Dearest Readers,
There comes a time in every man's life when he has to make a decision: Am I gay? Or am I bi-curious? Both of these roads have lain before me for some time now; long, dark, damp and inviting. But I've resisted travelling them for fear it might seem too queer. Lately though, events have unfolded, prompting me to Solve my Unsolved Mystery.
As you know, dear reader, I recently became 'cool.' My previous existence as a washed-up virginal figurine-painter had been obliterated, Fonzie-style, by the New Chip: a hard-hitting, smooth-talking son-of-a-bitch, who made love to the ladeez with the confidence of an 80s child actor on cocaine. I could do no wrong. They flocked to my Gary Coleman jock and I opened their back doors with the greatest of ease. I pissed honey and sweated lube. I was CHIP ZDARSKY.

It's funny how things fall apart, isn't it? I remember it so clearly, as if I was making it up right now.
It was a beautiful spring day in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. I was out for a sesnual walk with my girlfriends Mai Lee and Chanté after a particularly exhausting orgy the night before. Being the only man in a fourteen-person sex-fest might seem like a good idea, but when they begin attaching eleven strap-ons to you, you start to wish there was more cock in the vicinity. Anyhoo, we were strolling down the street, two of us walking funny I might add, when a local merchant stopped us.
"You sir, look like a man with impeccable taste," he said, teeth jostling about in his fat, fetid face. I assumed he was referring to my stunning ethnic girlfriends, and not to strap-on number seven which I'd absent-mindedly left jutting out from my right elbow.
"Thank you. They're not for sale."
The old man laughed and wheezed, his breath reeking of cream cheese and regret.
"Ha Ha! No, no, my young, ample-cocked friend! I wouldn't even know what to do with them! My penis is no good for anything! But, I might have something for you, good sir..."
And then he pulled out the jacket that would change my life...

...for the worse. As soon as the baby blue beauty slid onto my lanky, pre-lubed frame, Mai Lee and Chanté began ethnically screaming. Their piercing wails terrified me so I began to run away, not even taking a moment to tear the offending jacket from my body. As I rounded the corner I could feel it happening. Uncertainty washed over me, nervousness crept into my tortured brain. I was losing 'it,' the same 'it' that helped me score miles of pussy, ass-pussy and face-pussy. I removed the jacket and ran up to the nearest woman, intent on seducing her with some Zdarsky magic in order to alleviate my fears. While I can't remember the words I uttered to her (no doubt ripped off from a Nelly song), I do remember her thick, manish hands around my throat as I pleaded with her for mercy, sweet fucking mercy, and a phone number, any phone number.
As suddenly as I'd become cool, I lost it.

The next two weeks were sad weeks indeed. Realizing that I'd cut all ties from my friends when I became cool, I now had a lot of work to do to win them back. Most of them had moved on to the point where they wouldn't even acknowledge ever knowing me, and some even moved on to the point where they felt it necessary to punch me in my sad, chinless face until I crawled back out their window.
Not only did I lose my friends, I also lost my job at FlowX Design as their Urban Book Designer. Things were pretty bleak, classic Chip-style. How low could I go?

Pretty low actually. By the end of the week I started work at ManFactory as a party-rental male stripper. I went by the name 'The Masked Pole" and was considered the company's comical act. They would send me to bachlorette parties where I'd be beaten and humiliated until the "real" stripper (usually 'Engorge-O' or 'Cockford') would show up and playfully fuck me in the ass to the girlish delight of the audience. While he'd be tearing me a new one, or at least enlargening an old one, I'd have to utter my catch-phrase, "Too much! Too far!" He'd then toss me aside, finishing off the act solo for the grateful ladies as I cried in the corner of the room, bleeding from three of my six orifices. I lasted fifteen rupturing weeks.
During that time however, I made friends with several Quebecois homosexual strippers. We'd hang out after hours and talk about all manner of things. Sometimes we'd re-enact that evening's performance, perfecting my catch-phrase's delivery until the wee hours of the morning. I began to question my questionable sexuality.
I started thinking of my past girlfriend, Blackie O' Blackdark, how I missed her velvety touch, the cold metal of her ankh digging into my back as she made love to me.

Her kiss was like a winter's day, her icicle-like tongue jabbing my face with the passion of an erotic greeting card being opened to reveal the pussy joke within. Thinking of her still made me hot, still made me straight.

And thinking of her kissing herself made me even hotter, even straighter. But it did me no good losing myself in my erotic past. She was dead to me now, the same way she was dead to the province of Alberta, thanks to that prank we pulled at the 2002 Calgary Rodeo. I had to move on and be straight again without her juicy, fluffy loaf.

It's been a difficult journey re-learning straightness. The nights are long on the road, selling comical books from unforgiving city to unforgiving city. Sometimes choice means nothing and necessity drives you into the arms of the first independent kung-fu comic artist that comes along, and comes quickly. You playfully bite and suckle his shoulder not because you want to, but because you have to.

It's harder than it looks giving up such a decadent, queer lifestyle. I used to count the hours until my next homosexual party, giddy with the thought of manly games of Balderdash and Pictionary played out until dawn without the thought of female companionship. How would I ever fly straight with so much to be gay for? The answer was just around the corner.

After losing my book design job I was able to regain my previous job at Taco Shack, albeit at a lower level. My old friend Booker B. Saturn was still there and had made his way up to senior manager, making it easier for me to complete the transition back to my Taco-soaked roots.
A few weeks went by as I taught myself some of the newer, stranger items on the menu (Grandé Gordita? I thought such a thing was impossible!), when my hetero-salvation walked through the door.
A collection of artists, known as the Royal Academy of Illustration & Design, began eating at the Shack for lunch. Sensing their greatness and, more importantly, their straightness, I started to chat them up, sometimes playfully drawing Garfield in hot sauce on their orders. Eventually, they began to notice me as an artist and began making funny comments like, "Hey, Picasso, my Gordita stinks like your face holes." or "Hey, Van Gogh, did you just drag your bleeding fingers through my burrito?"
One day I decided to finally show them my best work and brought in my portfolio. Luckily, Booker didn't notice as my portfolio was actually made out of Taco Shack wax cups. When the gang came in at 12:03, just like they did every day, I sprung into action. The first member came up to order, Cameron Stewart.
"Hello, Mr, Stewart! I'd like to show..."
"Yes, I'd like to order a Grandé Gordita and a small..." I then sprung, hoisting my portfolio out onto the counter. I must have miscalculated the weight of it due to the fact that I krazy-glued hand-painted figurines to most of the pages (it is, after all, my greatest medium), because I lost control of the book.
The next thing I knew I had knocked the hot sauce container over, spilling magical flecks of our special combination of pepper and ketchup onto Mr. Stewart's $950 short shorts.
"What the fuck?! Look what you did you little pissant!"
Faster than a cheetah with Olympic fever, Mr. Stewart backhanded me clear across the kitchen. I tasted blood as I collided with sensitive taco equipment, cracking two ribs and inflaming my appendix. Before I knew it Mr. Stewart was already on my side of the counter, eager to help me up by hurling his nimble foot into my newly descended testicles, as incentive to get off the floor. Booker heard the commotion and fired me on the spot, as it was the third time this week I'd been attacked. In hindsight, he was just looking out for my health.
So, I turned in my Taco Shack badge, my Taco Shack uniform and my gun and walked out the front door. As soon as I stepped out I noticed that the guys were still there, no doubt wanting to finish the job. I panicked and threw a limp fist at Mr. Stewart's impressive face. He caught it in his powerful drawing hand and lifted me off the ground the way you would lift a baby having a tantrum.
"Hey there, chief, calm down. I don't want to hurt you again so soon after hurting you before. I feel bad about losing you your job. Is there anything we, the Academy, can do to help you get back on your feet, princess?"
Finally, my big break! I knew that by weasling into this studio I could watch and learn how to be straight again, like 75% of the current Academy members! I begged them to let me share studio space with them in exchange for my services as an intern. They agreed and I finally found a home: The Royal Academy of Illustration & Design.

It's been months now since I joined the group and I've learned so much from them. While I'm still far away from being the world-class pusserman (ed. note: like fisherman, but for pussy) I once was, the antics of these talented pussaholics (ed. note: like alcoholics, but for pussy) have kept me on the straight and narrow. So, the dice has been rolled, came up gay time and time again, until I finally re-rolled it straightish.
Mystery solved. Chip's straight and intends to stay that way until 2004 brings with it a brand-new novelty firefighter calendar. Thanks to everyone who's supported me through these past few torturous months and I'll see you all at the nearest convention, full of life and repression.

Love,
Chip.