Last night I got up with Dick Whitman and his friends, and we went to some kind of extravaganza. They closed off the street, and had fire dancers (I am not even making that up) and servers walking around with trays of food, and there were 839400202 people there, because?
A bakery opened.
No, really. It was the most fuss for a bakery you have ever seen. It was a cool bakery, though, and they serve wine. So you can get you a piece of cake and also wine and be on a sugar high for 14 hours.
And by the way, who wants to be a fire dancer now? This woman with the best body possible, I mean other than mine, was parading around with a lit bullwhip, as you do, and then this thing that looked like she had eight burning marshmallows. She'd, you know, lie back on the street and wave the bullwhip around, and swing her marshmallows to and fro.
I can't even get Shrinky-Dinks out the oven without burning the crap out of my hand. Part of the reason is that I own no potholders. Edsel ate them all. Mom, next time you're at TJ Maxx, which will probably be in the next 45 seconds, will you swing over to the potholder section? See if they have Edselproof ones.
At any rate, I was so mesmorized and kind of crushing on fire-dancer-with-good-body that I didn't think to take a picture. You know when I finally thought to take one? When we were getting ready to leave.
Although when the man fire dancer (who I barely noticed because you totally should have seen this chick, and how irked are you getting that I took no photo?) put on some kind of white mask? Dick Whitman said, "Let's hope there's no mime-ing that's going to happen."
And he raises a good point. Mimes. More annoying than clowns. Can you put that on my tombstone, along with, "She had no potholders because of Edsel"? Actually, just put "Because of Edsel" on my tombstone. I guarantee you it will somehow be his fault that I am feeling the silk.
I liked Dick Whitman's friends. They were complaining about somebody or other, and every time Dick W gave an example of this person's annoyingness, he'd say, "Bless her heart." He didn't even notice he'd done it, and since everyone at the table was Southern but me, we talked about what a phony-ass, Southern thing that is to do.
In LA we'd have said, "Her energy was negative."
In Seattle we'd have said, "Whatever. Is there any dark beer?"
In Michigan we'd have said, "She's differnt."
That's what people do in Michigan when they don't like something. And they pronounce it like that–diff-ernt. People in Michigan don't dare show a lot of emotion, so you can't rage on or burst into tears or flail your arms around about something you don't like.
You can see why I never fit in there.
So you have to kind of shrug and say, "Well, that's differnt."
I wonder if there's anything that bugs me more. Other than clowns and mimes. And those Bluetooth headsets. And people who have kids over a year old who tell you their age in months. "He's 142 months."
At any rate, I have to go to work and then catch my mime school class after. Tomorrow I go to a VERY SPECIAL PLACE for the weekend. Which I will tell you about before I leave. As a hint, I will tell you I am a REAL WIENER for getting to go to this VERY SPECIAL PLACE.
Now you think I am going to Sonic headquarters. Would that I were…
P.S. I just went on Pie on the Face, the Facebook page where y'all all talk about me, and Faithful Reader Anita just made this photo of Hulk and me, being rich.
Hulk rocks the Thurston Howell look, doesn't he? It is a shame about my neck. (In case you don't read the comments, Hulk has been offered a fancy job, and gold-digger June, here, offered to be his new wife. WHICH HE HAS IGNORED. I won't be IGNORED, Hulk.)