Standard disclaimer applies.

More Stan/Kyle. I'm not as fond of this one as Happy Chrismahannukwanzakah, but I confess the idea of Miss Manners and Dear Abby in a cage match amuses me far more than it should.

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Stan theorized that South Park was like the kidney of America - all the poison was filtered out of the country and seemed to converge just south of Wyoming. This was, he thought, the reason so many celebrities showed up in such an insignificant town, as well as the town mentality. Somewhat. He had to admit Kenny was inexplicable, but, well. If the most opinionated, ignorant, socially inept, and fucked up people all gather in one place and start a town, what hope did their kids have?

"You can't blame all of your problems on other people," Kyle said, to which Stan replied, "Just watch me."

Kyle rolled his eyes and left.

Kyle was sort of an asshole, and the sky was sort of blue. But it wasn't his fault. It was his mother's.

Stan likes to make lists, because he can't sort more than four things out in his head at a time, and there are always a hundred and a half things going wrong in South Park at any given moment. Like when a robot Colonel Sanders came from the future to make sure no one interfered with his second coming - Stan couldn't even begin to tell you what's wrong with that sentence. And while Cartman was more concerned with turning the Colonel into his personal chicken slave and Kyle was turned off of poultry for life after he saw Kenny get turned into a giant crispy strip, Stan just wanted to know why, out of all the citizens in South Park, all the really crazy shit seemed to target them in particular.

"I dunno, dude," Kyle said. "I think we sort of bring it on ourselves."

Stan disagreed; Kyle cited an example: one day, in a terrible lapse of judgment, while Cartman was whining about his lack of a million dollars, Kenny said, "Dude, why don't you just take a life insurance policy out on me? When I die the state or something gives you a bunch of cash."

"Well, are you stupid or have you just not been paying attention? This is Cartman; of course he's going to try and kill you," Kyle said a week later, while Kenny picked razor blades out of his lunch.

"I figured he'd just wait."

"... Seriously, Kenny. This is Cartman."

That was a rather exasperating month, and hanging around Kenny became even more of a hazard than usual as Cartman tried rather unsuccessfully to crush him with something heavy, light him on fire, throw him out a plane, gun him down, and run him over. The irony of the whole situation was, now that someone was actively trying to kill Kenny, he walked away completely unscathed.

But Stan can't believe they bring it on themselves. There has to be a reason why every zombie, alien, celebrity, robot, religious fanatic, and crab person beats a path directly to his door, just like there has to be a reason someone who'd exhibited nothing but heterosexual tendencies ended up with a boyfriend.

(And he had exhibited nothing but heterosexual tendencies. Straight guys could have super best friends if they wanted.

I think the point is, straight guys don't want super best friends.

Shut up, Kyle.)

"I'm serious," Stan said one day at lunch. "And I'm going to figure out what turned me gay if it's the last thing I ever do."

"Well, I can save you some time," Kyle offered. "It's football."

"What?"

"You play football. It was inevitable."

"Football did not turn me gay!"

"Stan, football is the most homoerotic sport, ever."

"It is not!"

"Right, I forgot. There's nothing gay about slapping another guy on the ass."

"Wrestling is the gayest sport."

"Kenny," Kyle said, looking for an impartial opinion, "which is gayer: football, or wrestling?"

"Depends," Kenny said. "Are we talking about mud wrestling?"

"Never mind, Kenny. Just shut up and eat your lunch."

"I don't have any," Kenny pointed out, eyeing Kyle's sandwich. Kyle scooted farther down the bench; Kenny turned his attention Cartman, who scowled at him.

"I brought an extra fork, Kenny. Try it and I'll stab you."

Kenny weighed his options and decided that, even if it was an idle threat (which it probably wasn't), it wasn't worth it to try his luck.

The story of how Stan came to have a boyfriend is long, complicated, and mostly nonsensical. Suffice to say, it involved an exploding Santa, a Norse god that had gotten trapped in the body of a Jack Russell terrier from Brunswick, Georgia, and an escaped Irish serial strangler that went by the name John Smith. Rest assured, these seemingly random events all tied together into a well plotted and amusing misadventure, but it was really one of those things where you had to be there. Just know that, at the end of it all, Kyle had to pick pine needles out of Stan's hair and tell him that he wasn't fooling anyone, the whole town already knew, it was so pitifully obvious that even Cartman had gotten bored, and he might as well just give in and kiss him already so they could close the betting pool.

Kyle didn't see what the big deal was, Stan thought, because it wasn't that he disliked girls. It was just that he didn't dislike guys, so he was more interesting in eating a sandwich than figuring out why. Kyle had always been trusting, accepting, and a whole bunch of other synonyms for 'gullible,' so when he found himself dating a guy, he'd just shrugged and figured 'Why the hell not?'

But Stan had always been far more cynical, or, as he liked to view it, realistic.

"Dammit Kyle, quit eating and help me figure this out."

"I know," Kenny said suddenly. "It was God. He gets off on toying with people like this."

"Kenny, do you know how paranoid that sounds?"

"It's not paranoia when it's true!"

Kenny had had a strict anti-god policy ever since the thousandth time he'd died, at which point he'd demanded some sort of explanation and God had said, "It's funny." He'd since adopted a far more cynical view of religion, which was understandable. Possibly the best example of this was laughing when Cartman ran over the possessed terrier while driving John Smith's get away golf cart.

"What can I say," Kenny said. "God just hates me."

"If he hates you, it's because you sent all those stripograms to the church last Christmas," Kyle said, sighing.

"Hey, I was doing those guys a favor! If they were any more sexually repressed, they'd explode. And it was funny, too," he added, snickering.

"Even better than when the priest and the rabbi got in that cage match," Cartman agreed. Kyle clenched his teeth.

It pissed Kyle off, but, privately, Stan agreed. That had been the best pay per view event in the history of professional wrestling. The entire show had been great. Miss Manners versus Dear Abby, Bambi versus Godzilla, Trekkie versus Star Wars geek. Stan wished he'd been able to see more of it, but Colonel Sanders had been malfunctioning.

"God doesn't hate me, Kenny," Stan said.

"I'm not saying he hates you; I'm saying he hates humanity in general. I mean, think about it. That explains everything."

"It doesn't explain how I turned gay," Stan said stubbornly.

"Dude, does it really matter?"

"Yes!" Stan frowned and drummed his fingers against the table. "Maybe it was Mrs. Jetter's fault."

"Yeah, she'd turn anybody off of the female gender," Kenny said, then paused. "Well. Not me, but you know what I mean."

Mrs. Jetter was called 'Mrs.' not because she was married, but because she was pushing fifty. She called herself a feminist, but she was really just a man-hater. Her english classes usually consisted of long rants about how Shakespeare was sexist and Margaret Mitchell was self-hating and determined to undermine strong women by portraying them as incapable without the support of a man. Her tests always had questions like: "Charles Dickens was a dick. Discuss."

"Clyde and Craig both have her class, too," Kyle pointed out. "And they aren't frenching in the halls."

"Why are you ignoring the obvious?" Cartman demanded. "It's the Jew's fault."

"Cartman, God damn it-"

"I've been saying for years that they've been trying to assimilate us with gay sex, and beat the ones they can't with their Secret Jew Kung Fu."

"How many times do I have to tell you, there's no such thing as Secret Jew Kung Fu!"

"Yes, there is! How else would you be able to beat me with your twiggy Jew arms?"

"Because you've got fat, not muscle, dumbass!"

"God dammit it's muscle you limp wristed pillow biter-!"

Kyle punched him.

"You see?" he said, clutching his nose. "He knows I'm immune to his queer practices, so he breaks out the Fist of the Jew Dragon."

Kenny snickered. "How do you come up with this stuff, Cartman?"

"All that fat is blocking the blood flow to the brain," Kyle grumbled.

Stan, however, looked thoughtful. "He has a point..."

Kyle gave him an incredulous look. "You aren't buying his crap, are you?"

"Well, you're the one I'm dating."

"I can't believe you're buying his crap."

"You talked me into it. You must have used some old top-secret Jew tradition of Judo-Simet-Seduction."

"Judo-Semite-Seduction," Kyle repeated flatly.

"Or whatever you call it!"

"Stan, if anything's going to seduce people into a life of gay sex, it's the Catholics and their segregated schools."

"That is not true!"

"It is!" Kenny said immediately. "Well," he relented, "that and English boarding schools. But," he went, a dreamy look dawning on his face and his eyes going out of focus, "all-girl schools are breeding grounds for this stuff! They sneak into the pews while everyone else is at prayer-"

"Kenny."

"-and giggle behind the alter while they slide their hands up under those knee-length plaid skirts-"

"Kenny."

"-because they both agree it really isn't sex unless a dick is involved, so they can still be nuns so long as-"

"Kenny! God damn it!"

"We've lost him," Stan said, sighing.

"Damn, yeah, he's got the same look he got when the mayor announced that Swedish Women's Volleyball team was coming to town," Cartman said, waving first his hand, then a cookie, and finally a ten dollar bill in front of his face. "He's long gone."

Kyle sighed, which immediately redirected Stan's attention to the matter at hand.

"So you, what, sacrificed me to sate your satanic lust?"

Kyle looked as if he were finally starting to get seriously ticked off. "Stan, for the love of God-"

"Look," Stan interrupted, "my perception of the world is currently completely askew and I'm having a sexual crisis. The very least you could do is take the blame."

Kyle hesitated. Then he gave an exasperated sigh and turned back to his sandwich. "Fine," he said. "It is all my fault. Now will you just get over it and let me eat?"

"You don't have to get all bitchy. It's not like I'm stopping you."

"You SAID-! God. Fine. Never mind." He was just about to take a bite when Stan slammed his hand down on the table, making him and Cartman jump. Kenny was still out of it.

"I suspect you're going to try and make me call you slave master in Jew-Phase Two! Well you can just forget it!" Stan said, though he sounded more hopeful than defiant.

"Stan," Kyle said, burying his face in his hands, because it was the only way to avoid the stares of the classmates, teachers, and polo players that had been called in to exterminate the cafeteria of the monster chicken/rat hybrids. "Can we please stop having these conversations in public places?"

"God, yes, please," Cartman said, making a face. "I don't need these images in my head, thanks."

"I'm just saying-"

"Well stop-"

The bell rang. Kyle glared down at his untouched sandwich. Then he glared at Stan, who shrugged.

"I have pressing concerns."

"The only concern I have is the amount of weight I've lost since we started dating."

"I fail to see how that is my fault."

Kyle shoved his sandwich down Stan's throat.

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End