psychologically speaking, was he gay, at all? Robocop.

Robocop was a movie about one man deciding, consciously choosing, not to be gay anymore.

"Bob Morton made a mistake."

He made his live-in, Melissa, dress like she was in a Robert Palmer video.  And stuff a pair of athletic socks in the crotch of her men's trousers.  It was okay, just a game, until she watched with growing horror as he got on his knees, removed the socks, and stuck them in his butthole.

His butthole.

As he lay on the table, partly dead, hell, maybe even mostly dead, his brains on his brow, he was dreaming about people picking up and broadcasting his inner most thoughts.

They had carted him down the hallway, "break glass in case of emergency", "pull the chord", "strap on when necessary".  And all that, the chips were down.

"Bitches leave."

He had a bad dream about getting shot in the head, and when he woke up, it was like he was stuck in front of a television screen.  Bob Morton told him, "you're gonna be a bad motherf*cker."  A woman with party favors kissed him, leaving lipstick on the screen.

"I know you.  We killed you!"

He was gonna shoot the dude in the nuts, while the college boy tried to figure out the security door so he could get out of the cashier booth, and the gas was everywhere, and a Black'n'Mild on the pavement, gasoline coming closer, perfect Saudi Arabia and whore bastard golf, Ferrari theme parks, increasing gas cost to pay bastard golfers--sell a palace why dontcha?--and the little f*ckstick cigar sparking the gas, and kerplow.

Only his conscience could really get him, and it was in a stupor half the time, busily condemning everyone else, roaches crawling across his naked toes, and they had shot that man in the head--sh*tola--and he lay dying while a black man pissed and whistled--and the gang had a military gun, calling each other "f*ggot" and driving around a 6 MPG Chrysler nightmare.

Is it really, I mean, psychologically gay if he stuck socks in his *ss?

He begged her, nude but for an anarchy symbol drawn in lipstick scrawled across his little bird chest, he begged and begged, sounding particularly metrosexual: "give me a quarterly employee review".

Como se dice, "potato gun"?  The socks, he put them in, and then squeezed them out, and they bounced, poo-wet against the wall, half-sticking, and then sickly rolling away.

"You're nuts!"

"Crazy about life, maybe."

"Let's see what sticks."

He made them socks get up and walk, by the man Jesus, and there they were, odorific.

Odoriferous.

His essence staining them, like a blindly tossed accusation, but something of the existential ethereal substance of all, as it were, "nothing uncommon to man", and something of the coat in the shoe rack, or the table confused with the chairs, sitting high-up, eating from a stink seat bottom.