Tuesday, October 16, 2012

will there be strippers and how much should i tip?


I had an amazing blog post all worked out in my head this morning thanks to the woman in the car next to me.  In an act that defied logic and physics, performing with the grace of an acrobat right out of Cirque de Soleil, I watched as she balanced a phone, a cigarette and a chicken biscuit on the wheel while using her other hand as a battering ram against the face of the man who sat across from her in the passenger’s seat.

But then the phone rang.  It was Tall Little Sally, my right wing Lesbian friend.

Now, I don’t fully recall how I know Tall Little Sally.  Apparently we met sometime in my past which was dominated by an apocalyptic level of drug abuse.  I’m not talking, “Oh I smoked a bag of pot today” kind of use.  No, this was the kind of use that earned me the name SENIOR PARTY GIRL, because I was always the last one standing.  Or at least still awake while spread out on the floor of some bar.

Tall Little Sally is one of two people who I’ve been reunited with through the once glowing power of Facebook.  (The other two being my given up for adoption son and his mother, stay tuned…)  She was friends of a friend before I changed my privacy settings to CIA level 7, so when she requested a friendship I gladly obliged.  Why not?  She looked interesting in her profile picture with that red wig and the shotgun she held while stooping over what looked to be the dead body of a sheep painted like a zebra.  But I wondered who she was!

Well, Tall Little Sally and I were once part of the same gang of houligans who terrorized the French Quarter in the mid to late eighties.  She was there when we tricked Miss P into drinking a whole bottle of Green Chartreuse only to have that 300lb drag queen fall down at our feet, dead from alcohol poisoning.  Or so we thought.  We thought quickly and decided to fake an accident, perhaps blaming it on her renowned ability to consume too much and maybe she fell down and hit her head.  But there was no blood.

So we ran to the A&P in the Quarter and bought some brown but bloody beef, ran back to the scene of the crime and smeared it on her head before rolling her carcass underneath a white bronco.  Years later the entire OJ Simpson incident would bring such a flood of memories to me over this notorious incident I was completely unable to follow it and had to suffer through the seven hour marathon on E to finally learn what had happened to OJ.

But before we could call the police, Miss P woke up, astonishing everyone, but mostly Miss P who wanted to know who the fuck had put all that ground beef in her permed just that day hair.

 

“Are you watching the debates tonight?”, Sally blared over her hairdryer.  Tall Little Sally is a hard core believer that good hair should not be allowed to dry on its own, so she collects a wide range of multi watted hair dryers which she uses on her clients.  She runs an illegal hair salon out of her father’s gas station and only accepts cash so she doesn’t have to pay taxes.  It’s her contribution to the effort to take back the country.

“No Sally.  I’m getting tired of all the fighting and stuff.  Besides, I already know who I’m voting for.”

There is a long pause, filled with three fucks, the sound of a soda can being opened and a long raspy inhale of what can only be an unfiltered cigarette that I know is hanging off of her lip.

“You’re voting for the African again, aren’t you?”

That’s not exactly what she said, but I have to forgive Sally and I ask that you do too, because she is just a product of the world she was raised in.  The Deep South.

We argue for a few moments and then the big announcement arrives.  Tall Little Sally is in love and has decided to get married.

There is a long pause filled with more hair dryer action and at least one more cigarette.  But I arrive at work and have to cut our conversation short.  But she manages to slip in a few last sentences and I’m pretty sure they included the words ‘bride on a seventeen point buck and a camouflage train”.  Then the phone goes dead.

Dear God.  Did she ask me to be the maid of honor?  I’ll keep you posted.


No comments:

Post a Comment