It’s no surprise that I’ve been chosen as the first hero of the new season of Netflix’s Queer Eye, thanks in large part to my perpetual wearing of cargo jorts and mixed feelings on dairy alternatives. (Shoutout to my stepdaughters for the nomination.)
This week, I’ve been lectured at length about making “a gorgeous little self-care moment” and received a complimentary Neutrogena sunscreen from Jonathan, learned the difference between red and white wine with Antoni, tried on my first button-down shirt with Tan, and admitted deep-seated trauma to Karamo. It’s all been nothing short of transformative, but the moment with the most “wow factor” occurred at the very end, when Bobby surprised me with our family’s newly renovated nuclear bomb shelter.
He had offered to renovate my house, as he does for all weekly contestants on I Can’t Believe You Need a Gay Man to Tell You This, but I decided I wanted to do something selfless and generous that demonstrates my deep devotion to my family. I wanted a freshly renovated, rustic chic nuclear fallout shelter.
I’ve owned a cheap, run-of-the-mill nuclear war bunker since the Cold War, as my parents thought it would be a more valuable high school graduation present than, say, paying my college tuition.
After the United States signed a nuclear arms treaty with Russia, I figured I should probably sell it, but kept forgetting about its existence because now we’re all worried about guns and stuff.
However, after learning that Secretary of State Mike Pompeo decided to yeet-y the treaty on August 2nd of this year, instead of, you know, trying to impose sanctions on Russia first, another nuclear arms race seems pretty inevitable. These Russians don’t play by the rules – so how about we just have no rules about flying death submarines!! – seems to be the line of thinking there.
Luckily, I already had a fallout shelter, I just needed it to feel like home. And boy, did Bobby hit this one out of the park.
He added an island to the dining area, so there’s room for all of us to have one final meal together because there’s no guarantee our bunker is going to be strong enough to save us if Russia gets real mad. We can maybe survive the initial blast, though, but every day after that is living on borrowed time!
I wanted our shelter to have a homey feel to it, because who knows how long we’ll have to stay put following a nuclear strike. Bobby executed this perfectly with a drawer full of board games for family game month, a bar stocked with wine and Four Loko to ease the festering tensions among us, and family photos and written prenup agreements from each of my weddings.
Bobby thought of everything, including what would happen if we survive one blast in the bunker, but then we’re outside and defenseless when another bomb hits. My wife and I know to “duck and cover” from bomb drills going back to when we were in elementary school, but Bobby wanted to make sure our younger collective gaggle of inter-familiar spawn had it drilled into them as well, in a pop culture-connected way to make sure that it would stick.
Hence, the large cross-stitch in the living area that says, “Duck Down, Thotiana!”
And if that wasn’t enough to seal the deal, he bestowed upon us one more gift: a live recording of a full Kacey Musgraves concert to watch together when the pain of stage sixty-five radiation-induced super cancer is too much to bare, and we’re all ready to unburden ourselves from this mortal realm, holding hands and slipping away to some soothing, surreal, genre-bending country pop.
I’ll see you again in heaven, Bobby, you space cowboy…
Until then, thank you for our totally sick-ass bunker, and best of luck to you in the oncoming second Cold War. Also, please ask Jonathan if the Neutrogena sunscreen will protect us from radioactive burns. Thanks!
