Parting Glances: Twitch! Twang! Twitter!

My doctor tells me I've developed a mild case of twangitis. If left untreated it can turn into full-blown twitchitis.
I've suspected as much. For weeks now I've had come-and-go bouts of tinnitus, funny ringing in my ears. Off key, D-flat cords, interspersed with what sounds like vocal alphabet soup.
It's keeps me up nights. And I have ongoing nightmares of keen-eyed, leather-vested, guitar playing womyn, all strummin' and singing at deep-throat volume, smiling daringly, provocatively, devilishly at me.
(Daring me to plug my ears. Run screaming from my bedroom. Cower in a corner. Repent of being a big bottom twit. Thankfully I wake up in time. Saved by my ever-trusty alarm.)
"Have you started to twitch yet?" my doctor cautiously asks me. "Nightmares frequently denote the onset of twitchitis. Do you twitch, say other than when you're in the company of truck drivers or pretending to work out at the gym?"
"No," I answer with embarrassment. "At my age I haven't twitched in a long time. There's some sort of disconnect between my brain and my tiny twitchie. And, just between the two of us, I'll be damned if I'll twitter. Twit that I may be."
"Well – and I want you to be truthful with me – after all I am your physician; and, like it or not, my friend, I've been known to twitter on a regular basis. Sorta like writing oral prescriptions for an adoring public. With no poor penmanship to worry about.
"Anyhow. Do you happen to know any lesbian folk singers? We've reason to believe – according to the CDC – that twangitis and its twin malaise, twitchitis, are caused by overdosing on lesbian folk singers. Of which, God only knows why, there seems to be an abundance these days. Particularly in Michigan.
"Given our state's dire economic picture, Lansing's about to rescind all funding of folk singers – straight, gay, T, especially lesbian – and the hip hoppers can just forget about it as far as Cool Cities go."
Wow! His comments hit home. And, as if on cue, my twangitis kicks in. My right leg begins to twitch in rhythm to those inner, demonic D-flat chords. Then I recall how things started.
Not long ago I attended a sneak preview of an indie horror, sci-fi, quasi-musical, hand-held-camera-realismo, low-budget, audience-throw-things, free-buttered-preview-popcorn flick called "Night of the Lesbian Folk Singers."
What with the popularity of dozens of vampire series currently blood sucking it up on TV, it's conceivable that "Night of the Lesbian Folk singers" may be a new cultural invasion for home viewing.
Collectively, Detroit dykes (and Birmingham lipstick activists) are holding their breath and crossing fingers. As a gay guy who's been twanged and twitched, I'm understandably cautious. (Give me a full-fanged, male-on-male, Brad Pitt/Tom Cruise vampire slurp-slurp anytime.)
I'm not one to spoil things by revealing a plot, but in the interest of medical science, the psychiatric profession and unsuspecting movie goers, let me share how PG-13 "Night of the Lesbian Folk Singers" plays out …
Wilma Rosebelle Smith is forced to attend a Baptist college. No one knows she's "different." In a moment of defiance she makes a pact with the Devil. Her soul in exchange for a power-tool, 20-string electric, all-wooing, womynizing guitar.
Wish granted. She names her guitar Combat, changes her name to Migraine Sarge. Swears like a trooper.
On the road, Migraine, in trademark DYKE IT UP – OR DOWN! leather vest, uses Combat's amplified tool of enchantment to change everybody into lesbian folk singers. Those who plug their ears are doomed to suffer in silence forever.
Be forewarned: you can safely twitter. (Just don't twang or twitch.)