Good evening gentlemen (and ladies, though I must warn you not to fall for my rugged good looks), I bring you a tale of great woe. Oh the woe. Let us not disclude the red-headed stepchild of woe and sorrow, lest it choose to show itself in public.

Now, I, good sirs, am a cowboy. No, I haven't shot a gun, why do you ask? What did you just say? Did you just call me "gay"? No? Well regardless, you brought up a good point. Indeed, there is a special time in a Texan's life when he ponders his Christian values and begins wondering about such wondeful subjects as (and be sure to take good notes here) male anatomy, and of course... uh... well, male anatomy. As an Orthodox Texan I can assure you I just referred you to not one, not two, but indeed five different pieces of wonderful, wonderful man. I mean items. Yes. Items. That's right.

But how do I get about experimenting with these urges? What do these urges give me the feelings of? What rights do I get with these urges? I need to understand what is going on in that old, western head of mine. I reckon I should be allowed to feel men in whatever way I would darn tootin' well like! I need to learn about myself, gosh-darnnit!

And what I am trying to... No... I would not like any tea, mother. Can't you see I am broadcasting my signals over this inter-computer hootenanny machine? No mother I am not telling people my phone number, I'm a grown man! I'm not going to get taken advantage of! NO I WILL NOT DO THE DISHES NOW GIVE ME FIVE DAMN MINUTES YOU WENCH!

Pardon the interruptions gentleman, I had to settle a domestic disput with the powers that be in my bonified mobile residence. Yes, this baby can do 50 in a 45 zone, but I find my genuine American Auto-mo-truck tends to stall with the littlest of ease. No mere mortal can ever hope to reach the 60 mark, I must say, after much scientific analysis (well, that is what uncle Sanford told me, but he hasn't been right since the propane-fueled fireworks incident). Which is a shame, but this isn't the purpose of my spiel here, all you fine men in the audience. Oh yeah, and women of course.

But what I'm really here to talk to you about is men, and my perfectly natural and well-founded feelings for them, that may or may not exist. For many years, since I caught my humble father (who died at the unfortunate NRA - Miners alliance gunpowder related cave-in in 2003, may he rest in peace) doing something that looked positively exhilirating with a co-worker. Yes, yes, you heard me, they were playing The Sims.

Before you know it I'm uninstalling Deus Ex to make room and making textures for couches, carpets, drapes... OH THE TEXTURES. I had families upon families, all living their daily Sim-life. Children going to school, mothers taking care of babies, fathers arriving home late from work thanks to their extra-marital affairs. I fell in love with this game. Then of course I had to correspond with a dear friend named Chad [editor - I hate you] who apparently lived in a different state -- Ohio, America, for some exotic textures on my Arabian rugs. Such a strange deviation from Texas, as I went to meet him I could not help but feel shocked and awed. I felt some strange feelings arousing inside of me as we met. We worked side-by-side on those skins for hours. And no, my dear mother does not know this.

The next morning I woke up over his cold, dead corpse in an alley, my mandatory travelling pistols drawn. I have yet to meet another man like Chad, but you have to understand it is quite a bit difficult when you're both running from the law! I know there is another out there for me. One that loves The Sims almost as much I do.

And when I do tell my tale of woe to a fine looking gentleman, he has yet to fail to walk away after telling him my name.

Sarcasm, PhD.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: The preceeding Daily Victim was written by a fan, not Fargo.]