Despite doing things in consistently poor taste every year we’ve been in existence, HC has suffered the umbrage of those who are shocked (shocked!) by the latest thing we’ve done. This is because like the red light district of Amsterdam, or Brooklyn, or Janet Jackson, we have to do something every so often to prove that we haven’t lost our edge, and that at any moment, Justin Timberlake could expose our collective titty to millions of people.
Otherwise, the umbrage takers might think their harumphing has swayed us against being a constant affront to morality and the reputation of LGBTAQ people everywhere. And umbrage takers are like mouses who take cookies: first, they ask you not to fellate someone at the top of popular sport crag in New Zealand and write about it. Next, they’ll be giving you shit because the hem of your dress doesn’t go down to your ankles. (Editor: Maybe they’re just upset by the quality of your tuck job? Ra-Ra: You duct-tape a kilbasa to your taint and let me know if it stays there.)
Thus, every year we have to do something perverse. So this year, I thought, I’ve got it! LUBE WRESTLING! (Actually, Queanh thought of it. Blame her.)
Lube wrestling offers a great many advantages. It takes something as gender exploitative as a wet t-shirt contest and makes it exploitative in an entirely fresh way. In no other life circumstance will you have the opportunity to upload photos of yourself greased up and shirtless in a luchadore mask to Facebook without making yourself seem like a narcisstic crazy person. And if nothing else, it allows you to manufacture long-standing feuds to build up hype, which may or may not include pictures of me and Jonny Mo’s head photoshopped into a Street Fighter II challenge screen.
But then, I had to get serious. You could say, I had a reality check. As much as I liked the idea of all of our climbers getting lubed up and holding each other down in bathing suits while everyone threw dollar bills on them, after which I could have some kind of Requiem for a Dream moment when I throw the dirty money in the air, shouting, “fooled you bitches, I normally do this for free,” I had a reality check while shopping online.
Luchadore masks are fucking twenty-five dollars.
And I would need at least four of them.
So, that was that, as far as the lube wrestling was concerned. Sure, I was fine with spending twenty bucks on WalMart lube, and I figured someone somewhere would have a deflated wading pool sitting around, but my God, the luchadore masks! You can’t borrow those!
Thus, barring the appearance of a generous benefactor willing to pay two hundred dollars to see extraordinarily good looking rock climbers get lubed up and wrestle, I’m panning the match. This would never be an issue in a bar in Atlanta, but this is Homo Climbtastic, and these people divide up most of their money between gasoline and dry pasta.
People suggested charging admission, but HC never charges admission. It’s one of the fundamental tenets of the Homo Climbtastic religion. (#37: “Thou shalt not be an HRC dinner.”) Now I’m trying to think of alternative ice breakers with an edge. Possibilities:
- Make acquaintances with six people who have either committed a felony, had group sex, or acquired scabies. Preferably with one another.
- Homo Climbtastic crossword puzzle: “Six letters across. Triggered Danielle’s memory loss episode. Starts with the letter ‘O’.”
- Fill in the blank trivia:
- “Menage a…. 1) Kia. 2.) trois. 3.) Honda Accord. 4) Jeep Wrangler.”
- “Timmy sez… 1) pull hard! 2) I don’t have any cooldowns left! 3.) both!”
- Turn to the person next to you, and ask if you’d be more fuckable if…
- you had an eyepatch.
- you were friends with Whitney Houston.
- you weren’t friends with Whitney Houston.
As you can see, this is a dire situation. Somebody help me!