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| Water Off Your Back |
May 24, 2008 1:18 pm
Mood: Dry, Thank You, 755 Views |  | I am not sure if this is gonna pass the FF censors but I thought I would give it a try anyway.
I think the previous photo post might have been a little biased towards the ladies so here's one the blokes can enjoy too.
I've heard of water bras but a water dress is a first for me. |
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9 Comments | |
| Puppy Love |
May 23, 2008 4:07 pm
Mood: Goo Goo, Gaa Gaa, 660 Views |  | This was sent to my email. I have only one word ...
Awwwwwwwwwwwwww! |
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7 Comments | |
| Gambian Gay Beheading |
May 22, 2008 8:45 pm
Mood: Rolling Eyes, 702 Views |  | Let us pray ...
To the Creator above, below, sideways, upside down, spread-eagle, downward dog pose, whatever, and whatever and in which ever language you would like to be called today, please enlighten your humble confused.
I, in all my behemoth ignorance, am having a crisis of faith.
That is, my faith in common sense and logical thinking. But obviously, the two concepts are not compatible with the word "faith". Not that I am trying to be blasphemous, oh Mighty One who might strike me down with righteous lightning from on high.
I humbly submit my confession of total confusion and ignorance. I beg for a sign. A sign that I should stop reading the newspapers, watching any form of information broadcasts and surfing the net. In fact, I think I should just stop reading full stop. And I am also reconsidering this whole con-job of thinking.
It is your servants of moral good who have brought my ungodly thought processes to light. I do not know which division of the Heaven squad they are from but they're good. Real good.
God's Squad Team Leader aka President Yahya Jammeh of Gambia recently shook me out from my erroneous ways by threatening to behead all gays if they do not leave Gambia. I had no idea that that is the latest directive from you, Lord of all things big and small, but not beheaded. I confess I was misled into thinking gay people were also human and therefore considered one of your children. I had no idea they were adopted!
It was that Satan fella, wasn't it? They're all his love-children and he tried to pass them off as one of yours. That's just so wrong.
I'd always treated them as mates. In fact, I even claimed some of them as best mates. I am so sorry, Lord, that I was such an unwitting minion of evil. From now on, I shall walk the straight and narrow path and threaten to behead any of them who try to be in my vicinity.
I would also like to recommend President Yahya Jammeh (by the way, I love his name because in your infinite wisdom you gave him a name that means arrogant in Indonesian ... which he is not, of course ... so clever!) for the Angel Network award. You know, the one started by your lobbyist. Yes, the tupperware party circuit organised by that Ms Oprah who mans your lobby.
Anyway, I think his speech to announce this latest directive was incredibly touching. I can even quote it ad verbatim, with the help of the Sydney Morning Herald.
"The Gambia is a country of believers ... sinful and immoral practices (such) as homosexuality will not be tolerated in this country," the president told a crowd at a political rally on May 15, local journalists told AFP on Thursday.
My God, I admit I am a trifle slow as it's taking me quite a while to figure out out what kind of believers Gambians are. And it does not help that I keep hearing the tune of "I'm a believer ..." which causes my hips to shake and my feet to tap. All terribly inappropriate for reading missives of religious doctrines.
Actually, if you do not mind terribly, oh Saviour of all threatened by the scourge of homosexuality, can you just drop me a hint of what the Gambian are believers of, please? You can either leave me a voicemail, text me, or IM me, Lord. I am also on Facebook. I can My Friend you, OK?
Anyway, back to your promised land of Gambia. It is obvious they are your chosen people, Lord, for why else would they be the only ones chosen to be cured of Aids? You are infinitely wise and loving to withhold your favour from the rest of the world who condone such sinful and sordid practises of sodomy. Tough love is much needed.
President Jammeh went on the mountain-tops (no, I did not so hear the lyrics "The hills are alive ...") and told his people that you have given them the "miracle" cure for HIV and Aids in January this year. What a lovely New Year gift, Lord. I am not complaining that all I got was the flu because I know now that it was probably because I went out partying with my gay former-friends. I now realise my sins.
The treatment is based on medicinal plants and a Koranic verse, which I think is so fantastic. I am so stoked that it's all organic, without using chemicals. Like even the Scientologists will be able to use this, if and when they accept that the Koran is pre-Hubbard.
I wish your chosen people in Gambia had greater faith and did not have to be ordered to give up their Aids antiretroviral drugs. But I know you can get through this as you did in the old days when you had to send blights, locusts and the such to every household to convince them that you could cure diseases. Maybe if they had radio then and you could tome, "Dr Love is in the house ..."
Like if you can bring it, you can take it away, ya know? They should really just put their trust in you.
But President Jammeh is keeping the faith and what a fine example he is setting for the infidels. I think you should promote him to Prophet status. Not that I am telling you what to do, of course, Lord. I'm just saying ... maybe a little something something for this fine crusader of God.
Alright, I have to go now, Lord, as you know I have to go find that Koranic verse and do some herb gathering. Ya think you could like maybe help me out here by putting an X on the right page in the Koran and on the spot where the weed is growing?
* Please note that title of post should be recited to the tune of one of Bob Marley's songs. |
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13 Comments | |
| If You Were My Husband ... |
May 22, 2008 7:40 pm
Mood: Semi-Chilled, 626 Views |  | I love this hilarious, but later disproved, exchange between Winston Churchill and Lady Astor. The words may not be exact but the riposte certainly hits the mark.
Lady Astor to the famous misogynist, "If you were my husband, I would put arsenic in your tea." To which the man replied, "If I were your husband, madam, I would drink it."
Classic.
While surfing along, I came across a series of photographs on creative ways on how to kill your husband. I thought that was rather serendipitous as just that afternoon, I was talking to a girlfriend who was terribly furious at her husband.
Her back had given out on her during a weekend holiday and apparently the hubby was at a complete loss during the hours of her incapacity, and could not and did not take care of her. To compound the "sin", he was just as helpless when they returned home.
Her back and hip were hurting quite badly and she found herself unable to undertake the daily housework and preparation of meals. So she asked her hubby if he could handle some of the chores till she recovered and the man pleaded weariness from work and errands he had to run. And yet he refused to order out or go out for dinner, demanding that she still prepared his meals.
Our girl, who is no wilting violet, was furious and there has been a barrage of sarky little comments and evil looks cast at the clueless spouse.
Anyway, she was complaining violently over the phone and I could hear all the pent-up ire. So when I found these pictures, I decided it would be a bad idea to forward them to her.
I do not want her hubby's demise to be on my blog.
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14 Comments | |
| Coloured Comments |
May 19, 2008 12:59 am
Mood: Annoyed, 778 Views | I deliberately avoided everyone this weekend since I wanted to take a break from all the petty bitching that seems even more rampant than normal.
Yet, someone managed to locate me and called me over the mobile.
She was looking for a team for a big show later in the year and was asking my opinion on the line-up. We were discussing the merits, advantages and synergy between a few combinations of dancers, when this supposedly well-travelled and educated dancer asked,
"We need to make it politically correct. So how about Z? We need a blackie."
My jaw dropped as I tried not to drop my mobile.
There was a deep silence before she asked me what I thought again. And I very icily and curtly told her that she should be careful how she uses her words as it would definitely offend not only Z but a lot of people.
She had the audacity to claim that English was not her first language and she was just trying for some flippant humour that was not meant to be racist.
I just replied that that would seem like a poor excuse to many people. Pleading language barrier and humour in some cases is a cop-out. Malice and poor manners are hard to disguise, whatever language you couch them in.
I ended the conversation very quickly, pleading another call.
I may not like what Z does on a professional basis but no one has the right to attack her on such a personal and unjustifiably bigoted platform.
I also told the poor excuse for a human being on the phone that I was too busy to work with her this year. I did not add, or any other year.
Far from the madding crowd ... is it such a difficult dream? | |
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25 Comments | |
| Debrief |
May 17, 2008 12:08 pm
Mood: Knackered, 720 Views | I kind of pride myself on being able to smell danger a mile off. Especially the kind of danger from unwanted attention.
Close friends know why and how I tend to keep a careful eye out for the slightest sign of trouble. It has led to a now-entrenched lifestyle of flying under the radar, keeping to safe environments and a low-key, almost reclusive existence.
Perhaps it is in response to the attention-garnering work I do.
Still, every time there is trouble, I ponder and analyse everything in my own private debrief.
Why did they behave in such a manner?
What prompted or triggered such behaviour? What could I have done to prevent it from happening? What can I do to stop it from ever again?
How did I miss the signs? How did the perpetrator get close enough?
When did I drop my guard?
Tonight, I knew exactly the catalyst, the why, the how and the when.
I was the only female seated with a bunch of old fogies. To an outsider it may have looked like I was open to or desperate for any male attention. When in actual fact, half of them were my uncles and the other half were my uncles' friends.
What prompted the stalker to target me?
A plate of cheese.
Talk about cheesy come-ons.
Some of the older gents had decided it was past their bed-time and a couple of the uncles drove them home before returning to the cafe. So there I was, all alone till they returned. Which is normally not a problem.
One of the uncles had just been back from the motherland and had a platter of goat cheese for me to try. I was nibbling delicately on it when the lone chap seated at the next table asked me what it was.
Ever polite, I told him it was a special, home-made goat cheese from the motherland. When he asked its name so he could order some, I told him it was off menu and was just something one of the uncles had brought back.
He looked so disappointed, I made my first mistake.
The When for when I dropped my guard.
The How did I miss the signs was because I was tired and feeling complacent after being coddled by all the uncles and in our safe oasis. I did not think anyone would be stupid enough to harass me in our own territory.
Silly me.
I offered him the platter of cheese. I even smiled kindly at him as I did that. Mistake 2.
He pulled his chair over.
Immediately, the guards went up and I had to restrain myself from pulling my chair further away from him. I knew the sign. The encroaching of personal space move.
And sure enough, he ate the cheese, he ordered coffee, he kept pulling his chair closer and closer till his arm was almost on the back of my chair.
His speech started slowing into what he thought was a seductive purr but in reality was a sibilant spew of smarminess.
His face crept closer and closer till he could almost smell my hair , which was unfortunately unbound and all over the place.
Fortunately, I managed to place my shisha between us, claiming that the wind was blowing the smoke into my hair.
He started asking me personal questions. If I was married, attached, single. What I did for a living. What I liked to do in my spare time. Where I frequented.
My answers were icily monosyllabic by now and I executed my usual rescue mission plan.
I pretended my mobile had rang. When in actuality I had just called the cashier. In our language, which I was sure he did not understand as he was Swiss, I asked them to send the Enforcer to my table.
So F, aka the Enforcer, came round and I gave him the look. So he sat down between us ... insistently ... and tended to my shisha. And stayed to chat. Something the almost perpetually silent F seldom does. I think tonight was the longest conversation I have ever had with the boy.
And then my uncles returned and I apologetically (not!) informed my persistent stalker that the chairs were reserved for them and that it was nice meeting him.
He hung around for a while, hoping to catch me alone again. But by now, my uncles and the waiters knew the score and no one gave him an opening and many menacing looks were cast in his direction.
In fact, the more geriatric uncle (he's 82) wanted to beat him with the charcoal burners. We had to dissuade him as we were afraid he would do himself more harm than the persistent stalker.
He still had the gall to give me his card before he left and asked that I call him so we could have lunch or dinner one day. I used the card to add to the fires of the coal burners.
So, my debrief goes like this ...
Never offer strange men food. They'd think you're interested in them instead of being kind.
Never be kind.
Never assume you are safe. Even in your own territory.
Never go around smiling at strangers. Especially men.
Side note: Remember to buy F a nice shirt to thank him.
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15 Comments | |
| Gift of the Gap |
May 17, 2008 3:32 am
Mood: amused, 714 Views | I am constantly awestruck by some of my male friends.
Quite a few of them are highly intelligent, well-travelled, philosophical, talented, funny and thoroughly good company. They make great mates.
But they sure make clueless husbands/boyfriends/partners.
Today, I was picked up by a friend, TS, whose business and lifestyle entails his wife having to live in another country and making bi-weekly flights to and fro just to spend time with him.
That's not the horrible part as it is quite a common, sadly enough, trend among my circle of friends and acquaintances.
The terrible part is her birthday gift.
Another male friend casually asked TS when his C class or S series or whatever that Mercedes Benz auto is called, was coming in. He flippantly replied that it would get there for his birthday. Which sent his wife into an amused but resigned tirade that it is supposed to be her birthday present but was coming in on his birthday instead.
I have next to zero interest in cars but even I could see the faux pas in this and asked TS whose birthday present it was supposed to be.
The man blatantly responded that it was his wife's birthday gift but it was arriving on his birthday and he was going to test drive it for a while to make sure it was safe. Rrrrrright ...
The kicker is that it would arrive when she is not in town.
Classic.
He's not the worst of the lot. There is E who bought his wife a dartboard for Christmas and made her open it on the eve, before dinner. So all the blokes could play darts while waiting for dinner.
I asked E's wife, "A, do you play darts?"
"No."
"Oh."
There was another mate who bought his wife a romantic weekend trip to a tropical resort island as an anniversary prezzie. She talked about it for days and planned her entire wardrobe numerous times, as well as audited all the girlfriends for salacious, naughty things she could try out during their third honeymoon.
I slapped my palm against my forehead when I received a message that her husband had left her, to go on a golf tournament with his mates, the moment they landed on the island.
Apparently, that was why he planned the trip. There was a golf tournament on and all his mates were there too.
He gave her another supplementary card and told her to treat herself.
I remember her asking us who was the most expensive jeweler available on the island and had commandeered a laptop and Internet connection to do some online bankrupting.
Weeks later when I caught up with him for lunch, he still could not understand why she was so upset.
Clueless. Totally clueless.
One of my friends who is an avid ballroom dance enthusiast told me she was actually on the verge of divorcing her husband when he bought her 100 hours with her favourite dance instructor, as a birthday gift.
That's not the problem.
The problem was when he included a note requesting that she be discreet. Being a fairly notable businessman, he did not want to be embarrassed by the news of his wife being seen on the arms of a DI and swanning all over the place.
The DI happened to be a distant nephew, which I believe was unknown to the distrustful husband. The half-wit had just insulted not only her virtue and morals but also the integrity of her family.
Again, when I met them for dinner a while later, he still had not apologised and could only reiterate that having his wife seen dancing in public and in the arms of a DI, relations or not, was not the done thing.
I icily said I should, perhaps, not be seen having dinner with them too then since I was a dancer.
He had the grace to flush and apologise hastily. I made a note that I would not be available for meals with him anytime soon. His wife, yes. Him ... no.
But one of the supposed clueless gifts, in the coterie of deal-breaking prezzies/insult, was actually quite meaningful.
One of my CEOs once happily announced, during a casual brainstorm, that he had bought his wife a mattress for their 10th wedding anniversary.
Not just any mattress. A Four Seasons hotel mattress.
My eyes widened appreciatively even as all the women in the room started berating him for being unromantic.
Hold on, you clueless harpies.
A mattress that is custom-made only for the Four Seasons which cannot be bought anywhere else. Which is the most comfortable mattress I have ever slept on and I have stayed in many, many establishments. The kind of mattress that makes you want to loll around in bed all day and perform all sorts of gratifying positions to achieve the most sybaritic pleasure?
I clapped my CEO on his shoulder and said,
"Well done, mate!"
He grinned gleefully and said it was the smartest and best gift he ever gave her.
Damn right. Bet they conceived their 4th child that anniversary too.
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8 Comments | |
| Klutztomania |
May 15, 2008 7:39 am
Mood: One-Eyed WHF, 720 Views |  | Some days I should remain on the stage or dance floor and not get off it.
One of my dance partners, J, used to wonder how such a graceful dancer on stage can be such a total klutz off it. The number of times he had to carry me to the nearest clinic, bandage my wounds and massage my bruises ... well, the ever-patient and long-suffering J would just roll his eyes at me and nag me to be more careful.
If there is a manhole left uncovered, you can bet your life I would be the idiot falling into it. If there was a loose piece of scaffolding threatening to collapse, it would be right at the moment when I am walking under it.
Calamity Jane should have been my nickname.
Most people who do not know me find that hard to believe. For some reason they assume I am rather ladylike and graceful. Until they know me and realise I am a walking accident-waiting-to-happen and quite bloke-like in attitude as well.
Today, I should have just stayed in bed.
I woke and decided I was going to be all ladylike and feminine today. Since I only had business meetings and no classes to teach, I could eschew my usual work-out gear and dress like a real girl. Out came the little sun-dress and my hair was let down.
So, there I was in a cream and red halter sun-dress, gold loop ear-rings, neutral makeup that takes hours to look like you do not have any makeup on (how contrary are we girls, eh?), bright red lips and golden slippers. Tres feminine. Tres delicate looking, even to my jaundiced eye.
So off I went to a lunch meeting. My lovely associates brought me to an Indonesian restaurant as a nod to my lineage. Cool, I was just craving for rendang. Then I remembered the rendang at this restaurant is atrocious. Darn it.
Ever the gentlemen, the blokes drew my chair out for me to sit in. I perched myself primly on the plastic chairs and realised I was too far from the table. So I tried to adjust my chair closer.
GRRAAAAAPPPTTTTHHHHBBBBPPPGGGRRRR!
The obnoxious, grating scream from the rubber-clad legs of the chair against the marbled floor was so loud, everyone turned to look at me.
Egads, I wanted to disappear into thin air.
My tablemates were too polite to laugh but I could see they were killing themselves with silent laughter.
Then the food came. Grilled chicken in a special dark, sweet sauce with curry rice. I felt my drool accumulate in my suddenly ravenous mouth.
Conversation faltered as we dug in.
Bugger, this chicken is kinda tough. Delicious but tough. The cutlery is a little wonky and thin too. I applied more force to pry the succulent meat from the bone.
And a piece of chicken whizzed past me in a whir of dark and furious motion to hit the wall behind me. We all turned to see a hapless piece of grilled chicken slide tragically down the whitewashed walls, leaving dark brown skid marks that looked distinctly unappetising.
I looked at the blokes. They looked at me. We all looked back down at our food and pretended it wasn't there and we had nothing to do with it. But I could feel the burn of the skid mark's accusatory trail of shame on my back and shoulders.
I blessed my genetic makeup that makes it impossible for me to blush.
I spotted one of the guys' shoulders shaking suspiciously and shot him a narrow-eyed look which he studiously avoided.
Then I reached for some spicy deep fried fish and as I was ladling some onto my plate, my dangling gold bracelet got caught in the sauce and I ended up with a bright smear of red on my forearm. I looked like I just tried to commit suicide.
The obliging bloke sitting next to me managed to control his giggles as he quickly broke open a roll of wet towel to wipe my arm. I felt like a kid getting cleaned up by his dada.
After that the meal proceeded without any more humiliation.
Until we got to coffee.
This time it was not my fault.
Kind of.
They served the coffee in traditional, thick china cups and saucers that preserve the temperature of the beverage. Brilliant, I thought coffee might wake me up from this clumsy stupour I seem to be under.
So I stirred the condensed milk collated at the bottom of the cup with the red plastic spoon. Gently. Very gently.
And the cup shattered, spewing coffee everything. Even managing to cause one flying spurt of coffee to land in my eye.
So I was tearing in one eye and everyone is in panic stations. The long-suffering bloke next to me took out another roll of wet towel and started wiping my eye while blowing into it. My eye, that is, not the towel.
If someone had taken a picture of us at that moment, I think it would have looked terribly incriminating.
Many minutes later, all is calm again and I have one red eye. Amazing, my dress remained unsullied and my makeup is still intact. Wow, MAC products and UDPP are amazing stuff.
The restaurant is completely beside themselves and apologised profusely, writing off our bill and promising to host us for another meal on the house.
Mr Hero next to me insisted I go to the doctor despite me telling him I was fine once I removed the contact lens and the smarting eye will recover quickly since it was just a tiny drop. But the man had a hero-syndrome if ever I saw one and it was a cantankerous, one-eyed WHF and nagging hero who went to the clinic where the doctor told me the same thing.
By the time I returned back to the apartment, I was convinced I am cursed in this godforsaken country. I booked a flight out for Saturday.
Lord, please protect your extremely clumsy and accident prone soldier of misfortune from further harm till I can get out of here. Amen.
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10 Comments | |
| Gawd-awful and Gobsmacked |
May 14, 2008 3:23 pm
Mood: Drying Me Hair, 681 Views |  | I'm not sure if it is the place or just a culmination of an extremely hectic few months but I am getting headaches more often than before.
Here I am sitting on me bed with my 'puter, waiting for my hair to dry after yet another migraine-easing hair wash and I realised it is the third time in two weeks I have had to do this.
It can mean one of two things.
One, I need to get out of here. And I have only been here for about 3 days. Which tells you a lot about how much I dislike this place.
Two, I need to ease up on my schedule. Unfortunately, that cannot happen for another few months till September when I can foreseeably head for the light at the end of the tunnel.
So that means I need to book a flight out of here by this weekend.
I can surmise how tonight's headache came about.
Women.
They give me a headache.
I had decided to give myself a break after my last class which ended earlier than normal so off I hied to my favourite oyster omelette stall. The man was not there. Patiently, I sat in a nearby coffee shop to wait.
He did not show up. I walked up and down the pavement, staring mournfully at where he would normally station his make-shift cooking site. Someone finally took pity on me and told me he was not showing up today.
Yes, my silent scream of misery reverberated throughout the cosmos. Did you not hear it?
Deeply shattered, I decided to visit a friend's cafe/bar which is my favourite place to people-watch. It is in a busy strip of bars and eateries, situated right on the turn-in and wonderfully airy and relaxed. Best of all, I have always felt that it is my little oasis from everything where no one would notice me and I can notice everyone.
So I perched myself on one of the bar stools, ordered my favourite margarita and some burgers (yes, burgers ... they are mini-burgers, alright? Roast beef, chicken teriyaki and gravlax) and plugged in my iPod to commence my early evening of Waldorf and Staedtlering.
First up were some young boys who sat next to me. One of them wore a brilliant T. It had iPoop on the front with the silhouette of a bloke sitting on the bog. Fab. I asked him where he bought it and we got into a conversation about iPods and Ts.
They left and I was still happily chomping on my burgers and wondering what else I could eat when I spotted a familiar face.
Bloke was in a white T and shorts with a sports cap pulled low over his forehead. We looked at each other and exchanged short nods of acknowledgment before looking away in determined discretion.
It was one of the kungfu stars and he positioned himself in an even more inconspicuous niche than I.
Bugger, I thought. If they start coming here, I will have to find another sanctuary. Just then I spotted my friend, who happens to be the owner of the place. He came over and we exchanged greetings and kisses.
"Oy, when the hell did the starlets start coming here? I like it here! I don't want them coming here and bringing notice and the such with them!"
He chided me, "Hey, even they need a place to be themselves and to hide away."
"I know! I know but I come here for the same reason. And if they keep coming, the rest of the madding crowd will invade too!"
"Honey, have you not noticed that there are quite a lot of you who come here? All you guys come here to hide out, pretending that you do not know each other. Married stars with their flavour of the month, secretly dating celebrities afraid of being outed ... paranoid dancers who come to escape ..."
At his meaningful glance, I gave him the finger.
I looked around. There was only the kungfu star and no one else I recognised. But then again, I do not really keep track of who's in and who's wannabe.
I decided my friend was indulging in a bit of delusions of grandeur and we chatted a bit before he had to return to work.
I sat for a while and suddenly I heard a piercing screech.
"WHF!!!! You're back in town!!!"
Everyone turned to look. I wanted to sink into my chair and wished a hole would open up in the ground and swallow the strident cow up.
It was an acquaintance I met some time ago at one of those fashion shows. I remember I thought her rather pleasant but terribly vacant.
She invaded my private space with her other three girlfriends. All of whom possessed the same high-octave voices that could wake up the dead. I felt a headache coming on.
My uninvited tablemates then started on about their shopping trip to Japan just last week, simpering over their sexual conquests and fantasies and the latest gossip in Hong Kong. I was ready to expire from boredom when one of them gasped breathily,
"Waaaahh, look, look! It's Kungfu Star over there! It's him, I tell you! It's him!"
She pointed and shrieked and drew the attention of everyone around us.
Poor bloke was sitting quietly in the corner with his chickie and looked like I did a few moments ago. Like he wanted to disappear into his chair.
I whacked her arm down and made violent shhh-ing noises.
"Keep it down! The man is obviously trying to have some privacy. Give him a break!"
The 4 women started babbling whether it was him, discussing his latest gossip and then debated on whether to go up to have a chat with him.
By now, I was really wishing I was anywhere but there. If I could blush, I would have been beet-red in embarrassment and indignation.
I was loathed to even look in poor Kungfu Star's direction. When I did, he had a resigned and pissed-off look on his face. I gave him an apologetic look and hoped he did not think I was part of the she-devils' group.
He gave me a look of deep sympathy.
And left within 10 minutes before they decided to harangue him.
My headache had burgeoned into full glower. I packed up my things, made my hasty excuses and tried not to sprint away from the uncouth groupies.
Have I gotten unused to the behaviour and conversation of "normal" women? Am I so insulated in my own world of dancers, musicians, entertainers that I cannot comprehend or condone the follies of women outside of that realm?
Just recalling their shrill and vulgar behaviour is bringing back my headache.
Right, change of topic.
I shall recount a funny incident just before I left Singers. One of my uncles was driving me back in the wee hours of the morning and we were stalled by a road block.
I commented that I had noticed an increased police presence in the city in the few days I was there and questioned him about it. He was as clueless as I.
The police motioned us to stop and we did, noticing that there was a carload of young people pulled over to the side and being questioned. The policeman took a look inside the car, saw the two of us and waved us past.
I turned to my 50-something uncle and asked,
"Hey, should we be offended? They are obviously pulling over all the young people. We did not fulfill their age requirement! We're too old! Bugger! How rude!"
We giggled and then my uncle said,
"Maybe we should circle back so they can stop us this time."
"Yeah, and demand that they pull us over since we are not THAT old!"
By now we were in hysterics and continued our inane repartee all the way back to my hotel.
Right, my headache is gone now. Success.
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6 Comments | |
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|
20
|
21
|
22
|
233
|
241
|
251
|
261
|
27
|
281
|
|
293
|
301
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
