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It’s June so it’s Pride so it’s me and I’m back and I’m more insufferable and ripped than ever.

Poseidon, y’all. Gay God of the Seas. The original Instagram Thirst Trap. You got followers? I got fountains.

I’m not here to play games with you, this time around, my landlubber-man-lovers.

Well, that’s not true. I’m always up for games.

Let’s make like that summertime sleepover birthday party you went to at 12 (the one where you got a boner watching Daveon Williams eat a Johnsonville Brat) and play Two Truths and A Lie.

I’ll go first:

1 – The Marianas Trench prefers to be called the Merry Anus Trench.
2 – The tides are just the moon edging the seashore.

Which one is the lie? Think it’s number three? Sur-fucking-prise, my beautiful, pink-sock-eye saLGBTQIAmon.

It’s DEFINITELY not number three.

When it comes to Poseidon, PRIDE—much like Kevin Spacey’s career, Kevin Durant’s NBA dominance, and what Kevin Hart should be—IS CANCELLED.

“But WHYYYYYY?” you may be crying, in that tone I hate.

I’m Poseidon, Gay God of the Sea, me-damnit.

I’m the expert and the port authority. First, because I said so, and second, because of THE PLASTICS, that’s why.

Fake-man-slash-god-Jesus-Christ. Not those Plastics.

Real plastics. The ones we’re pumping into the ocean, my ocean, my beautiful gay home. The plastics wrapping around the fabulous flippers and necks of babybicurious turtles, filling the stomachs of the sassiest of seabirds, and positively ruining my mid-century modern coral furniture.

Read it now and read it clear, as clear as the voice of Crystal Waters or one of my many formerly unpolluted lagoons of once-crystal waters:


And modern Pride is a gay-up plastic fest.

Balloons. Frisbees. Cups. Bottles. Necklaces. Fans. And glitter.

Ugh. Glitter. More like Gay-Litter, AMIRITE? Of course I’m right. I’m divinely right.

It’s got to stop.

Tons and tons of single-use, single-purpose plastic crap is produced for Pride every year, things no one needs, or will use, or will treasure.

Trust me: I know what people really treasure.

Not a rainbow bottle-opener thrown from a TD Ameritrade HR rep on a float pulled by a PT Cruiser.

People treasure actual treasure. That I have sunk. In boats. Into my depths.

We need to get the plastic out of Pride.

“But HOWWWWWW?” you may be asking, in that same tone I still hate.

Through action, education, and understanding, my gorgeous gay groupers and guppies.

Turns out “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle” is a slogan better suited for keeping buttholes lubed-N-ready than making any sort of lasting, measurable impact on the waste products that make it into my precious ocean.

Look, individual behavior IS important. Consciously consuming is helpful. Recycling is better than not recycling.

But the problem is and always has been bigger than the individual. I’m talking corporations, my beautiful sea-men! Manufacturing, my swishy-fishies!

It was a delightful trick these Patrick Bait-man looking surfboardroom Wall Streeters played on us back in the 80s… It’s up to you to fix the planet, individuals! Turn off your lights! Drive less! Save the ocean one Deer Creek bottle at a time! Meanwhile, we’ll just keep making the things for you to recycle. More and more and more each year. Don’t mind us!

This was the 1980s, to be clear. Immortal and old as I am, I’ve seen a lot of ‘80s. I’ve been alive since before TIME was, like, a THING, and I seen some SHIT.

For example: ICYMI, my titan (no relation to the gay porn studio) mother Rhea (not Pearlman) pretty much birthed me straight into my titan (no relation to the old D.C. club) father Cronus’s mouth, to grow slowly inside of him until my painfully straight brother Zeus cut me out of our father’s stomach.

PS: I’m like 69 percent certain devouring me was meant to be some sort of conversion therapy, but I’ll never know. Me and my Dad don’t really talk much, these days. Yeah. A gay man with a complicated relationship with his father! WHODATHUNK?

Anyway. 1980s. I understand if you were wondering. Back to the trident-point.

As happy as we may be to finally feel some measure of social and corporate acceptance, of consumer based visibility, of being so firmly in mainstream that companies and businesses are willing to pander to us for an entire month, we need to be better than that, my seaweed-salad-tossers.

Me-gods, I know it feels good. I know it’s intoxicating. To have risen from the briny depths of the 80s (any of them, really) into the glittering light of shirtless group pictures in Mykonos posted on Facebook that your mom likes.

But is it really worth it, if all we’re afforded is a brief moment to live freely and openly in a world that’s literally filling up with garbage?


Listen up, my delicious drag-king-crabs. My rollicking RuPaulbatrosses. You’ve got to choose.

It’s plastics, or me.

That’s right. No more Poseidon, Gay God of the Seas. No more abs, no more wisdom, no more queer ocean puns, no more nut huggin’ everlovin’ nuthin’. Until we get this plastic shit under control.

So what’s it gonna be?

This Pride, will you put pressure on the powers that pridefully be? Will you draw attention to the wanton waste that’s ruining this beautiful month, this beautiful world? Or will you bow to business and keep it business as usual?

We gays fought hard to be here. To be on earth and in the sea. Let’s not let it go to filth.

When you figure it out, HMU.


I am Poseidon, Gay God of the Sea, master of waters, bringer of earthquakes, lord of all horses and all who are horsehung. Polytheistic/polyamorous/ENFJ.

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