Yes, my belly button is gay, but so what?

My belly button has gone through many different phases. Back in the 20’s (when I wasn’t alive) my belly button got sloshed at bootlegger parties and believed it was a Communist. Back then, my belly button was named Sacco. Flash forward a few years (about 86 or so) and my belly button, with mutton chops and a handlebar mustache is going through another transition—it thinks it’s gay.

Just the other day, while walking down the street with my belly button I accidentally bumped stomach to stomach with another belly button, this belly button called himself “Bruno.”

When I woke up the next morning, my stomach had a searing headache and was coughing up pills; it also said it felt like it was in the wrong body.

It told me it was now playing for the other team and wanted a name change (at this time, I had named it Leonard Asskicker !!!—and yes, those are exclamation points I used to indicate that he was third in line in the illustrious Asskicker name)

So anyway, my belly button said it didn’t want that name anymore and was tired of being an inny. It now wanted to be outy, and by outy, I mean outy the closet.

Being the fair, beneficent body I am, though, I said, “No, you’re my belly button, and I’ll call you what I wish. You’re straight and that’s that.” But then my belly button started fighting back and turning green and collecting more lint and what not.

Some people said it even started to stink and suppurate. The doctor told me it’d have to come off if I didn’t do something soon.

“For God’s sake, man, just give it what it wants.” The doctor shouted at the full force of his voice as he stood up from listening to my belly button’s pleas with his stethoscope. “Can’t you see your belly button is in LOVE, man?! Let him marry this “Bruno” fellow and give him your best blessings.”

So it’s been two months now, and my once, smothered inny belly button is now a prominent, protruding outy named Lawrence. He gets to see Bruno whenever I go to the YMCA, but I must say, it is quite awkward. Lawrence insists at least one kiss of Bruno every time they encounter, but do you know how awkward it is to have to rub bellies with another man? Oh, brother, it is aaaaawkard.

But I still love my Leonard, er, I mean my Lawrence. Without him, I’m really not sure I’d want to go on living.