On Thursday, Esteban and I were driving home from a failed attempt to purchase a media storage unit that was not a)fugly b)constructed using pictures of wood and some other material that costs two cents c)too small or d)more than $500. Our biggest dilemma is that I don’t want to see the DVDs from where I am sitting (because all of the different colors on the boxes are distracting and feel tacky) while Esteban does not want to have to open a door to look at the DVDs (because he is very lazy). We were listening (or rather, half-listening) to the radio station where a DJ was interviewing Rick Springfield.
Esteban : Do you think that’s really him?
Weetabix : Yeah, why wouldn’t it be him?
Esteban : It doesn’t sound like him.
Weetabix : How is Rick Springfield supposed to sound?
Esteban : Oh, I thought they said it was Rick James.
Weetabix : Rick James is much too cool to be blathering about his kids on a radio station in Green Bay Wisconsin.
Esteban : That’s what I thought. (pause) What do you think he’s up to these days?
Weetabix : Rick James? Snorting coke off a hooker’s ass.
Esteban : Good. Then all is right with the world. Because Rick James should always be snorting coke off a hooker’s ass. Every. Damn. Day.
And then the next day, I find out that he died.
At my wedding, the DJ played ‘Superfreak’ and I had to get my freak on in the middle of a circle of men. Have you ever tried to badonka while wearing yards of satin and crinoline? It’s not easy.
I am totally feeling guilty now. Although maybe he would have taken that as a compliment? Maybe he would have shaken his glittered braids with laughter at the fond memories of the many times in the past where he was indeed snorting coke off a hooker’s ass. Or a stripper’s ass. Or a groupie’s ass. Or John Goodman’s ass.
Here’s to an afterlife that looks like Studio 54, with a line of bare asses sprinkled with coke as far as the eye can see.
