Fishwatch Inches Closer To Death’s Doorstep, Though Not Quite As Close As Bigmouth, Who Just Left Dog Poop In A Burning Paper Bag There.

Last night marked the celebration of Fishwatch’s 25th year in existence. That’s right, that bitch is younger than Beyonce. His party was fun and fierce, as is to be expected, and he even brought along his delightful mancandy, Jeff (a Fagats reader!). Everyone went over to Beige afterward and generally behaved poorly. Our credit card is still behind the bar there, as a matter of fact. Damn you, cute bartender with the eyes a little too close together!

It was a special evening, because lately Fishwatch has been pretty devoted to his studies and we rarely see him (seriously, the last time we saw him was at CHURCH. And we don’t even mean the gym!). Long gone are the days when we could just yell out of our bedroom door that we were going out, and five minutes later meet him in the living room to do vodka shots and eyebrow checks. And we miss those days dreadfully. We long for his endless supply of bicep-flattering shirts, for having him there to supply the witty banter when we hit on boys together, and for the special “uuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh” noise that we perfected together to describe our hangovers.

So, Fishwatch, during this, your 25th year of life on earth, and (eventually) your third year of law school, we pledge to force you to come out more. No more of this “I commute from the Upper East Side” bullshit. Giuliani gave his support of domestic partnerships in honor of your birthday, and thusly we will give you our support of your alcohol habit. It’s what gay best friends are for.