Praise be, all that are still enduring the sweltertude. Our little township, steeped in the mid-nineties with one-hundred percent humidities, has survived its first gathering of the United Church of Bitchitude and Latter-Day drunks.
It was a hot night -- in more ways than one. I think folks had a fun time at Grandma’s Politician’s Club. I hope they did. As much as I enjoy them, parties always make me nervous. I always run around like a chicken with its head cut off, never quite convinced that folks are having fun. The laughing, drinking, dancing, flashbulbs, and naked lesbians in the hot tub would, to most folks, indicate that a fun time was had by all, but I’m skeptical and hyper-critical.
If you were among the 40 or so folks who attended services, I sincerely say thank you. More importantly -- so does Grandma. Last night was probably the biggest ring he’s had in the history of his place. Your cash contributions will no doubt contribute to further shameless behavior on his part. And that, my dears, is what the UCBLDD and the Summer of No Shame is all about.
I have to report that Brother Ryan took many more pictures than I did last night. And he was taking a poll of the parishioners, as well. Look for his epistle sometime soon. His job has, once again, taken him out of town, leaving me to enjoy his a.c. and his pool in his absence. Such a hard life in service to the Church.
After Grandma’s, the fun continued into the wee hours -- amazing house music awaited us at Rue 13.
Lady D was visiting from Chicago and she had us rolling on the dance floor. Literally. One tune had me falling out, filled with the sacred glory of some soul sisters hollering to the heavens. And if you looked above the Lady D, there were real-as-they-can-be, hot stripper-girls doing cha-cha moves galore! I was down on my knees more than once and high kicks reigned supreme. Theirs and mine.
The only upsetting news to report is that I was the victim of a pickpocket.
Yes, kids – someone gooched my wallet.
In the space of 5 minutes, some clever little thief managed to make his or her way into my pants, without my knowledge or consent. For the sake of drama, I’m sticking with a nefarious criminal story. It’s so much better than it fell out of my pocket and some broke, dumb 22 year old swiped it. "Dude...8 dollars...hello, Taco Bell!"
The real offense, however you look at it, is that I was stone cold sober! Had I been drunk, the whole getting into my pants, without my knowing (or remembering it) might be another story.
But diet soda and losing my wallet?
I dashed back to the club, chanting every possible incantation that I could summon as I zipped about the club hoping and praying it had fallen into a seat cushion. But no such luck.
Pestilence and plague upon the mother-fucker who took my shit.
And speaking of shit, nothing creates a near-disastrous case of explosive diarrhea like some ignorant fool stealing your wallet. I was about to have a Margaret Cho Moment up in my car last night. Can I get a witness? Yes, I can – the drunken disciples who had me in stitches (and nearly in Depends) on the way home from the club after the near-ruination of my great evening.
But today…today, I’m a bit calmer. And so are my bowels. Rejoice!
Oh! And I had to call my mother this morning to ask her to express my birth certificate to me. Those new stupid identity laws require additional documentation to replace my license and those papers are at home in Kentucky.
In her very Southern, yet very shaming way, she said, “Well…I did order a extra one the last time this happened...just in case…”
“MOM! That happened, like, 15 years ago when I was in college!”
“It’s just you and your sister…this just seems to happen to you a lot…”
“Well…this has never happened to your brother.”
But she’s got proof that I am, indeed me – so the situation will be resolved within 48 hours.
The way I look at it, there are some things in this world I can and cannot control. The wisdom, I suppose, is knowing the difference. I just had a psychic flash about how last night might have transpired, had I not been off the sauce:
The party would have happened.
I would have gotten drunk.
I would have gone out dancing.
I’d have gotten drunker.
Somebody would have stolen my wallet.
I would have shit my drawers.
And I was wearing white pants.
That were on sale.
And they were cutie Kenneth Cole white pants that were on sale.
And they are a size smaller than what I’ve been wearing.
Oh…the shame…the disgrace…the blog entry that would have been!
In the great scheme of things, I think I’ll choose some aggravation with a dose of parental shaming while remaining stain-free, rather than stumbling out of the club, equally penniless, shit-faced with poopy pants.
It could have happened that way.
So, to the criminal genius who thought it was a clever idea to take my wallet, you should spend that $8 and buy your gypsy-cursed ass a clue. The credit cards are useless (even before I cancelled them).
And while I am vexed that I have to get my birth certificate Fed-Ex’d from Kentucky, I get to take a new photo for my driver’s license. I’ve dropped 20 pounds since that picture was taken, asshole….
Thanks for the ego boost, you cock-sucking, shit-head, mother-fucking, son-of-a-bitch, lousy, no-good, heathen, piece of white* trash. Die. Die!! Die!!!
Ah. So much better now!
Glory and halleluiah to the highest.
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*and if the thief wasn't white, well...I dunno his or her life. But it is still rude and wrong to steal. There are just some names I don't like to call the brothers and sisters of the struggle. You'll just have to accept cock-sucking, shit-head, mother-fucking, son-of-a-bitch, lousy, no-good, heathen, piece of trash. And you are still cursed.Posted July 17, 2005 06:19 PM
-- posted by: Yayo on July 25, 2005 03:30 PM
-- posted by: Bradley on July 17, 2005 08:52 PM