Brett Berk

The Gay Uncle, in his role as Stick Shift–Vanity Fair’s online car columnist–is heading to his hometown of Detroit on Friday to cover the North American International Auto Show. Expect the usual hard-hitting journalism, exclusive interviews, misheggas, and generally skewed perspective on the industry. But to prepare yourselves for all of this, first check out this amazing video, which explains just about everything you need to know about The D.

This week, in his Momlogic column, the Gay Uncle covers off on what NOT to take on the plane to entertain your young kids.

Check it out.

Here’s a little secret the city of New Orleans has cracked that the Gay Uncle believes may be of use to parents everywhere. It comes from a machine. It is served in a cup. And in the Crescent City, it is readily available at places where moms and dads congregate with their kids: parks, zoos, tourist attractions, and movie theaters showing endless screenings of The Princess and the Frog. It’s called a Daiquiri and it comes in as many flavors as Benjamin Moore paint. (Meaning, it’s rainbowly endowed, but always tastes just about the same.) When visiting the Audubon Animal Wildlife Refuge the other day with his parent friends John and Mary and their baby girl Victor, Gunc and his BF were thrilled to note that a) it was after noon, b) the concession stand was located next to the entrance (because what is a visit to any public space like this besides an excuse to eat junk food) and c) that the second item on the “menu” after hot dog was booze. Thinking it would simply take the edge off, we all ordered a bright red cup of Adult Juice Slushie. Little did we know that, hidden beneath the electric berry hue/taste was some sort of potent moonshine. The G.U. is uncertain if it was brain freeze or grain (as in grain alcohol) freeze that caused his boyfriend to shout, “I can’t see!” after his first chuggle, but he is sure that about a third of the way through the tiny cup, all four adults no longer cared that the elephants were in an enclosure about the size of a Manhattan one bedroom, that the giraffes were fighting, that there was a rusty old bathtub and junked car floating in the “Cajun Country Swamp” exhibit, or that some genius had had the bright idea of locating the pens for the Wild African Dogs and the Antelopes right next to each other separated only by a chain link fence (causing nonstop neurotic border pacing on the part of the canines). As is evident in the photo above, little Victor enjoyed the zoo, regardless.

In his role as Vanity Fair’s online Fun&Faggy Editor, The Gay Uncle re-imagines the leading Oscar contenders as high-concept gay porno flicks. (And he would like to thank the Academy for this opportunity.)

Check it out.

As Stick Shift (Vanity Fair’s Gay Car Blog) I got to insert myself into a juicy shitload of gorgeous metal this year. In this piece, I list my top five faves.

Check it out.

It’s Christmas Eve Day, not actually an official holiday for many people, and definitely not one for those of us who don’t believe that little Jewish kid from Bethlehem was the messiah. But you know that the Gay Uncle always sides with the women (and particularly the mothers), so he’d like to note something important about the date. If we accept that the Little Baby Jesus (LBJ) was born on December 25, then it’s proper to assume that his virginally pregnant ema (that’s mom, in Hebrew) spent at least some portion of December 24 in massive contraction-based pain. (Unless magic pregnancy by God results in an agony-free birth.)

So in honor of mommies everywhere, Gunc would therefore like to propose a little festive nomenclatural switcheroo. Since 98% of people already confuse the name of the celebratory long weekends that bookend the summer–the ones that land at the end of May and the start of September–the G.U. suggests that these both henceforth be referred to as Memorial Day. This would not only lessen the tedious problem of recalling which is which and be a more honest reflection of our true feelings on these dates (we’re Memorializing the start and end of summer, period), it would free up the title LABOR DAY for utilization on the day before X-mas, where it really belongs. Being a Union member (UAW Local 7902), the Gay Uncle wouldn’t want to lose this synonymical meaning for the word, so he’d leave it be–Workers and Mothers of the World, Unite! But the connection to childbirth would help draw attention to the unpaid work many women do inside the home. Think about that as you wrap your presents and chug your eggnog and otherwise steel yourself against the emotional torment of spending time with your family. (This precursor to the pain and disappointment that always accompanies Christmas Day could also be seen as a form of labor.) And enjoy your holiday.

The Gay Uncle explores the Houston Mayoral race, and some other elections, and tries to interpret what it means for the gays, in his role as Vanity Fair’s online Fun&Faggy editor.

Check it out.

Wondering what to get that special parent in your life for the holidays? Well, if you gave them one of those easy-to-install childproof deadbolts for the outside of their kid’s room last year, they’re full up on earplugs and sleeping pills, and you’ve already purchased a copy of The Gay Uncle’s Guide to Parenting, you could do worse than to make them one of these. What the fuck is it (besides a waste of $4.99 and a trip to 7-11?) Well, it’s apparently what’s known in parts of the Middle West as “A Singing Christmas Tree”, and it’s as easy to make as marinated cheese. Alls you do is cover a round piece of cardboard in tin foil, take the 12 pack out of its bird-strangling plastic holsters, and put it all in a sack (along with some holiday cheer). Then you trail the whole kit over to the recipient’s house, barge in, and let them know you’ve gotten them a gift. When they ask what it is, you place the silvery disc on their kitchen counter, and tell them it’s A Singing Christmas Tree. You then remove the cheap swill from your bag one can at a time, forming a pyramidical trio of round beer tiers atop the silvery disc, all the while murdering “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”. The best part? When you’re done crooning, and you’ve recovered from the ball-peen hammer injuries your hosts are likely to inflict, you can immediately begin chuggin’. It’s a gift that gives itself.

[Photo Credit: Bryan Joslin]

The Gay Uncle’s alter-ego, Vanity Fair’s online car columnist, lists the twenty coolest movie cars–and the twenty best goodbad films–of the 2000s. If you haven’t seen these flicks (and cars), you are not my friend.

Check it out.

I paid my $19.98. I suffered the taunting emergence of numerous pop-up ads for nude male celebrity sites. I felt obliged to partake of a “Featured Video”¯ that featured the most clichĆ© video feature ever featured: doing the pool boy. And as I”ve heard tell from “a friend”¯ in relation to other porn sites, I now fear that incorrigible recurrent charges will haunt my AmEx until it expires. And what did I get from Playgirl in exchange? A shower scene, some hockey costumed hilarity, a couple glimpses of tightly shaved upper bush, and a dozen ass shots. I thought we had a sort of deal here, Levi. You get fag fame and a soon-to-be-raided college account for Tripp; we get peen. Thanks for not holding up (or out) your end.

Not that the ass is bad. But it”s not a million-dollar ass, or even a quarter-million dollar ass, which seems to me the bare (ugh) minimum Mr. Johnston would have been paid to step out of his panties. In fact, in many of the shots, the ass in question looks sort of like someone rolled a pair of big Indian River grapefruits down his back, and they landed in two fleshy pouches just below his rear tan-lines. Rounded, but not very shapely.

Sadly, the front-end view above the waist is even more disappointing. What was all that I read about Levi foregoing all nourishment save Deca-Durabolin soy shakes, living on a medicine ball, and doing enough Krav Maga to kill Madonna? He looks like his concept of “working out”¯ involved lifting a Slurpee to his mouth a couple times, and then taking off his T-shirt. I”m as sick of buff boys as any other porn addict, but at least show some pride. For half what I paid to view Levi”s chicken chest, I got enough memorable material at New Moon to last me a year. (Of course when Taylor Lautner took off his shirt for the first time, I also got my Rod Lavers soaked with the torrent of tween girl pee that suddenly went gushing down the theater floor, so I guess there”s a trade off.)

Perhaps Levi is saving his goalie”s stick for a secretly scheduled upcoming pictorial, for the (rapidly approaching) day when he blows through this batch of funds, for when he finally nails LiLo, or for when full frontal man parts are allowed on network TV. (Reality-show pitch, Fall 2016: So You Think You Can Cum?) If so, I doubt I”ll be in the audience. Having seen him make leather jackets, sports costumes, and soaping in the shower seem about as sexy as two servings of prunes, the idea of Levi Johnston”s penis just makes me sad.