Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Bless me internets, for I have sinned...
As I am having a blissfully peaceful week doing little more than singing songs to my pets, making sure my ass crack isn't exposed while riding my bike, and pickling and canning anything I can get my hands on (pickled cheerios or ham, anyone?), I thought I'd give you a confession plucked directly from the archives of Whiskeymarie's Church of Our Lady of the Perpetually Confused- where the word "confidential" really means "We'll totally blab this crap to anyone who'll listen."
Confession: I, Whiskeymarie VonPartypants, willingly and enthusiastically attended a Gallagher show when I was 14 or 15.
Yes folks, I love love loved me some dopey sledgehammer-through-a-watermelon humor back in the day. My friend Tallgirl, my sister and I would sit in front of the teevee for hours, watching poorly edited VHS tape after VHS tape of his shows that my Grandma would tape for us, being that we lived in the middle of nowhere and barely had the four local channels, let alone cable. Every time he'd reach into the cushions of the giant couch and pull out the flip-flop sandal and declare, "There's that thong!" we'd laugh ourselves retarded. He was corny, outdated, and looked like the missing member from the cast of the Slim Goodbody show, but for whatever reason we thought he was hi-larious.
When we found out he was coming to the Duluth Auditorium, we waged a full-on teenage assault on my parents to get tickets, including (but not limited to): whining, begging, pouting, door-slamming, pleading, bargaining, screeching, and pulling the "we never get to do anything" card until they relented. Our poor parents.
We were such assholes.
Turns out, my Mom had already snagged us tickets- front row center tickets for us, while they would be sitting about 10 rows back, away from the schrapnel.
FRONT ROW CENTER, SUCKAS!!!!!!!
Holy hell, the screeching and over-enthusiasm unique to over-caffeinated teenage girls was probably unbearable. In our minds, we were the envy of all. My Mom kept mumbling about how she "shouldn't have told us about it until the last minute so that maybe she would have some goddamn peace and quiet around this house".
We were way more excited for this than any heterosexual girls should have been.
The night of the show was sort of a twofer of joy for me: not only was I about to be splattered by misc. food and nonfood items by someone who probably flunked out of Mime school, but when we settled into our seats the night of the show, complimentary yellow plastic ponchos in hand, I looked down the row to see a boy whom I didn't know but had been randomly seeing around town and had decided I would eventually marry, such was my love.
The show was exactly what we expected- in fact I'm pretty sure that Gallagher just did the same jokes over and over for the span of his career- we got splattered, we laughed when he pulled out the flip-flop again, I tried not to stare too hard at the object of my affection, who did not once even look at me being that he was probably 20-21 and I was jailbait with bad 80's hair and a food-splattered yellow poncho. In my young, Duran Duran and Jolt Cola-addled brain, I considered this a near-perfect evening.
Not that anyone in their right mind would make this shit up, but in case you think that I live an embarrassment-free life where I don't do things like tripping on my own feet or somehow accidentally getting a toothbrush stuck in my ear...
...I have proof that I, indeed, willingly subjected myself to the rantings and horrifyingly bad comedy stylings of a dude whose "look" consisted of tight black polyester pants, a tight baseball jersey, SUSPENDERS, a gay porn 'stache and honkey 'fro.
Behold the evidence that I have held onto for 20+ years:
So there you go- another tidbit I probably should have kept to myself, much like my confessing to willingly attending a Huey Lewis and the News show.
Next up: "Did I ever tell you about the first time I got my period on Track & Field day?" And, "How about that one time I split my pants at work and it sounded like I ripped a huge one and couldn't decide to confess to the splitting or the 'fart' so I did neither?"
Happy Tuesday, my little sledgehammer-splattered pieces of hammy goodness. Happy Tuesday.