Tom has become a Hag Fag. Tom is the definition of a nebbish. A nice guy, a bit shy, a lot nerdy. When I first met Tom a few years ago he was incredibly introverted. I seized upon that and personally started greeting him in a most outlandish way. He would turn beet red and scurry away.

I made a remark to a coworker that Tom was hung to his knee, and when he would walk by I’d just point to my knee, which made my coworker laugh out loud. Time passed and Tom and I became veterans in the office. He was promoted and moved to a different section, I remained the same.

I’ve noticed lately that Tom has been spending a lot of time with several women in the office. I doubt if my knee statement was true, and it certainly isn’t because of his wit. Perhaps Tom is a Hag Fag. The opposite of a fag hag. A fag hag is a straight woman that hangs around gay men. Tom is a straight man that hangs around straight women. A lot.

He’s slowly becoming one of the girls. They enjoy his company, and he enjoys theirs. I doubt if he’s getting any tips on women from these girls. They’re not that type, or at least they strike as not being that type.

They all hit Karaoke bars and sing show tunes all night, drinking Cosmopolitans. Shanelle, one of the girls swears that Tom is gay though. He doesn’t register on my Gaydar. If he is gay, he’s even more outside the gay scene than I am. And I’m in a remote outpost of Gay Siberia. That would make him….Mongolian?

It’s not too hard to picture him a descendant of Attila the Hun, with a feather boa. I can almost imagine him on a horse riding across the steppes, ready to do some shopping in Istanbul. But Tom is a Brooks Brothers guy, rigid from Rochester. No Raymond Dragon clothing for him though he does go to a gym…

I do try to talk to him from time to time, making jokes, commenting on his clothes. I imagine Tom was brought up in bubble. Literally a bubble for children with Immune system problems. But Tom had emotional problems. When the time came, his parents threw him out of the bubble and into business school where he flourished.

His approach to numbers and economic theory was nothing short of amazing. Almost autistic, like Rain Man. But I do like Tom and I don’t want to put him down. I know the girls will. Eventually.

They’ll be out at some Karaoke bar singing and Tom will say the wrong thing or some big guy will starting hitting on the girls and they’ll insist that Tom do something and he’ll whip out his HP Calculator and have it removed from his rectum in a city hospital a few hours later.

This I fear will be Tom’s fate. Sad, but so far untrue. Should he be dragged from a closet much like he was dragged from a bubble? Or is he like the butterfly forced out of the chrysalis before it’s time, left horribly misshapen and subject to vicious attacks from larger angrier butterflies?

No one was getting along with Sandra Bullock. Not Drew Carey nor Phillip Seymour Hoffman. And they get along with everyone. Turns out old Sandra was just being a liar. Can’t call her a fat liar as she was a bit on the bulimic side. She attempted to wield an axe that weighed more than her. And she wasn’t the brightest bulb.

It was exactly her fault that the good roles were going to other people, but when playing the same role over and over, people just don’t care to see it again. But nobody told Sandra. Immediately she hit the bottle. Literally hit the bottle. She had poor depth perception and frequently over reached for things.

It was said one time when she had a minor speaking role in a hospital drama, she was told to hand a surgeon a scalpel. She knocked the tray over and the knife pierced the foot of John Hurt who went into a rage. ‘Not since I left Mississippi had I met such an incompetent girl.’ She swore she’d have problems getting further acting gigs, but Sandra was also a veteran of various casting couches.

She didn’t really get along with Drew Carey, she just strung him along. He was smitten. She did enjoy the company of Phillip Seymour Hoffman. She started out as good friends with Drew, but once Phillip entered the scene, she was head over heels. She was a bit of a snob like that, shunning one friend because they acted on television and building up another because he worked in film.

Drew’s show wasn’t that bad and he made a nice bundle on it, more than Phillip was making for a crap flick like Flawless. But still Phillip got the acclaim, Drew got the residuals. And Sandra was left out in the cold of Hollywood.

She considered touring the continent but feared she would be unrecognizable since no one really saw Miss Congeniality either Parts One or Two. Could you imagine having to subtitle that, or worse yet, to dub lines into a foreign language?

Sandra you worked very hard at lying around, and what has that gotten you but bed sores. Poor thing, poor soul

I heard she was last seen playing with matches by an overpass. In the process of burning her bridges, she might be wooing Don Johnson. Oh the trauma.

Her screwball parts dried up, like apricot nuts in the sun. There was nowhere to go but to drugs and drink. One time while jogging in a drunken stupor she fell and fractured her wrist and chipped a tooth.

Not that she cared. She had that nobility that comes with delusion, and she wore it well.

I saw her in the canteen once, bombed like Dresden. I felt bad for her and offered her a coffee.

“You. You of all people, offering me a cup of shit coffee. After all I had done for you. You have some nerve buddy. All I wanted was to be your friend. Sure I hurt your feelings, sure I tried to ruin whatever career you might have had. Fuck it! I’m Sandra Bullock you fuck head!”

Then she fell to the floor in a crumpled manner, crying about how no one understands her. I put a dollar in her cup. She drank it. I turned and walked away as someone started to perform the Heimlich maneuver.