So what happens when you play “U Can’t Touch This” and “Superfreak” back-to-back?
Oh child. If only you could have been there.
So it’s Flipper and G-Force’s birthdays, and what do we do one another’s birthdays?
If it’s my birthday? We Ready the Horrible. But if it’s anybody else’s? We daaaaaaaaaance.
Okay, first we eat fourteen tons of pasta. But then! Dancing!
I would like to know when the human body reaches the digesting apex. It’s definitely not after 30. Because first we went to the Olive Garden and then we went to Pleasure Island (which, despite its porntastic name, is actually a part of Disney World, and you’re not allowed to smoke or fling flesh or re-imagine the topiaries in nasty positions, which is totally what I would do were I left unsupervised on property) and I was unable to move without activating the Spew Sensors for at least an hour. Perhaps my attempted definition of “meal” as “seventeen breadsticks and a slab of chocolate” played a role here.
Here’s what I like about Olive Garden, even after you take away its cheesecake: It’s approximately as authentically Italian as Seagrams Golden Wine Coolers, but the staff is so earnestly committed to The Fake, it actually becomes preferable to the salad. There’s nothing quite like sitting in
On to PI! But only the cool kids who can subsist solely on breadsticks are allowed to call it PI!
Let us pause for a moment whilst I explore my love-hate relationship with Walt Disney World. I hate it; I hate it so very much. It’s wholly fabricated, it’s crowded, it owns the solar system from here to Uranus, it charges you to inhale its precious Mickey-shaped oxygen molecules. And yet! I love it; I love it so very much. You’re a princess! You’re on an Imperial speederbike! You’re in
And at
But Flipper and I are masters of The Redirect, which means that we never make eye contact and simply present the world with our backsides, and Oogie busted out the Look of Death, so our little group danced largely unmolested. It opened an entirely new branch of philosophy: If a guy thinks he’s dancing with you, and indeed is dancing in the same general area you are, but if you never agree to it, and in fact would flick this person directly in the eyeballs if he even asked the favor, are all interested and disinterested parties still, in fact, dancing alone?
We went to The Beach Club, where there was a live band. It was one of theose live bands that take being a live band very, very seriously. They had something like eighteen guitarists, and they all had perfected that True Guitarist Look, the one where to prove how sincere one’s guitaring is, one must appear, facially, to be in a great deal of intestinal distress. “SCREEEEEEEEE!” went the guitarists, in decades-long solos, and one guy played behind his back (“Just to show you can,” Flipper explained) and then, because he wasn’t entirely sure he had quite established himself as having the most sincere pumpkin patch around, he played a few bars with his tongue, which I’ve heard about, but never actually seen. I suppose I was meant to be impressed by this, but what would have been truly sweet was if the drummer had tried that.
Then we went to Mannequins, which has a spinning dance floor, because drunk people + involuntary rotation is always a good idea.
I need to sit down.
Will it ever stop? Yo, I don’t know at: mb@blondechampange.com