...all the jerkoffs in their fancy cars/ you can't believe your reviews/ oh no, you can't do that....
Deep Throat! Deep Throat! Wow!
And in other news, Robert is feeling earthy surges, or surging urges, and Trixie's taking a lot of the heat. We could ALL use a good shag or two, my friend.
Emily Flake's Lulu Eightball is funny, but not as funny as last week's. My all time favorite, Where Are YOUR Keys?, has been hanging on the fridge since it came out.
I arrive, and am instantly a focal point. Mimic comments as she leaves. Bigfish maintains that I must have known there'd be gay men at this event. MsPyrate is coerced into a photographic encounter once she arrives. GoddessGracie takes a strutty little walk. Cutter and Coco both tried, but did not stand. Candyboy's big toe almost fit. "How can you walk in those?"
Oh, please. I've been on stilts all morning. This is nothing.
Yes, the hot pink platform Hooker Barbie Heels are once again a source of amusement. New Orleans had such great shoes. I need to go back.
Liquor is flowing. Ms. Complete Failure As An Alcoholic (four, yes four, types of beer in my fridge, none in any imminent danger) accepts a sticky caramel apple cocktail from Peppermint Patty, and lowers her IQ along with BuddaPat, BirthdayBoy, the Prince, the Animal, Sparkey, DesdemonaOne, TekChik and the rest of the gang at Coco's annual Let's Open The Pool Way Before It's Warm Enough To Swim party. Tiberius mans the grill this year, as the newest housemate.
I sip slowly, sitting with HelpMe, Bigfish, and Candyboy, all dry, making intelligent conversation, at least until I can see the bottom of my glass. When I bring beers for BuddaPat and me, I wind up on his lap. He doesn't throw me off. Cutter is sober enough for a run to the grocery for cake, desperately needed cake. TekChik has been hitting ruthlessly on the two of us all night, safe in the knowlege that she is in no danger of either of us taking her seriously. BirthdayBoy is back from band rehearsal by the time we're back with cake, but the singing is all over.
We move inside, as it's gotten chilly, and flip mindlessly through channels in search of something amusing. I share BirthdayBoy's chair; Cutter piles on top of me, as TekChik has gotten a bit handsy, so Cutter retreats to the (relative) safety of my lap, which is somehow logical. She's got a zipper pull as a belly ring: damn cute on her eighteen year old tummy.
Coco comments that of all the people she invited, only the Prince took her up on her offer to see the dead cat in her fridge. "Why not?" he says. "It's just a dead animal in a refrigerator. It's not like it's a big deal." Well, if anyone ought to have a corpse in a fridge, it's Coco.
Twice this week, he said, "Cyb, that's a GREAT idea." When no one was listening, of course. He sounded surprised. I tell this to Coco. "You've been playing the bimbo for so long, I guess even we forget sometimes that you're actually fairly bright."
Thanks. I think.
"Cybbie's going to sleep."
Hello? I'm hypersomnolent, been drinking, and sandwiched between two extremely warm and attractive humans. OF COURSE I'm nodding off.
Everyone starts packing off to bed. BirthdayBoy, who'd teased me with a promise to stay the night if I would, says his allergies are bothering him, so he goes. "You okay, Cybbie?"
The shoes serve as sobriety test. If I can walk in platform spikes, I'm obviously okay to drive.
It was a tame one this year.
(Those Shoes; The Eagles)