I am a vision.
Also a top-knot. We have decided in all appropriateness that one can simply not so much as cater the crackers for an even such as that which is going down tomorrow night if one is not sporting a top-knot. Mine is very top. And not in the same spot on my head as my samurai ponytail, which Robyn hates.
Betty is so gross. Who humps wet blue towels after having been spayed? Honestly.
So before I forget about it, someone should write this down. And it will be me, despite the fact that my fingernails have progressed to such a length now as to make me feel like I ought to be on "Dallas," and as such, every word has to be typed twice.
So last Thursday I carted Rich (who makes hotpanties/nutpotti/zitpeepee (some sort of crushed up red dip with feta in it- DEEELISH), Ben (my friend who is the lead bartender/manager of Joe's Inn and let's me do things like snap my fingers and wave my arms from the far side of the restaurant and when he looks at me, I raise an eyebrow and then he brings me a big huge cup full of something that tastes like gummi bears and kitten feelings and I drink it and then feel giggly and tingly and also gets enormous tattoos of skeletons riding putt-putts wearing scarves and allows me to suggest patterns for said scarf, like, since it's a skeleton's scarf, perhaps it should be patterned with heads and forearms--skulls and crossbones for the deceased), and Adam (who- whatever) to the train station. They were all going up to NYC for Adam's bachelor weekend. I was HIGHLY MIFFED that I was not invited. Not really, but sort of. I decided I must have a bachelor weekend, cause it sounds like all you do is go somewhere with the people you like and have them buy you things.
Anyway, we pull into the train station and I am dumping them out of the car when Adam shuts the door and then says through the window, "There's something fallin-------", and then Adam has my car door in his hands. And no longer on my car.
So I, the stalwart Hitler-Pebbles with my lip quivering, raise woebegone eyes to the three cheery boys standing outside my car, and Ben sees my quivering and says, "Don't worry Audra, we will fix it when I get back on Monday." Which made me feel better in the moment. Have since realized that one does not really NEED the outside facing of one's car door. Also it makes me feel relatively close to being a thug and I do like those bouncy cars that thugs have.
But I violently digress.
(Also if you want to know why I am Hitler-Pebbles, come see Little Red Hen.)
Anyway, Adam's rousing bachelor weekend consisted of the standard things. Napping, homemade hummuth, and strolling in the park. Probably also browsing thrift stores and crossing of legs while discussing angles of one's fedora.
But THEN they decided to go to a burlesque show. Which they arrived at too late due to aforementioned naps and only got to see the last act, which turned out to be a man. So haha.
On the last night there (and details are fuzzy due to Firefly tea), they go somewhere, see this woman dancer/stripper/whatnot who has:
1. Taped hair into her armpits
2. Pasties in the form of monkey heads
3. The ability to hold her arms over her head and make the monkey heads spin in circles whilst causing her breasts to clap. (This is not hard.)
4. A Barbie on a small table which she proceeds to light on fire.
5. A large, VERY FULL bucket of water on which she proceeds to sit, strain VERY HARD for purposes of sucking the water INTO her vagina, then hobble quickly over to the flaming Barbie, and squirt the water her vagina is holding in its' mouth onto the Barbie to extinguish the flames.
I am pretty sure this is one of the most entertaining stories I have ever heard that that is more than bears documenting. What a great bachelor party story.
What is that word people use for when vaginas have teeth?
It is a medical word. I need not feel bad for saying it.
Also need to write about Margaret's show which was a very long, emphatic, personally affecting commercial for a sale on Menswear at Sears.
Also Jackie Jones making the best noise ever.
Also Margaret looking like a movie star, some really bad-ass markers, and everyone searching very hard for something on the floor while Billy-Christopher leads Jackie Jones on a tour through the land of the giants.
What else. I'm tired, and distracted by the Divas Concert. But I really liked Maggie's show. Even though I don't usually go to things like that. It was obviously quite well done.
Tomorrow is the Divas concert. And they sound AMAZING. And I very professionally eat Cheez-Its and mutter to Sandy under my breath about how I think they should sing "The Ladies Who Lunch" instead of that Andrew Lloyd Webber medley which won't be over til early March of next year and may cause you to have a seizure. It's like if someone started singing the ABC's in an octave only dogs and Cathy Motley-Fitch are cognizant of while at the same time someone else began tattooing fractions on your face while giving you a lobotomy with an old toe.
And that is not to say it doesn't sound FAN-FREAKING-TASTIC. Cause it does.
But if you know all three of those songs that are in the medley, you want desperately to hear all of them and to follow along with all of them, and then they start singing all of them at the same time in different time signatures like 6/4 and 4/sasquatch time and you cannot follow along, and your teeth begin to bleed.
And they all look amazing and there is lots of glitter and ponytails with very fancy names and enough jewelry to fill a box normally used for shipping sides of beef.
Needless to say, I get all worked up and flit around a lot.
I must endeavor not to flit around while I'm seated in my professional page-turning chair.
Also Tom and Paul are coming and sitting in the hole, so I will hear about it if I flit around.
I must endeavor to be the soul of musicianship.
But I am very excited. I am going to see if my mom wants to come see it.
Got goosebumps on numerous occasions.
Georgia Farmer is a very funny lady. She sent me a text message today that I cannot repeat in a public forum and which Adam immediately submitted to textsfromlastnight.com