Saturday, July 22, 2006

Burlesque dancers and puddles of puke

Or otherwise known as my Friday night.

Last night was the fourth installment of Schadenfreude's Rent Party, the thinking and drinking woman's Friday night of choice (well at least every third Friday of the month.)

I told Justin I thought last night was the best, to which he seemed a little incredulous, or maybe it was too soon for analysis. Who knows. The kid was still a little shell shocked from being too close to the Ass that goes pow!*Anyway it was a great show, and if you live in Chicago, get your arse to the next one and we'll hang out and get silly on $2 beers. Just stand up on your stool, and scream "Angie, Angie, wherefore art thou Angie!" and I'll find you. It's a small place, so no problem.

We left the Gallery Cabaret and piled into a cab, giving the jerko cabbie a stroke for daring to suggest two of us sit in the front with him. We were on our way to the Liars Club to remind ourselves what it feels like to stick to the floor of a bar and see how close we could get to having our asses go POW! We were moderately successful.

After last call at a 2 a.m. bar like Liars Club it's time to figure out where to go next. Or maybe it's time to perform an assessment of your level of sobriety, and wonder if any late night friends with benefits places might be open. We were discussing said business while standing outside of the club, a place one friend says where, "nothing good ever comes out of a night there) when I walked out into the street to look for cabs.

Immediately, something didn't seem right. The ground felt slippery beneath my sandals, almost as if I was standing in a puddle of beef stew or a triple thick milk shake. I stood there for a moment trying to figure out what it was, but for some reason I didn't take the obvious next step, like um, maybe . . . LOOKING DOWN?

"ANGIE YOU ARE STANDING IN A PILE OF PUKE! OH MY GOD!!! AHHHHHH!!!" My hangers on screamed.

I looked down at my feet. They were were right. I was indeed standing in a puddle of pink and cream colored chunky vomit, splattered on Fullerton like a Jackson Pollock painting.

Motherfuck.

To the owner of that puke, I ask you this: Sir or Madam, you were about 2 feet away from a perfectly good alley. Couldn't you have tried a little harder to hurl in a more appropriate place? Where's your sense of decency and brotherhood?

Well anyway, lesson learned. I really have to start paying more attention.

***Chicago based burlesque dancer Michelle L'Amour is heading back to LA this week to tape America's Got Talent. I don't watch the show, but I will now because she was really cool and she says Brandy (who should be a judge on America's Got Ugly) was less than receptive to her strip tease prowess. So if you watch it, make sure you vote for the hometown girl who can shake what her mother gave her.


4 comments:

Andrew said...

I think everyones got a story like the one about the mess you found yourself standing in, but not everyone has the courage to tell it :o) Thanks for the stories.

t2ed said...

I just hope you weren't wearing flip flops.

I just made myself gag a little there. Bleh.

angelatee said...

I think I'll go to my grave wondering why I didn't look down on my own. I wasn't that drunk. T2ed--I was wearing wedge sandals with a bit of a heel, thank god.

Anonymous said...

That is my favorite kind of puke. You described it very well.