Had a coversation with the ex today, over a hospital bed in the Emergency Department. Firstborn was bitten by something which turned her all red, sick, dizzy and swollen for a few hours. She's fine, by the way, but it made for an interesting couple of hours...

Anyway, while we're waiting to see if Firstborn is going to survive her mystery bite, the Ex starts telling me bragging about his latest hobby, which is working at the Speedway. Mostly he was lamenting his radio call sign. (That way he got to tell us his job title half a dozen times.) You see, he is the Drag Strip Coordinator on race nights, apparently, and (so he claims) it's too much of a mouthful to use on the radio. Because they can't like... use his one syllable name...

Truth is, he's a homophobe of the first order, and can't bear being associated in any way shape or form with the word "drag".

It was evil of me, I know, to say anything at this point other than "How nice for you, dear", but I can be such a cow sometimes and bigotry always irritates me.

"You're the boss, eh?" says I.

"Yup... the Drag Strip Coordinator."

"So you're the Drag Queen."

*splutter cough* "Um... well... no. I'm the Coordinator. We're changing the title."

"To Drag Queen?"

"Why not Head Drag Stripper?" Firstborn suggests gleefully. (I mean, she has a drip in her arm, but she still has her wits about her.)

"I like Drag Queen. From now on, that's what the family will think whenever we think of you..."

By this time, he's looking a tad apopleptic. He has a tendancy to go on and on about his supposedly fabulous life now he's no longer encumbered with, well, a family. Being immortalised as a Drag Queen was not the result he was anticipating, I would have to say. LOL

Still... Karma's a bitch. I'll probably trip over and break something tomorrow for taking so much perverse delight in his discomfort... tee hee