Have You Ever Met a "HALFer"?

I was on a date this weekend and when I offered the girl a piece of gum (...don't get any ideas), she only took half of it. I was surprised and teased her that she was a "HALFer"!*

The proceeding laffy-taffy-esque jokes proceeded.

It may not be as funny on a blog, but trust me...it was HILARIOUS! Like...seriously...hilarious.

What did the warden say about the HALFer prisoner?
"He's not a whole lot of good!"
How did the HALFer husband introduce his HALFer wife?
As his better QUARTER!
What did the HALFer say when his doctor asked him how he was feeling?
"Not entirely well"
What do you get when a HALFer man and a HALFer woman have a baby?
A transvestite. Half man half woman!
What type of work to HALFer do?
Part-time!

Are these jokes offensive to the made-up race of HALFer?
Only partially.

*She actually joked back that she was a "HALFrican" and the jokes were really all about Halfricans. But, upon me finding out that Halfrican is actually a pejorative phrase (thank you Wikipedia) and to be PC, I changed everything to "Halfer"

Is My Closet Really that Eastery?!

Many people have asked, “So Zack, tell me, is your closet really that eastery?” I took the time to count (statement not entirely true) and found that I have a lot of pastels. Why?
Ah, why not?
I feel that style is like art, it is an outward expression of an inward sensation. That is one reason why I love NYC so much!
It is fascinating to look at the people—all wearing their art on their sleeve. It is literally poetry in motion. And nobody judges you for what you wear. I can be what I want and how I want to be and never have someone look at me in a negative light because of it. I don’t wear clothes for other people; I wear my own particular style because it is what I like.
I mean, honestly, where else can you wear white shoes, yellow socks, pink/saLmon pants, green shirt and argyle shirt (all frequently adorned clothes of mine—although you’d never see me in all of them together…unless, of course, we’re talking 80’s dancing, then you never really know) and not be considered weird—or at least weird by comparison. Because when it comes down to it, the cross-dressing 60-year old who can do a great charades of "Getting hit by a baseball in the stomach" will be there to out-do you
…albeit, not by much.