I THINK MY GHOST IS A LITTLE LIGHT IN THE LOAFERS

This morning I awoke to the sight of Jacob, the ghost that lives in my closet. Ironically, he informed me this morining that he is gay. "I'm gay Jeff, and you're just going to have to deal with it!"
"Gay?"
"Yes Jeff, I am tired of living this lie and hiding from who I am."
"Jacob, you're not really anyone, you're an apparition; a shadow of your former self."
"I knew this would happen. Jeff, you don't have to be so defensive. Just because your ghost is gay, doesn't mean you are."
"I know that. I just didn't know ghosts had a proclivity one way or the other."
"Sista' please, Casper? The friendly ghost?"
"Good point. Well, feel free to be who you are Jacob."
"I will."
"Good"
"Fine"
It was fine -- for awhile. Until, Jacob's newly liberated lifestyle began to get in the way of my life. Particularly the late night activity. Don't get me wrong, I was quite used to Jacob stirring in the attic at midnight. Chains would rattle, some moaning, creaking floors; I accept all that without any griping. In my opinion, that all comes with the ghost -- if you want a ghost in your life, you have to make allowances. Besides it was never that intrusive to my lifestyle. Occcasionally, if I had company and Jacob really wanted attention, maybe a picture would come crashing off the wall. Some guests would run out of the house screaming in terror, se la vie when you have a ghost.

But now, instead of chains and the occasional poltergeisting. Those rather standard activities were replaced with techno music at four in the morning and the overwhelming smell of petruli oil. And just when the rave would thin out; it was time for Sunday brunch with Cole Porter, Truman Capote and Rock Hudson. Other times, Liberace would drop by and play piano for what seemed an eternity. That was particularly annoying because he was going through a Belle and Sebastian phase. Not to mention the "American Idol" parties. You thought that show was annoying, try watching it with thousand year old fop Brit royalty.
"Who's Elton John?"
"Only the greatest performer to come out of Britain since the Beatles, your lord."
"Who are the Beatles? Make me another one of those delicious apple martinis."
I tried very hard to accept Jacob and his new friends. I did. I'll tell you what, it's not easy explaining away the rainbow sheets flitting by my window to nosy neighbors. Not to mention my bathroom is now a bath-house.
I tried to define some boundaries, but that's never easy when dealing with the dead. Let alone the gay-dead. They always over-react in fits of rage.
"Jacob, I'm just saying that maybe happy hour for ghosts is a little bit of a contradiction in terms."
"I knew it. I knew it. You're a ghostmophobe!"
"I am not!"
"Oh, it's all fine and dandy when you wake up to a clean kitchen and and organized shoe rack. But, the minute you see two ghosts showing affection for eachother -- it challenges your manhood."
"It does no such thing. I just think I should be able to take a dump without having gettting spalshed by the boy's apparition water volleyball team. And will you ghosts please stop throwing out all of my bread and pasta."
"Dr Atkins says carbs are bad for you."
"Yeah, I see it worked great for him."
"You are so hateful."
Now all of the gay ghosts start adding thier two cents.
"You need to get out now and stop this cycle of abuse Jacob."
"That's ridiculous, I am not abusing Jacob. If anything, you all are abusing me. You think it's easy living with the cast of Queer Eye for the Dead Guy?"
"Boooo!" They all gasped, in the gayest way possible.
"It's just a matter of time before the ghost-bashing starts." I'm not sure who said that, but I have an inkling that it was Anthony the Great. FYI; he prefers Anthony the Fab. Well, that started what can only be described as the world's first Gay and Lesbian Afterlifepartners Rally. Thousands of the dead, undead gay ghosts and even some Bi... ...(they're gay, but just comatose; not officially deceased) stormed my house in a fit of unity and protest. It became ugly, quick.

But instead of destroying precious family photos or jewelry -- they poo ectoplasm on my wingtips and cut the sleeves off of my oxfords. Singing "I'm not leaving" from Dreamgirls hours upon hours at a time.

After my third glass of Absolut Citron, some of the lesbian ghosts start to look a little too good. At the last second, I realize she's not a lesbian ghost at all. She is a transcendatal/transexual. The near miss is the deciding factor. A homosexual encounter might be something I could live with - but necrophelia is too much for my mortal mind to risk.

I hop on my computer, delte all cookies with the word "Leather Man" associated and Google "Gay Excorcists." A man on the other line says he is the best gay excorcist in the world. I hire him immediately. FYI; gay exorcists only take American Express Gold.

The Gay Exorcist shows up the next day in a hot pink spandex jumper. Within minutes hordes of ghouls are doing step aerobics to the thumping beats of Justin Timberlake. Sure, they're still haunting my house, but you gotta' admit they are the most fit dead people you will ever lay eyes on.