A curse of boils

Completely against my prior knowledge, the home I just purchased happened to be placed on a sacred Indian burial ground, but that's pretty standard fare. I was expecting the old 'blood-in-the-elevators' gag or a tomahawk to the head, but for the first couple months... nothing.

Well apparently it wasn't nothing -- I didn't consider that the boil I had on my behind was actually the result of the inevitable curse. It was gradually becoming too uncomfortable to ignore, until one day, I had my gay lover (Chad) check it out for me. He's a barber, so that's close enough to a doctor.

Anyway, I had had no idea at the time, but apparently it had expanded to the size of his fist (granted, he had a diminutive, Filipino fist, not his of course, but one he was borrowing) and it was pulsating quite visibly. I was in denial the whole time, asking for a large hole to be cut into every chair in my home so that I would sit flush on the seating surface.

But it was too late now. I had to face reality. I couldn't let this thing continue to grow with impunity. I had to burst this boil before it consumed me. Luckily, the village pastor was burning a cross on our lawn at the time and agreed to perform an exorcism on the spot (we had to feed him some of our young, but I was desperate).

He made a silver fork his vessel (for creatures born of magic despise this metal) and without any hesitation, he popped that mother to smithereens... and there was no trace of it to be found, aside from a massive crater which released unspeakably horrible demons into the world, but that's another story.

Is it normal to be gay?