Sometimes I get an inferiority complex that this diary isn’t all deep and smoochie and stuff. I mean… boobs and farts. And cootchies, more recently. And the stupid ways I injure myself. Sometimes shopping. That’s this page in a nutshell. A big stinky boob-shaped walnut shell.
I feel as though I should be writing writerly sentiments like “I saw an old man sweeping his front porch, the same way he had swept for forty years. This endless futility mocks me.” But all the pretentiousness weirds me out and makes me stick out my tongue.
“Gah!” has become my favorite word recently. I especially like to invoke the latent snot and mucus in the back of my throat when I saw it, so it sounds as though I’m somewhat choking on whatever crap I’m responding to.
My education in English was money well-spent, don’t you think?
Last week, Mo sent an email to me and several of her friends, begging us to accompany her to see Jimmy Fallon in concert. No one volunteered. Yesterday, the day of the performance, I called her to see who was going with her and she audibly pouted at me into the phone. She wailed. I think she actually wailed. Thus, out of the goodness of my heart, I told her that I would go with her.
Oh, it wasn’t the goodness of my heart. It was guilt. Pure unadulterated guilt for years of various violent pummelings of her small pixie-like body. She was a serious brat and made my childhood years an unmitigated hell world, seconded only to the varieties of dysfunctions inflicted upon us by various adults, don’t get me wrong. She probably whole-heartedly deserved the pummelings. She would taunt me despite the fact that she KNEW that the pummeling would quickly commence. She was a very evil child. But I still have guilt because I think I’m part Jewish.
Thus, I agreed to fork out $22 for my ticket to see Jimmy Fallon do a bunch of material from previous episodes of Saturday Night Live. Mo was ecstatic and thus I envision that at least one pummeling has been expunged from my karmic permanent record.
We went to the auditorium and were escorted to the nosebleed seats on the second balcony. As a testament to exactly how spoiled I am, I have never even seen the second balcony. It smelled vaguely like college kid sweat. We showed our tickets to two old man volunteer ushers and they escorted us to our seats.
And he brushed his hand across my ass. His hairy wrinkly old man hands on my fine supple yet bulbous ass.
Oh my gosh. I totally did not expect that. It must have been an accident. Especially with the slurry of young nubile college girls abounding in fleshy outfits and me in my proper business attire.
Then Mo and I watched as the other old guy usher led a lovely young blonde girl to her seat and his hand casually but very deliberately brushed across not one but both of her perky coed ass cheeks. Mo’s jaw dropped and she said “Dude! Did you see that!” because she often prefaces exclamatory sentences with “dude”, an unfortunate habit with an unfortunate contagious effect. Then I said “Dude! The other usher did the same thing to me!”
It was actually a buffet for dirty old men. Because I think that old people like buffets.
That’s probably why those old guys volunteer. It certainly isn’t to see Jimmy Fallon, who was very funny but not exactly Paul Harvey. Or whoever old men think are funny. I don’t know. I don’t exactly have my finger on the pulse of the Baggy Shorts and Black Socks track, you know.
Oh, and speaking of older folks, I received an invitation to join the AARP the other day. Except that nowhere on the thing did it tell you what AARP stood for. Not one thing. (FYI: It’s the Association for Advacement of Retired Persons, or something like that.) Just “Send us $13.95 for a membership to AARP”.
You’ve got to watch out for these Retired Persons, I think. They’re getting really sneaky. I think it’s all that driving at 20 miles an hour, even on the highway. It’s extra time to concoct their nefarious agendas.
Once, June was talking about little old ladies and she called them “Dandelion Heads”. Being facetious, Esteban said “Why would you call them that?” and June got all flustered and I stepped in and said “Because… one poof and they’re gone.” And that cracked everyone up. I don’t know why. It doesn’t read very funny, but apparently it was.
Later, Esteban wanted to know where I had heard such a funny thing. Because he assumed that I had simply lifted it from a Robin Williams schtick or something. It was one of the most insulting things he’s ever said to me, not because it was so terribly insulting but rather that he automatically didn’t give me any credit. He shies away from anything I do creatively. He does not read this diary. He does not read the stories I write because he doesn’t like that type of literature. He’s not into poetry. Only you, gentle readers, know the true perverse workings of my brain. And isn’t your life that much more now?
Gah. So much for being all deep and pretentious.
