American Psycho is a satirical horror novel by Bret Easton Ellis narrated by Patrick Bateman, an affluent Manhattan banker and the stereotype of a New York City “yuppie” by day, a
sadistic killer by night. As the book progresses, his thoughts and mind become more deteriorated and prone to obsessive homicidal thoughts.
My parody takes the same idea, that of a person who shows his true self as a homicidal maniac, but rather than being the stereotype of “the American Man” I have taken that of the “Homosexual”.
N.B: I would like to say, before anything else, that I am not, in any respect, homophobic, anti-gay or any such thing. I merely did this for humorous purposes. In fact, if one cares to look into the depth of things, I'm denouncing such degrading stereotypes of the gay man. That is if one cares to do so: I just did because it was funny.
The parody is based on the chapter entitled “At Another New Restaurant”, in particular page 342.
Bret Easton Ellis’ writing style in American Psycho is defined as stereotypical of the narrator (Manhattan yuppie), often digressing in matter and topic, and taking names of places and people not introduced previously into the text.
At Another New Gay Bar
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I am capable of keeping up a ridiculously cheerful façade for a certain period of time, so I accepted Evan’s invitation to happy hour at 8 one April evening, at a new superchic bar on the East Side called EvoLve. The nightspot, an ostentatiously modern and trendy bar with excessively hipster music, quietly repels heterosexuals of all creeds like one of those glowing mosquito zapper lights.
Evan and I had gone to the Halloween Party Palooza Extravaganza there, and we went as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; I had designed the costumes, of course, and many approved and applauded them. I had made Evan ‘s (Mr. Hyde) wig out of Victor Song’s scalp and had spattered the mottle green suit with blood, some of it fake, most of it real. For myself, I had added glitter and sparkles to a top hat I had found at Aidan Creeter’s place; I had searched his house and taken some of his possessions after stabbing him with an ice pick. Our costumes were impressive, but Kenji, of all the tacky people, won the costume competition, which I thought was unfair because our couple costume was far better than his Liza Minnelli costume; plus, he couldn’t even sing “New York, New York”! I watched Edge of Seventeen again last night and fell in love with Chris Stafford all over again.
I order a Baileys on the rocks while Evan orders a Irish Car Bomb; he downs it in three gulps and asks for another one. He obviously has something on his mind that he can’t tell me until he’s somewhat out of his mind and piss drunk; I pretend not to notice.
“You look good today,” I say casually. Not really, I found his carnation pink “Backstreet Boys-the Unbreakable Tour” t-shirt tacky and his pants were way too tight.
“Gee…thanks.” he slurs, staring at the array of liquor bottles under the purple neon light. He was already zonked, but ordered a scotch anyway.
“W-we need to….to, we need to….need to…” he blubbers unintelligibly. He was finally getting around to what he wanted to say.
“Talk?” I put in.
“Yeah, talk,” He nodded his head, “Adam, I I think that we should…do you want to dance?” he drawls, as he ogles one of the male dancers onstage quite shamelessly. I feel angry that he doesn’t care about me, because I feel I should be the only indifferent one in the relationship; I mean come on, all Evan does is get drunk and party.
“Maybe later,” I reply quickly.
“Mmmk,” he nods his head like a bobble head again, “ so I wanted…I wanted to ask you….is this relationship going anywhere?”
“What?” I asked. Oh cripes, the alcohol was releasing some serious angst vibes in his brain.
“I mean, what I mean to say, is, like, do you want to continue this? I mean what am I to you? What is this relationship to you? What is…”
I made no comment, lost in my own private maze of thoughts: Gay bars, Liza Minnelli, tropical booze, male strippers, Arab straps, San Francisco, LG phones, Aqua, that preacher I stabbed in Milwaukee when I was fifteen, pink iPods, ridiculously tight pants, waiting in line outside a nightclub, someone’s copy of American Psycho and a bible splattered with blood and his body sprawled all over the wall. Rejection, wishing to be normal, waiting for the one, shotgun and icepicks. To Evan, our relationship is red-hot and full of sparkles, to me it’s a gray place, most of it black and white, like that “nouvelle vague” François Truffaut film I saw last night. It was good, Osker Werner was really hot. Like a bomb that detonates and blows up a whole house, blood and guts exploding everywhere: he had bad taste in music anyway, too much Nancy Sinatra. I suddenly picture what Evan might look like from the inside, his skeleton and bony fingers, intestines snaking around his heart. I want it to constrict his heart, it makes me happy. I get up to leave, I feel sick and the No Mercy song “Where Do You Go (My Lovely)” blaring out of the speakers is pissing me off.Where are you going? I ignore him, suddenly feeling incredibly drunk, like at Vinny’s wedding in Tahiti. I tell him what difference does it make, I’m still covered with sparkles and a unicorn princess.
“Um…too many questions…do you want to crash at my place?” I tell him. He nods his head like the idiot he is and gets up, tripping on himself. He leans on me for support, that pathetic loser. I don’t really like him too much; maybe I’ll kill him tonight and hang his insides on my shower rod. I don’t know yet; all I know is that he’s going to die. I mean, come on, the Backstreet Boys are so passé.
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