I see washed up celebrities
or Catlady sees a ghost
The worst thing about living in Orlando is that 1) people are always "dropping in" to vist and 2) they always want you to take them to see the "sights".
Such was the case this weekend when Justin's cousins dropped in on about 24 hours notice. I bypassed the trip to Disney because I am fucking sick of that place, but rather grudgingly (or was forced to) accept the invitation for the "night out" Saturday night.
The dinner was the highlight as I got to choose the place and they paid for my meal. The downfall is finding the wonderfully "trendy" nightspot to waste away the late night hours. Our guests chose to go to "Howl at the Moon" which is a ugh, piano/karoake bar.
See, it's classier than karoake because you have a real life piano player. That makes it ugh, fun.
Since I was getting unlimitted free booze and Luke was the designated driver, I made the most of it and put on a happy face. It was not THAT bad. I made the most of it cause I HAD to be there, but pray tell, what in the hell was JOEY FATONE and WAYNE BRADY doing there on a Saturday night?
Is that the life of a former "pop star"? To spend your Saturday nights at a tourist karoake bar singing N Sync songs in front of dozens of adoring fans (an a handful of disinterested ones)? And I really don't get Wayne Brady at all. But we were all treated to a hilarious (dripping with sarcasm) improv routine about a man getting ready for work.
Then he allowed fellow bar goers to yell out improv situations such as "You are an astronaut on the sun --- GO!" and Wayne did a side splitting routine about the sun being hot and him trying to walk on it. It's funny because a real astronaut would never walk on the sun. He would be disintegrated by the immense heat. Get it? HAHAHA.
I so wanted to yell out "You had your own network comedy show and now you hang out at piano karoake bars --- GO!!" But Justin would not let me and ordered me another drink. Ah, I love the boy cause he knows what I like.
Now going from dead careers to dead people, we come to the saga of the CATLADY, a co-worker of mine. I don't know if she actually has cats or not but she is only 26 and has an uncanny resemblence to the crazy Catlady from the Simpsons. A dead ringer from the dazed, crazed facial appearence to her attire.
Apparently she went to a psychic and was told that her dead relatives are constantly visitting her. And for some strange reason, she feels vindicated by this. Because she was losing her car keys and being late for work all the time. Now we come to realize that the reason she was late is because her wacky crazy dead Aunt Tilda is hiding her car keys on her as a joke. And apparently her dead brother Ben comes and stares at her when she is sleeeping. I shit you not, I was told this. WHY I was told this I am unaware because I did not feign interest at all. But yea.
Then meaning to comfort me, I guess, the CATLADY told me that her psychic told her that the dead visit all the time. So she said "Maybe you should talk to her. Maybe your (dead relative) comes and visits you".
And that is wrong for so many reasons.
1) If I don't like you, don't invoke the fact my (relative) is dead. That really doesn't concern you plus it's just fucking rude.
2) I love you (relative), but I really don't need you visitting me. I am quite OK. You know how I hate drop-in, and that counts for ghostly drop-ins too. You know that I like to walk around naked and you know what me and Justin like to do at least twice a day.
And no (relative), dead or alive, needs to see that.
or Catlady sees a ghost
The worst thing about living in Orlando is that 1) people are always "dropping in" to vist and 2) they always want you to take them to see the "sights".
Such was the case this weekend when Justin's cousins dropped in on about 24 hours notice. I bypassed the trip to Disney because I am fucking sick of that place, but rather grudgingly (or was forced to) accept the invitation for the "night out" Saturday night.
The dinner was the highlight as I got to choose the place and they paid for my meal. The downfall is finding the wonderfully "trendy" nightspot to waste away the late night hours. Our guests chose to go to "Howl at the Moon" which is a ugh, piano/karoake bar.
See, it's classier than karoake because you have a real life piano player. That makes it ugh, fun.
Since I was getting unlimitted free booze and Luke was the designated driver, I made the most of it and put on a happy face. It was not THAT bad. I made the most of it cause I HAD to be there, but pray tell, what in the hell was JOEY FATONE and WAYNE BRADY doing there on a Saturday night?
Is that the life of a former "pop star"? To spend your Saturday nights at a tourist karoake bar singing N Sync songs in front of dozens of adoring fans (an a handful of disinterested ones)? And I really don't get Wayne Brady at all. But we were all treated to a hilarious (dripping with sarcasm) improv routine about a man getting ready for work.
Then he allowed fellow bar goers to yell out improv situations such as "You are an astronaut on the sun --- GO!" and Wayne did a side splitting routine about the sun being hot and him trying to walk on it. It's funny because a real astronaut would never walk on the sun. He would be disintegrated by the immense heat. Get it? HAHAHA.
I so wanted to yell out "You had your own network comedy show and now you hang out at piano karoake bars --- GO!!" But Justin would not let me and ordered me another drink. Ah, I love the boy cause he knows what I like.
Now going from dead careers to dead people, we come to the saga of the CATLADY, a co-worker of mine. I don't know if she actually has cats or not but she is only 26 and has an uncanny resemblence to the crazy Catlady from the Simpsons. A dead ringer from the dazed, crazed facial appearence to her attire.
Apparently she went to a psychic and was told that her dead relatives are constantly visitting her. And for some strange reason, she feels vindicated by this. Because she was losing her car keys and being late for work all the time. Now we come to realize that the reason she was late is because her wacky crazy dead Aunt Tilda is hiding her car keys on her as a joke. And apparently her dead brother Ben comes and stares at her when she is sleeeping. I shit you not, I was told this. WHY I was told this I am unaware because I did not feign interest at all. But yea.
Then meaning to comfort me, I guess, the CATLADY told me that her psychic told her that the dead visit all the time. So she said "Maybe you should talk to her. Maybe your (dead relative) comes and visits you".
And that is wrong for so many reasons.
1) If I don't like you, don't invoke the fact my (relative) is dead. That really doesn't concern you plus it's just fucking rude.
2) I love you (relative), but I really don't need you visitting me. I am quite OK. You know how I hate drop-in, and that counts for ghostly drop-ins too. You know that I like to walk around naked and you know what me and Justin like to do at least twice a day.
And no (relative), dead or alive, needs to see that.
posted by Feeling Blue in a Red State at 8:47 AM
2 Comments:
White people like Wayne Brady because he makes Bryant Gumble look like Malcom X.
But seriously, I'd hang out with Satan himself if I got a free dinner and booze for the evening.
We have much the same problem living in the center of London. Hillbilly family arriving from the "sticks" to see the sights. [but if I lived in Orlando, I'd take them to the Parliament House [bar?], that would sicken them off, much as we do by taking family to Comptons].
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