Blame It On Being A Girl

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Cavorting Amongst A Calvalcade Of Crazies
or all Hallow's Eve in the South Side

Okay, so everyone knows Halloween is primarily an excuse for humanoids with a vagina (and sometimes a brain) to shed their inhibitions along with their dignity and act out their fantasies by parading around in public in their finest hootchie wear.

I know what all you swinging Richards are thinking as you scan the scantily clad, temporarily tarted-up trollops ...

Me: What a skank!
Male: *stare* I'm sorry. Did you say something?
Me: Your gonads are on fire.
Male: What? Yeah. That's cool...
Me: Exactly.

Anywho, Saturday night my SXSW bud, Howard and I made our annual trek to the South Side to watch Night of the Singing Dead, Rowan and Martin's Coffin.

It just wouldn't be an outing without
a lime slice and swizzle stick

Night of the Singing Dead is a locally produced musical tribute dedicated to all the performers/personalities who have passed on to the great beyond, focusing on the recently deceased. I can best describe it as a group of your friends getting together, burning a spliff or three and deciding to put on a show in the proverbial barn. Everybody wears cheesy costumes, tells off-color cornball jokes and tries to crack each other up with outrageous behavior. It's ludicrous and lame and I love it. I wrote about this locally written wit and groan fest last year here.

This year's offering was great fun as always. The set was a replica of the Laugh-In joke wall complete with hidden windows for comic effect. The opener was an hilarious June, Ward and Beaver Cleaver bit sung to Fever. As you might expect, the beaver references were fast and furious leaving us drunken louts breathless from laughter. I didn't record the entire bit, because clearly I am a giant asshat. But trust me, it was epic, and not just because we were imbibing either.

No theatrical skewering would be complete this year without a hit on our numskull QB, Ben Rapelisberger and his misguided super-sized schlong.

Back to the cavalcade of crazies...

So we head out of the theater to inhabit the streets with the creatures of the night. One of our favorite things to do is people watch. The human genus is fascinating on a normal day. Halloween just ups the ante 10 fold.

First thing out of the gate, we encounter the mother load. A veritable clown car of high-heeled hootchie girls. We just stepped out onto the sidewalk when a limo bus pulled up, opened its door and out poured all the classics: hootchie nurse, hootchie Catholic School Girl, hootchie sailor girl, hootchie teacher, a whoopie cushion... Wha?!?

One of these things is not like the other.

How'd she get in there? She had waaaaay too much cloth on to be part of that crowd of teetering teasers. She must have paid for the bus.

Here are some other encounters of note:

Apparently even Superman needs access to quick cash. Who knew?

ATMs are Clark's Kryptonite

Lots of Playboy bunnies, including a burly six foot dude in Go-Go boots, fish nets and curly back hair (as you may remember, straight dudes in frocks rock my world)
one Snookie, which was one too many
Blue-haired Katy Perry and her cupcake bra
The Four Diapered Horsemen of the Apocalypse-seriously. just diapers and a t-shirt
Nuns canoodling with priests
Hunter S. Thompson chatting up Jesus. Fear and Loathing with our Lord Jesus (and his busty Nurse Nancy)
Papa Smurf
101 blood-soaked zombies
several males as bananas (calling Dr. Freud)
one gaseous wiener

and finally...

Dick in a Box!!

One. Cut a hole in the box...

But hands down the scariest sight of this unholy night was found lurking in a darkened doorway. A beer-bellied old creeper leaning against the door jam wearing nothing but a leopard thong.

*shudder*

When I caught sight of him I literally screamed out loud, as did Howard... as did the young couple behind us. Then we all gouged our eyes out in unison.

The next night my lovely little hamlet celebrated Halloween. We had a fair amount of adorable tots, pre-teens and teens knock on our door.