Saturday, March 15, 2008
What Part of 'Beware the Ides of March' Don't I Seem to Understand?
There's the picture... do I really need to elaborate? Do I really need to mention that, yes, it was the Old Lady's turn to take Miss O to yet another birthday at the shit-spewing Hellmouth that is Caesarland but, SOMEHOW, she woke up sick this morning and just couldn't muster the energy needed to survive 2 1/2 hours at that life-sucking anus of a party destination?
Must I go into the fact that I, while not necessarily at the pinnacle of healthitude myself, volun-fucking-teered to lead the girl, headlong into this festering fistula of a food franchise for a nearly three-hour-tour of inedible disks of diarrhea-dough, scabies-ridden circus freaklettes, parades of pallid pederasts and a mind-melting onslaught of unrelenting bells, whistles and epilepsy-inducing light flashes?
Perhaps I'll just show you the reading I registered on the Caesarland-Fun-Meter at about, oh, the ten-minutes-into-the-party mark:
At my next reading, a half-hour later, the meter burst into flames, melted into an oozing green puddle and then morphed into a small, leather-winged gryphon that proceeded to dine on my will to live.
But, Miss O came home with a pair of plastic fangs, a rubber fish and a bottle of bubbles that will all end up in the garbage in about 18 minutes, so it was all fucking worth it.