January 6, 2012
As you can see by my long absence from this blog, my high school reunion back in October took a lot out of me. So many cougars! So much animal print! (Note: my leopard-print jumpsuit was at the cleaners that night. Once again, fashion FAIL!)
And how does one erase the memory of exhausting and fruitless political discussions with once-reasonable former classmates, who, like me, were brought up in working middle-class families, by parents who probably belonged to unions and were probably Kennedy-worshiping Dems back in the day. Why have they now become angry, right-wing conservatives? (Why are they always so angry? Perhaps it’s because they are stuck with Romney for their presidential nominee. I guess that would make me angry too.) I found this odd given our common socio-economic backgrounds. It was draining. It was mind-numbing. Or maybe that was my reaction to learning there would be a the cash bar. Don’t get me started on that. But all in all, a lovely evening.
Then came the holidays, which sucked the life out of me as they usually do. But in a good way.
But by far, the greatest contributor to my absence has been my new-found addiction to Facebook (which will not be replacing my old addiction to wine). Yes, it’s true, I was a former detractor of Facebook. This is well-documented. I thought it was lame. (It kinda is.) And a time-waster. (Most definitely.) But in many ways it is gratifying. I have seen happy family photos of old friends, their children, and in some cases, their grandchildren. I am glad to know they’re doing well. I now know the musical tastes, political leanings, and hobbies of many of my friends. Some post interesting articles that we all can comment on. We rate them by “Liking” or “Disliking” them with a handy little button. So efficient. Like most things these days, this Like/Dislike button feature just reinforces the knee-jerk response we computer-addicted humans have developed when faced with nuanced discourse and complex issues. You hardly have to think at all! Darwin was right! Animals (and humans are animals) DO adapt to the circumstances they find themselves in. Sometimes the circumstance is called Facebook.
We tease each other. We’ve seen who must always have the last word. All in all, harmless fun. No one has stolen my identity or unleashed a demonic virus into my computer. Yet.
I realize my absence from this blog has deprived you all from reading about the usual topics: my fondness for wine, Thanksgiving, Christmas, wine-centric vacation destinations, New Year’s resolutions (spoiler: I never keep any of them), and Weight Watchers’ continued stalking of me—because I ONCE clicked on their website for information. ONCE.
So, 4.7 readers of this blog (including me), you can thank Facebook for that.
December 29, 2011
So I have no more time for this blogging BS anymore.
. . . Hey. . .
Where is everybody???
Google+ you say???
W T Frances is that?! . . . I just figured out Facebook.
Here is my report on the evening, in list form, because I love lists. (I love them so much “Lists” are actually #4 on my list of “Things I Love”). But I will leave it up to you, readers, to discern which things really did happen that night and which did not.
Do not worry. THE ANSWERS WILL BE PROVIDED. At the end. In very tiny print, as always. But you can guess True or False as you go along. You will not be graded.
1. The reunion was canceled on account of the Rapture which occurred the day before. And, no, the ticket money was not refunded, even if you were LEFT BEHIND®.
2. I attended the reunion solo this time, because at age 53, my husband has correctly assessed that I am no longer a flight risk.
3. Animal print is the new black.
4. At the reunion, there was a cash bar.
5. The First Rule of Reunions happened to me, which inevitably is: The first person who comes charging across the room to greet you is someone whom you have not thought about for 35 years… But he remembers you! And boy is he glad to see you! As he comes closer and you get a look at his name tag and high school picture, you realize it’s that shy, quiet guy that always seemed a little lonely. He looks exactly the same except for the graying hair, and an even greater air of desperation about him. But his eyes have become more intense. You small-talk a bit, eyeing the exits nervously as he tells you about his fascinating career in the postal service and the fact that he still lives in the same house he grew up in and NO HE’S NEVER BEEN MARRIED. Suddenly you really need to excuse yourself to get a drink or go to the ladies’ room and as you walk away you feel his eyes on your back and you are glad you decided not to ask about his parents because he may tell you where he buried them.
6. There was a call for group photos at a certain point in the evening. They summoned all the football players and cheerleaders and drama club types to report to the lobby to have special group photos taken. I didn’t hear the call for all the “eyeglass-wearing, nerdy little teacher’s pets who wrote for the school newspaper and were on the bowling team” to have their pictures taken. Maybe I just didn’t hear that call. Maybe because I was too busy showing off that I can still recite the prologue to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in perfect Middle English pronunciation. Oh God.
7. Someone tried to give me her high school ring that night because she felt sorry when I told her that I lost mine the first week of college. It was very sweet of this person to offer, but I declined, telling her to do what I would have done if I still had my high school ring: CASH FOR GOLD! I thanked her and told her not to waste it on the likes of someone as irresponsible as me. Because what kind of lame, pathetic loser is still wearing her high school ring in college anyway? Apparently, me.
8. I attended the reunion cold-–by which I mean—without first reviewing my classmates’ photos by looking in my yearbook before the event. I have not looked at my yearbook since 1978 or thereabouts. It lies moldering in my attic somewhere.
9. I flirted shamelessly with an old boyfriend.
10. I was able to cross another item off my “Bucket List.” I threw a glass of wine in someone’s face in a haughty, elegant manner. Think Bette Davis in All About Eve, with the cigarette holder, heavy caked-on lipstick, huge boobs spilling out of the top of the dress, (I leave you to wonder if I am talking about Bette Davis or me). I was hoping that doing this would spark the Bar Brawl, which also happened to be item # 2 on my Bucket List.
11. Someone gave me a silver Kennedy half-dollar with our graduation year on it.
12. I met a girl who used to bully me in grammar school. She terrified me daily. She was very sweet and said hi to me. I said hi to her too.
13. When the time came to sit down to dinner with my buffet plate, it appeared that there were no seats available. Someone offered that I could sit on his lap. And sadly, I cannot recall who said that.
14. I had a wonderful time at the reunion, and look forward to the next one!
I always warn my readers when they read my blog: half of what I say is true, the other half is bullshit, and the third half is jokes. It is up to you to understand which of these three halves is which. I should also mention that fractions are not my strong suit. As a matter of fact, I do not remember any kind of math, having spent all my time in high school memorizing key passages from great works of literature for this very reason: THAT I MAY RECITE THEM DRUNKENLY AT HIGH SCHOOL REUNIONS.
October 18, 2011
1. Anything you actually wore in high school, even if it still fits. (As IF!)
2. Maternity clothes. (I’m talking mainly to the ladies here, but guys, you should listen up, too.) Yes, it’s true, wearing clothes purchased in Target’s maternity department, when you are not indeed pregnant, certainly is comfy—not that I would know anything about this—but no need to start rumors or unduly startle anyone at your 35th high school reunion. Although it could be a terrific ice-breaker!
3. That orange jumpsuit you were issued a few years back due to that “youthful indiscretion.” It’s not flattering because that hue is SO last year. Or SO last 5 – 20 years with time off for good behavior. Anyway jumpsuits went out when Cher stopped wearing them. Wait . . . she’s still wearing them? Well, they’re out. Trust me. And I don’t care what Chaz is wearing on DWTS.
4. Anything from Old Navy.
5. Your prom dress. (Same goes for those bridesmaid dresses we were told would be wearable in another venue. Um, no.) Wearing your prom dress to the reunion practically guarantees you’ll be wearing the same thing as another former classmate. It’ll be prom night all over again—and you know what that means: look, if I had a nickel for every time someone dumped a bucket of pig’s blood all over me at prom because we were wearing the same dress. . . ! It’s just so immature. Really, who wants to go through that spectacle again? Leave the prom dresses in the back of the closet where they belong, or risk huge dry cleaning expenses. (Getting pig’s blood off satin is a bitch!)
6. Your favorite little black dress that’s, well, a little too little. There is a fine line between sexy and grotesque, and 35 years out from high school we all should know where that is.
7. Non-matching shoes. This fad never caught on, although I tried mightily to make it seem cool that day I got dressed in the dark and came to school with one brown shoe and one black one. (C’mon! Work with me here!) But they didn’t.
8. Your school colors. Showing up looking like the school mascot won’t play well (even if it is a red and gold bear—or Bruin—as they liked to call this ridiculous, totally non-threatening, Winnie-the-Pooh doppelganger), although it will help to hide the 25 pounds you’ve packed on since high school.
9. Anything from Forever 21. Because, let’s face it: if you’re headed to your 35-year reunion, you’re not even close.
10. Anything animal-print. Ladies (And gents too, I suppose. I’m trying to be gender-neutral here), are you listening? Try to suppress the urge to unleash your inner cougar. Rawrrr.
Wish me luck.
I will give a full report after the affair. I only hope it does not get canceled, but there is a good chance that it may, because some knuckleheads (I’m lookin’ at you, Reunion Planning Committee!) scheduled it for October 22—this is, unfortunately, the day after The Rapture (Take Two), which, it has been revealed, will be going down on October 21. (Remember when Rapture One was supposed to happen on May 21? Well it didn’t, so now we take our chances that this reunion will be a non-starter. With a ticket price of $100, it better take place or I am gonna be pissed.)
But who am I kidding? It’s the RAPTURE. I am not going to be raptured anywhere. As a matter of fact, as I think about my fellow classmates and some of their antics in high school, I think we’ll be all right. Most of us will remain unsaved, sitting right at the bar after all the sizzle and flash is over. The only thing I worry about is the bartender. I hope he or she is a huge sinner. A real bad-ass. Because I would really hate it if the bartender got raptured up before I got a drink. God knows, I’m gonna need one.
That about sums it up. Buh-bye. Don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya. You betcha.
Aww, hate to sound so mean since Sarah retreated so quietly and without fanfare. The only people she disappointed were her cult of paint chip-eating fantards. They are still in shock over her betrayal and as of this moment are collectively pining for a “Draft Sarah” movement or a third-party (read: Teabagger) challenge. Yup. Well, she deserves better. She didn’t lead us on. It’s not like she strung out her decision about whether to run for President for an obscenely extended period of time like . . . like . . . Chris Christie, who was on the fence (an impressively sturdy fence, I might add) about his own decision for maybe two months tops, right? (In actuality, Palin began her own presidential campaign well before the lights had dimmed on the stage where John McCain had just given his concession speech after his failed 2008 presidential bid. But hey, that’s what rogues do. No loyalty to the old imbecile who plucked her out of obscurity.)
Well, at least she’s over there in one of the Koreas (any of ’em, all of ’em), blessedly unshackled by a title, representin’ America and showin’ her patriotism by slamming our President and our country’s carefully-forged-by-experts foreign policy toward no particular Korea. Maybe it’s South Korea. Or is it one of the Viet Nams? Dang it, why does there always have to be two? Oh well, it’s not like she’s going to cause an international incident or anything.
But wait . . . here’s this week’s headline from the Korean Times: “Palin Looks Forward to North Korean Regime Change.” Apparently, this was news to the Department of Homeland Security and the State Department and her remarks caused no small amount of concern within those organizations. Here’s another headline: “Officials respond quickly as inflammatory rhetoric from Sarah Palin threatens to raise tensions between North and South Korea.” Well, thank God Sarah is over there helping with international relations by doing some fancy pageant walkin’ and opening up her botoxed piehole with some of her trademarked mavericky statements.
Here’s an exerpt from that article:
Former Alaska Governor Sarah Palin said she “looks forward to regime change” in North Korea while calling on South Korea to help the North when its regime is finally ousted. [At least this time she didn’t get the two Koreas mixed up. I hear she has the same problem distinguishing between the two Dakotas and the two Carolinas, but it’s less of a problem since these places do not have nuclear weapons aimed at each other. Yet.]
“Being under the thumb of a dictator, the first victims of his regime are his own people,” said Palin during a keynote address at the 12th World Knowledge Forum in Seoul, Tuesday.
Palin, who was the vice presidential nominee of the Republican Party in 2008, made the comment in a Q&A session with Ritz Kahn of Al Jazeera English immediately after her speech.
The theme of this year’s forum is “The New Economic Crisis: Reforming Global Leadership & Asia’s Challenge.”
Regarding Palin’s remark, the Seoul government showed a cautious response.
Jo Byoung-jae, spokesman for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Trade, said flatly “regime change is not a policy goal or the objective of this government.”
He said he is not criticizing Palin or her statement, but just stating as clearly as possible what the North Korea policy of Seoul is, adding, “I think it is safe to say that it is also not the policy goal of the U.S. government either.”
Palin’s statement drew attention as it came at a particularly precarious time for South and North Korean relations amid lingering tensions on the Korean Peninsula.
I like how the Korean people are much too polite to just come out and say, “OMG, did she just say that?! Oh no she di’int!” Remind me again why people pay to hear this professional grifter speak on topics about which she knows nothing?
Leave it to Snowdrift Snooki to travel overseas and almost cause war to break out. Too bad she pulled out of the race—she would have made an EXCELLENT president with her COMMONSENSE foreign policy credentials and AWESOME diplomatic skillz. I guess we’ll know if the North Koreans are upset by this statement when we find out that all of their intercontinental ballistic missiles are suddenly recalibrated and trained on Alaska. Let’s just hope Palin gets home in time to receive her gift from one of the Koreas. (It’s North Korea, Sarah; I googled it. Try it sometime!)
Thank goodness this hot mess is outta here.
September 30, 2011
This sentence is the best last line ever from a true Right Winger. And it’s directed at Sarah Palin, who has been dithering about, as she so quaintly puts it, “throwing her name into a hat” (can you even do that?) and getting down to the serious business of running for President of the United States. (I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.) She had previously stated—on many occasions—that September 30 would be the “drop-dead” (we can only wish) date for her to get into the race:
Erick Erickson at RedState:
“This is a deadline Sarah Palin has imposed on herself. We’ll put an update up every hour on the hour until she announces today. And we know it will happen because all her supporters on Twitter have been telling us it will happen and today is the last day of September — her own deadline.
Unless, of course, having thrown off the “shackleyness” (again, another word coined by Palin) of humanity itself, September does NOT end until Sarah Palin tells September it can end.”
Here’s the story: RedState, a Right Wing website has decided to smack the Tranny Granny right in the face with some of her own delicious word salad. Here’s another reference to Palin’s self-imposed deadline…
It is 6am ET. Sarah Palin has not announced yet.
We’ll be doing this all day folks.
It is 7am ET. Sarah Palin has not announced yet.
Nope. Not yet.
It is 8am. Sarah Palin has not announced yet.
Still hasn’t done it.
It is 9am ET. Sarah Palin has not announced yet
and on and on and on…
When RedState, and particularly the scumbag Erick Erickson calls you out, HOURLY, you KNOW you’re in sorry trouble in the Rightwing world.
So, Sarah, Game ON! Your move.
* (As easily as you quit the state of Alaska.)
August 25, 2011
Someone leaked this speech to me, so I’m sharing it with you in its entirety. (This letter must be read with Tina Fey’s great Sarah Palin accent in mind. For the proper effect, think Frances McDormand in Fargo, only a lot screechier):
My fellow teabaggers, do you loove yer freeeedumb?
What a great city you have here in Indianola! What better place to make this announcement than the hot- air capital of the heartland! I must tellya, we use only genuine Indianola balloons to decorate the house when our kids or grandkids (any of’em; all of ’em) have birthday parties, don’t we, Todd?
It’s good to see so many little people together and we’re happy to announce that we’ll be runnin’ for President of this fine country.
We’re goin’ to plow through that door of the White House because God opened it a crack and we’ll act according to his mandation. He created America to be a Christian, exceptional nation, a shiny hill on a city, for the true patriots.
I was just talkin’ to Piper yesterday when we were out huntin’ to fill our freezer and the wisdom of a child is truly a miracle. She asked, “Mom, if the Founding Fathers were true Christians, shouldn’t they be called Christian Fathers, or Founding Christians?”
The lamestream media will most likely criticize little Piper Diaper for her wisdom and commonsense solutions to our problems, but we’ll amend the doggone foundin’ documents when we’re President because “In God We Trust.” And they’ll have to take all that money with those words printed on it out of my cold dead hands, along with my guns, also too.
Mama grizzlies don’t go with flow, only dead fish do that, it’s a time-tested truth that my science teacher dad has been teachin’ up there in the great state of Alaska for ions. You little people don’t go with the flow and I don’t go with the flow of politics as usual like the intellectual elites down there in Washington D.C. (That’s in the Lower 48.)
No more good old boys’ club, we’ll start a new grizzly club, but not for the cackling rads. We’ll refudiate all the Supreme Court decisions that we don’t like and take government out of our lives, and with all my executive experience as a businesswoman and fish wife, we’ll reform that Department of Law there in the White House.
My science teacher dad and his wife Sally, and also too, my precious little boy with those special needs all luckily escaped Obama’s death panels because I warned the country about the blood libel and it’s time to end Medicaid and Medicare because us rill Americans don’t need any stinkin’ entitlement programs—not if we’re goin’ to have real energy independence with good smellin’ emissions and rein in spending also too. It’s . . . it’s all about job creation. I learned the five Ws of governin’ in college and will clean up the sorry state that journalism is in, so it’s fair and balanced down there in the White House.
I’m sorry we took so long to make this announcement, but I didn’t blink before when I ran on the Palin/McCain ticket and you saw what happened there. Obama encouraged the media to keep makin’ things up about me and attackin’ my family and they kept askin’ for medical records and about my record as the CEO of Alaska in a sexist way when they didn’t even ask questions about Obama pallin’ around with Bill Ayers when he was eight years old! I’ll tellya, what kind of vetting was that? So I blinked this time, just to make sure. And we didn’t retreat, we reloaded, you betcha!
We took our time to decide to throw my servant’s heart in the ring, didn’t we, Todd? But the family is doing good, hell yeah, they are. Bristol the Pistol and her sister Willow the Pillow are doing just great livin’ in LA with no boys upstairs and my precious little gift from God is somewhere in Alaska, walking around without his glasses on, looking for the North Star—I’m so blessed! My veteran son that nobody can take away from me, who risked his life protectin’ the lamestream media’s right to make stuff up about me, shrugged his shoulders in a very encouragin’ manner and said, “Whatever,” and Piper, my home-skooled child and constant companion, will travel around with me on this vaca . . . campaign . . . that SarahPAC paid for, so we’re good to go.
I have to ask Track to do some Goggling for me. What is it the president does all day, everyday?
God bless Rill America!
Uh, before I forget: Send all your money to my new PAC, the old one is no good anymore.
I wonder how the person who sent me this got close enough to read all this off her palm!
* For extra credit, see if you can spot all the Sarah Palin-coined words in this letter. Webster’s New American Dictionary is going to be busy updating their next edition because of her creative wordsmithing. (I guess it IS all about job creation!) Also see if you can spot all her bullshit. Extra-extra credit if you do. Answers to be discussed in comment section if anyone cares to. Comment, that is.
July 18, 2011
Since this blog sometimes functions as a repository for rejected work, I give you yet another addition to my growing file of McSweeney’s rejects. What can I say? They’re not all gems. I recently submitted the following piece to the website. I wonder if the McSweeney’s editor who rejected my piece about being rejected realized the delectable irony inherent in this situation? (I’m going to say: no.)
For the uninitiated, McSweeney’s is the high holy grail for humor writers who crave the honor of seeing their work published in a public forum, without that pesky detail of receiving any payment for their work. Because having your piece published on McSweeney’s is payment enough, right? Any aspiring humor writer could die happy if this were to ever happen. Who needs any stinking money? Pffft!
McSweeney’s, I wish I could quit you.
Here’s the latest reject:
A LETTER TO THE EDITOR
WHO REJECTED MY STORY
FOR INCLUSION IN A STUPID BOOK ON MENOPAUSE
WHOSE TITLE I WILL NOT REVEAL
(BECAUSE WHY SHOULD I GIVE THOSE BASTARDS
ANY FREE PUBLICITY?)
The Mature Way in Which I Handled
Dear Editor Who Rejected My Story About Menopause:
After reading your comments at the top of the story, I can confidently state, “Wow, you’re not feeling the love for this story.” In fact, I’m pretty sure you hated it. Here is what gave me a hint: scrawled across the top margin, in bold, red Sharpie, you wrote, and I quote, “Let’s leave this one out.” I can only politely inquire: are you going through menopause or something?
I put it to you: if asked to submit an article on a specific topic, as I was (by you—remember?), doesn’t that arguably raise me to the level of expert on the subject? I find this logic inescapable, no? You have only yourself to blame, editor and co-writer of this book (let’s just call it Chicken Soup for the Ovaries, since I refuse to mention its real title), because you are the one who asked me to contribute a piece to this pathetic anthology of suffering.
Let’s go through your comments point by point, shall we? You explained there was a problem with the tone of my story. That it seemed like I was “making fun” of menopause. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult menopause, but menopause is a big girl and should be able to deal. This book was described to me as being in the self-help category, ostensibly offering “advice,” “support,” and most importantly, according to its publisher—again, that would be you—“survival tips” to the “menopause-stricken” (quotes not mine; I have no idea where they came from). I, however, was compelled to take more of a tough-love approach to this topic; unlike the rest of your writers, madam, I am no menopause-coddler.
You said you wanted more of the story to come from my own “direct personal experience” which I now take to mean: describe in excruciating detail all the distressing symptoms of menopause you can think of. The truth is, I am not yet a menopause-victim, so I cannot opine truthfully on this subject, but I will confess to being a woman. Which is more than I can say for some of your other writers. So, to that point: who is this “Ken” person? The one who appears to be an expert on nighttime hot flashes? (I’m using her first name only here, because I believe that’s enough to identify this author as non-female. No self-respecting woman would call herself “Ken.”) So, to summarize: you accepted a story about menopause, written by a man—from direct personal experience, one assumes—and you have rejected one from a real, live woman? I have a hunch this may be ironic.
Further criticism of my story indicated that I failed to “keep the focus on menopause,” and “distracted the reader with over-the-top descriptions of things that are not germane to the topic.” I can only infer that you didn’t care for my creative use of metaphors. Maybe you thought they were overblown, even amateurish. Well. I believe I can hammer out a metaphor with the best of your so-called experts. At least as well as “Ken” (if that is her real name). It is my opinion that metaphors add flavor to a story, make them more savory, if you will. Here’s another tasty one for you to chew on, wherein I vividly describe the violence that was done to my story:
‘It looked like someone took a giant melon-baller to this delicious story and scooped the juicy flesh out of each perfectly ripened paragraph, leaving only dry, random sentences that no longer bore any relationship to each other, let alone the title. Whereas your first revision was like minor surgery—in that the more quirky parts were removed like so many annoying seeds—alas, the juicy pulp of my story has now been surgically removed, leaving only the flavorless, boring rind of this big watermelon.’
Now, how does that taste?
After digesting all this criticism, I feel it is only fair to call you out on some of your suggestions for improving my story. Your insistence on inserting all those cloying “Survival Tips” referencing the healing powers of chocolate was just too precious. You helpfully suggested—every third or fourth sentence or so—that chocolate alone is the panacea to all hormone-related ills. Gahh! I happen to know that many people are allergic to chocolate. Advocating its unrestricted use is ill-advised. Much potential litigation is headed your way if you persist in this. Just because I suggested five to six glasses of wine and a fistful of Vicodins to alleviate menopausal symptoms, I’m irresponsible? First rule of writing: know your audience.
Finally, Editor Who Rejected My Story About Menopause—don’t come whining to me when your book falls short by a few pages and you need to pad it with an extra story or two, and in your desperation, you reconsider using my savagely butchered story. You will beg me to rewrite it again, to reanimate this dead thing from the ashes of your editorial torching. Listen, I can only give so much. Rewriting this story has become a touchy subject for me; it makes me feel all hot and irritable. Just thinking about it makes me want to cry. I don’t even want to talk about the bloating … God, I wish I had some chocolate. Doesn’t anybody have any fucking chocolate?
Late B. Soon
P.S. Disregarding what I said earlier about you coming back begging for another story—if you find yourself really desperate for one—perhaps I could rework it a little. Maybe something like this would be more to your liking: A totally new concept. How about: “You, Yourself, and Hormones” (but you could substitute “Chocolate” for “Hormones” if you think it sells—you’re the editor.)
Let me know if any of these work for you.
June 14, 2011
(To assume “all” of you are here is very presumptuous of me. Let me start again…)
Hello, fellow unfortunate sinners who have been left behind. (Hmm…that’s catchy.) Anyway, in case you were worried that I was among the virtuous few who were chosen for an unrequested “upgrade” to my final destination, I am here to reassure you that I was only in Aruba. I did not plan it this way, but our trip coincided with Rapture Break (the week of May 21), so we were in the company of legions of other sinners who were also Left Behind. (I am so trademarking this!). We (me and the other sinners) consoled ourselves about the injustice of it all by swimming up to the pool bar—early and often—and drinking delicious, rum-infused, fruity, sometimes frozen (not easy to come by when you’re in hell) concoctions. But our suffering was greatest mainly between the hours of 3:00 and 5:00, otherwise known as “Sinners’ Hour,” during which my fellow sufferers and I wailed and gnashed our teeth in torment, especially when we couldn’t get the bartender’s attention fast enough.
I did survive the many afflictions of Aruba: the deliciously sinful meals, the slothful days of lounging on the beach or at the pool. I am ashamed to say I participated in the wickedness that took place in those dens of iniquity (casinos) that are not only tolerated in Aruba, but cheerfully sanctioned by this sinners’ paradise, wherein all manner of profligate behaviors took place. In fact, I sinned SO HARD there I won $1000 on a decadent game called “Wheel of Misfortune!” I will burn in hell for this alone because, you can be sure, I kept that dirty money.
I even went on a depraved booze cruise on a pirate ship, where they ply you with drinks (called “pirate’s poison”) and offer an assortment of irresponsible (but fun) activities like walking the plank or having another “pirate’s poison.” Believe me, that ship was FULL of sinners, especially rum-soaked, oiled-up, bikini-clad 40-something women who wanted to experience the rope swing while wrapped around the bodies of those bronzed and hunky “pirates” who heroically manned this ship of the damned. Even my once-pale skin bears the mark of my brush with this hellscape—it still glows with a flamey crispyness that surely portends skin cancer. But at least it has stopped peeling.
UPDATE: So I am back from this foretaste of hell, this devil’s island known as Aruba, back in the purgatory that is my daily life. I suppose I should use this time to reflect on my many sins and to cleanse my soul in preparation for the next phase of sinner-selection, now scheduled for October 21. On the bright side, at least I will get another birthday in; I will, however, miss my high school reunion which is scheduled for October 22. Good planning, high school reunion committee! Wait a minute, I probably WILL BE attending the reunion. Who am I kidding?—I won’t make the cut this time either. I wonder who will? I guess I should prepare myself for another ego-crushing night where all the popular kids get to go to the rapture. (Suggestion: you can use “rapture” as a metaphor for “prom” if that works for you. It does for me.) I wonder if the cheerleaders will be selected for Heaven’s Squad? Of course they will, they are always selected first. They are cheerleaders! They can cheer for the raptured! Yay team!
I doubt the rapture squad wants any nerds who wrote for the school newspaper (a liberal rag by any stretch: more damning evidence that I am not worthy of heaven) and who flaunted the limits of their meager physical prowess by participating in a weekly bowling league. I wonder…
Well, we’ll see. At least at this reunion there will be open bar. And by “open bar” I mean access to alcohol that you are paying an exhorbitant price for, but which has been included in the price of the ticket to fool you. A further reminder that you are not in heaven. Heaven is all-inclusive, I believe. Hopefully, there will be a bartender who is a sinner too, so we can get some service. Should be interesting to see who shows up. (Or should I say, who gets Left Behind®?)
I guess it’s pretty obvious: I am still enraptured by the rapture. Stay tuned for Rapture 2.0, coming soon, this October!
May 21, 2011
Does this mean Sarah Palin, Michele Bachmann, Rick Perry, Mike Huckabee, Glenn Beck, and all the other pure souls on earth will be checking out by 6:00 p.m. today? It’s sure gonna be quiet around here without them. And so peaceful! If this is how it works, I think we’ve got this whole rapture thing backwards.
Also, if you notice that I am not around for a while (like a week) don’t jump to any conclusions about my whereabouts. I will be in Aruba with lots of other poor unfortunate sinners who didn’t make the cut, toasting the raptured and feeling sorry for myself! Happy trails.