so Nana and Granddad can see that you didn’t just shave your head in a desperate effort to prove something to yourself. Something that you still haven’t quite figured out…

Dear Breeder: The suburbs called, and they say you’re shearing everything a little too obsessively—even the shrubs, who don’t give a flying fuck about your fading masculinity.

GOING GREEN, OR (RED)

This new hobby you’ve picked up of “considering” soy products and “recycling” your trashy straight trash is really over the top. Lesbians have been “deeply troubled” by Birkenstock—I mean, carbon—footprints since way before you were born. We cook our food and light our lights by the inexhaustible energy of lesbian drama, and then go to advanced spin cycle classes to relax. Next time you want to “go green,” Dear Breeder, why don’t you just go home and turn off eleven of your twelve TVs? And while you’re thinking about what a success you’ve become—what with all of your flat screens—why not stop and consider the thousands of lesbians who are making them, in sweatshops and sweat lodges across the globe?

Incidentally, Dear Breeder, this entire (RED) thing has got to go. It’s making me bo(RED). Lesbians have taken care of people with HIV forever, and even though their efforts have largely gone unnoticed, we’ve never demanded that our human kindness be enclosed in gratuitous parentheses and sold in high-end boutique malls. Frankly, I’m offended by this greedy, exploitative, and trendy appropriation of (AIDS). Though I will acknowledge that The Gap has served my people well in their consistent production of rugged quality plaids.

Dear Breeder: Bono just twittered @you to say that even a piece of toilet paper can be recycled for the Sudanese/Irish/Palestinian people, but it’s thanks to the foresight and earth-friendly ways of lesbians that you’re even facebook friends with him in the first place.

The list of things you’ve stolen from us could go on and on. The more I think about your relentless lesbian identity theft, the more it makes my head want to explode!

Hasta la vista, Breeder.

Sorry, You’re Gay

If Radclyffe Hall and Noël Coward were the same person…

Listen, sister. Your mixed nuts are giving me a lot of mixed signals, and it’s time you take a look in the mirror. Your monocle may be a cheeky nod to lesbian fashions of the 1920’s, but that long, skinny cane is nothing but a failed attempt at an imaginary phallus. In fact, your entire over-accessorized outfit does nothing but call you out as the raging dyke you truly are. Girl, you are so butch that if you had one more accessory, you could pass as Dudley Moore, who himself could pass as a lesbian any day of the week, even from beyond the grave. Did I say “grave,” meaning solemn or dignified? I wish. Instead, you’re having a spat attack and smiling like a drill team sergeant, which I’m assuming you were at some point in your life. For your own closeted sake, I hope to god those gloves are latex. Now, until you put on some relaxed khakis and a ball cap with a bent brim, I’m never talking to you at the liquor store again!

The case for gay marriage, in a nutshell.

There you go again, walking out of the county courthouse in broad daylight, your head held high, as if you hadn’t just spent the night in jail on charges of public lewdness and solicitation. Let’s face it, Mr. Peanut. If only you’d come out of the closet and live your life as an openly gay man (if not the gayest man on the planet), you might have more self-respect, and start wearing a dress like all self-respecting gay men do. You might be able to kick that nasty drinking habit, and stop hiding pints of Southern Comfort all over the house. You might not feel compelled to post the exact same ad, night after night, on craigslist: OLDER, REFINED GENTLEMAN SEEKS HONEY ROASTED BOYTOY TO SUCK ON MY NUTS. 175LB, 7’3″ WITH TOPHAT, 8.5 INCHES UNSHELLED. SALT AND DRUG-FREE HERE, U B 2. Mr. Peanut, I’m flagging your post for miscategorized sexual desire!