Pistol Grip Pump Attempts to Set Foot on Hallowed Ground without her Inner Demons Rebelling; Fails Miserably

The day of the Petal Stool's wedding was a joyous day indeed. Everyone had a great time and the couple was cute. But if you've seen one wedding you've seen them all, so there's really only one comment to be made. I spotted the Pistol Grip Pump on the balcony above the congregation doing what she does best; flash the Basic Instinct pose, and be generally irreverent:

Gus: Did you ever do drugs with Mr. Boz?
Catherine: Sure.
Gus: What kind of drugs?
Catherine: Cocaine. Have you ever fucked on cocaine, Nick? It's nice.
[Catherine Tramell uncrosses her legs and it can be seen she's wearing no underwear]
Nick: You like playing games don't you?
Catherine: I have a degree in psychology, it goes with the turf... Games are fun.





That's right, in a church no less. With her breasts wrestling each other for first dibs on fresh oxygen. What irreverence! Watch out for thunderbolts, Pistol Grip Pump! She better hope dad doesn't see this post.

Party With the Bride

At the end of July I went home for my youngest sister's wedding. I have three sisters, also known as The Triple Threat. Below you will note two of my sisters; on the right--shamelessly inebriated--is the Get 'Cha Some Ferry; locked in her vise-like grip is the dangerous Pistol Grip Pump. FATALITY!






Below on the right you see Petal Stool, the proud bride-to-be. Used in a sentence:

Your identity can put you on a petal stool, or it can destroy you.

Pictured with the Petal Stool is Gnat-Fly, the Maid of Honor. About a week before the ceremony, we all went out with the Petal Stool (and additional characters) to celebrate. When these photos were taken it was still early in the evening; it did not take long for debauchery to unfold. For this post I will have to take special precautions to ensure that I blog responsibly. Despite the penis-shaped straw, this picture is a harmless start...

Things started out a bit slow, as characters converged on the designated party spot--Deep Creek Lake, Maryland. In the photo below you see Scornful Val, Gnat-Fly, and the Petal Stool chatting over fruity iced beverages slurped through penis shaped straws. Mardi Gras beads peppered with tiny plastic penises adorn their necks. Of course, I refused a penis shaped straw and necklace. What self-respecting dyke would slurp a fruity iced beverage? What self-respecting dyke would wrap her lips around a penis shaped straw? What self respecting dyke would wrap a penis around her neck like a holiday wreath? Not this dyke! Had I been presented with a dildo scepter--on the other hand--I could be persuaded to negotiate the conditions. You see--in combination--those three factors (fruity drinks, penis straws, and penis accessories) represent the good-girls-gone-bad trifecta. Those factors could magnetize every hairy backed man in the house. It is a well-known fact that hairy backed men gravitate to frivolities such as penis straws, ornamental penises, and blurry-eyed women who are catatonic and deemed legally blind as a result of consuming too many fruity beverages. Below you will note three perfect candidates for the aforementioned scenario...





In the event you are wondering why the word Scornful precedes Val's name, see the below picture.





As usual, the Pistol Grip Pump scans the crowd for an ass to kick. She appears to have fixed her gaze on a scrotum to rip from the flesh with her sharpened teeth...





After a couple of hours outside, we decided to go inside (where there was a meteor shower) and get a bite to eat. Unfortunately, the penis straws came along.





The Get 'Cha Some Ferry was liberal with her kisses. Beneath that terse mask of amiability, the Pistol Grip Pump is seething with disgust and repulsion. Sadly, these two are the Nicole Ritchie and Paris Hilton of the Appalachians. Every day is the Simple Life for them. You can guess which is Paris and which is Nicole. The Pistol Grip Pump is leery for she knows that when the Get 'Cha Some Ferry indulges in spirits she inevitably begins spitting like a cobra and picks a fight--hiding and giggling--behind the Pistol Grip Pump's fearless, juggernaut strength.





After eating, we went back outside to meet the rest of the party.





It was there that we encountered a beastly character with a twinkle on the lens of his glasses. As evidenced by his magnificent, flowing mane, he is the Lion of Deep Creek Lake...





He was wearing a t-shirt bearing the phrase, Who Flung Poo? The shirt depicted a cartoon monkey tossing fecal matter. Who would wear a shirt like that out to mingle? Really. What went through that guy's head when he was trolling through his closet? Did he say, "This shirt never fails to get me a hot piece of ass. The last time I wore it I picked up Britney Spears in Kenner. Or was it Metairie?"






After concessions and debate, we convinced him to trade this amazing shirt in exchange for the Petal Stool's autograph on his puffy, pink chest. Usually, I doubt he would have agreed to such an uneven trade, but there is a logical explanation for this phenomenon and others of its kind. To elaborate, you may have noticed that there is an unspoken law dictating birthdays equal free drinks and food in the restaurant sector. For instance, if you tell a bartender that it's your birthday it is not unlikely he or she will give you a drink on the house. Similarly, the wedding excuse works equally well. However, in contrast to the seemingly congratulatory free perishables and beverages resulting from birthdays, similar gifts before an impending wedding are the result of sympathy and pity.





Just look at this proud prize! Later, the Petal Stool confirmed the suspicion that the Who Flung Poo? shirt was well worth the effort of sobering up long enough to sign an autograph.





Emboldened by her conquest, the Petal Stool did the unthinkable; pole dancing in the lap of Victory, she celebrated her achievement by demanding that the Lion of Deep Creek Lake take a photograph of her entourage. One would think this gesture might add insult to injury, but the Lion of Deep Creek Lake was pleased with the prospects of turning his aesthetic eye to the camera lens. You will notice that the Pistol Grip Pump is flashing a Faster Pussycat Kill! Kill! gang symbol; the universal sign for vagina, a "V," made with the pointer and index fingers.





A few stragglers remained for one last photo-op before the night took a David Lynchian turn into the bizzare. Incase you are wondering, that is--indeed--Anna Nicole Smith directly above me.






Another great shot of the penis straw. The Petal Stool is being groomed as a fluffer incase her elementary school teaching career turns out to have been a catastrophical choice of occupation.





It was at this time that the Get 'Cha Some Ferry proceeded to commence smacking asses in a confrontational manner. Below she is poised to strike with a cobra-like flick of the wrist; take note of her open palm and pursed lips. Observe the erect penis straw protruding from her frosty beverage. Her shirt reads, I Y My Rabbit. Several minutes after this photograph, her ass-smacking shamelessly initiated a fight. She promptly sought defense behind the skirts of her thuggish henchwoman, the Pistol Grip Pump. The Pistol Grip Pump shows no mercy.





Despite her cherry-red palm and devious expression, the Get 'Cha Some Ferry denied having smacked a single ass. Her t-shirt prominently advertises one of the most popular vibrators of the new millennium. The expression on her face is one of fiery menace. Woe to the unsuspecting ass in the path of that slap-happy hand.





Below, Drunk Cousin Megan effortlessly demonstrates the best method for consuming Bud Light. I've never understood the charm of drinking beer through a straw. Usually, Drunk Cousin Megan just kicks back a cool Coors 16 ouncer and crushes the empty, but I think the penis straw captivated her attention. Drunk Cousin Megan is one of the hardest partiers in my family, and no amount of booze will deter her from meeting her full party potential. Here, she optimizes her performance by streamlining her booze. Inside the penis straw was a froth-filtering device designed to sift through foamy bubbles (which only serve as deterrents to alcohol consumption).

The Pistol Grip Pump is aghast at the Get 'Cha Some Ferry's behavior. Below, she turns a blind eye away from her antics.





Suddenly, the Petal Stool decided to storm the stage; she had a musical request. Of all the songs on the planet, what do you think she chose as her anthem--the last song she would take to the stage and sing before marital bliss? Canon D, you say? No chance! Predictably, The Devil Went Down to Georgia. Below, Drunk Cousin Megan raises her Bud Light aloft while Scornful Val turns her frown upside down...

The Petal Stool is demonstrating a dance move called the Mic Jagger Strut. Invented by Mic Jagger in the 1960s, the earliest known photographic documentation of this move depicts Mic on the stage of the Marquee Club in London. The year was 1963, and Mic created the strut impromptu as a distraction from the fact that Keef was so loaded he had to be propped up by an amp to perform. Take a walk down memory lane, as the Petal Stool reproduces this move with the skill of Marcel Marso.





I'm not sure who took the lead vocals on this one, but I think Scornful Val played the air fiddle solo.






I hope they turned that mic off, Petal Stool...





The below dance move is known as the Lincoln Park Trixie Swerve, a move popularized by Chicago's finest. Although there are many plastic penises in hand, it should be noted that an authentic Lincoln Park Trixie Strut would require that an actual penis be incorporated. Typically, this dance move inspires Trixies to make out with one another on the dance floor. Wait for it...scroll down...





Ah-ha! There it is! Look at the Get 'Cha Some Ferry and Drunk Cousin Megan getting their Lincoln Park Trixie Swerve / Make-Out Embrace on. The Petal Stool is doing the Turntable Scratch, also known as Last Night a D.J. Saved My Life. The Petal Stool's rendition--which involves a penis straw and plastic party cup--is a never before seen, interesting permutation.






No, Petal Stool, back away from the mic. It is not a plastic penis...






Scornful Val, the same applies to you!





As the Get 'Cha Some Ferry's drawers slide off of her bony ass, she sends a wink and a nod out to that special someone in the crowd. Note how she points with her pinky finger. She is a nightclub impressario to rival Paris Hilton.





At last, the grand finale. As Scornful Val croons, the Petal Stool demonstrates a dance move known as Crack the Whip. So complicated is this move that in order to perform it, you need a second party (in this case the Get 'Cha Some Ferry) to serve as a supportive anchor base. If you do not heed this precaution you might actually snap your arm with such force that it detaches from your shoulder and goes flying into the audience. In prior instances when this situation has occurred, injuries tend to be abundant, and law suits inevitably ensue. No one walks away a winner under these circumstances. However, the Petal Stool is a professional whip cracker, so she is capable of maneuvering a Crack the Whip with relative ease.





As you can see, all of that amazing song and dance really pushed the Petal Stool over the edge. At this point, she needed revived. Somebody! Bring this girl a refreshing gin and tonic!






As Petal Stool teeters on the edge of her seat, Pistol Grip Pump appears thoroughly amused. She is famous for her contagious laughter, and spared no energy finding humor in the fact that the Petal Stool was absolutely pickled.



This picture deserves no commentary...it writes itself.





Congratulations, Petal Stool, on an eventful evening of bachelorette party fun! Let's hope your new husband's penis is bigger than the gerkin you are waving around below! Feel free to defend his manly honor by posting a full report on size and girth in the comment box.





Note: A special thanks to the unparalleled Mayor of Moneytown for using her contacts at the Superficial and its west coast cousin, Defamer, in order to provide several high quality links to unflattering pics of celebrities. I especially hope you enjoyed the Prince Harry groping link while viewing this post. Thanks, Mayor! You're a gem--a real cubic zirconia, to be exact!

The Booklub of Magical Thinking

Joan Didion's National Book Award winning / Pulitzer-finalist tale of death, grief, and the persistence of memory was our inspirational Booklub read for June. Indeed, we had the Mayor of Moneytown to thank for this uplifting read, The Year of Magical Thinking. On the bright side, we had a cabana boy man servant to cook and do our bidding. Below, he welcomes you to the Booklub of Magical Thinking with a delicious bottle of Prosecco. Drop and give me twenty, tanned Adonis from the thriving, hedonist metropolis of L.A.! And hold still while I introduce your chin to a six-pack of Gillettes! We don't like our luscious cabana boys with too much facial hair...

Also, this Booklub was Double D' Wicked's debut! Welcome, Double D' Wicked! Although you didn't read the book, you provided a wealth of insight to class stratifications. Many of you may recognize Double D' Wicked from other posts involving Epicureanism and debauchery of all sorts--now she lends her cerebral side to Booklub. We are happy to see her slinking around with delicious bottles of choice wine in tow.

Also present were the tried and true Booklub regulars: The saltiest-sea dawg on the planet, The Notorious Mayor of Moneytown (who wrestled this choice mumu from Endora of Bewitched fame, and bested her spell for spell, finally emerging the victor).





Cricket, who walked away the undisputed champion in our Infamous Joan Didion Smoke-Off (more on this to come)...





Our host for the evening (actually, that's a bit complicated), and resident embittered chain smoker, The Sly Little Minx...





My Booklub antithesis, The Escape Goat, who--once again--launched an impassioned plea for all things sensitive and sappy.





While I felt this book was Didion at her best, I also believe that her Pulitzer nomination was a Pity Pulitzer nomination. While the subject was interesting, and her writing insightful, I still felt that her trademark icy prose, and repeated references to places, people, objects, and events smacking of class privilege were unbearable. Reading it was a bit tedious and irksome, but it's just her style that has always bothered me. In a desperate threat of retaliation, I told the Mayor I would recommend Pynchon's new book, Against the Day, which is due out in December. She challenged me by raising the stakes to The White Album, to which I responded, "Mason & Dixon," and she shouted back, "Play It as It Lays." In short, madness ensued and we had a Didion / Pynchon shout off. We finally called a draw and shared a delicious PBR, the Mayor's drink of choice. My decision has not yet been made...I may still recommend the alleged 900 page Against the Day IN HARDBACK Mayor. So watch your step, and don't push my buttons with your twitchy trigger finger...





As mentioned before, our Booklub tends to take on the mood of the book. But for this depressing read on death and the painfully cyclical process of grieving we decided to celebrate life and have fun! (The other alternative would have been to jump like a pack of lemmings from the Minx's balcony onto a heap of glass shards in the alley below.) Overall, the mood was festive, the discussion heated, the food delicious, and the drinks flowing from a seemingly endless fount of booze! In short, our Booklub was reminiscent of Joan Didion's life in the days when her biggest decision was, "Hmmmm...Hawaii or New York? Hmmm...What should I order from room service here at the elegant Regent Beverly Wilshire?"





As usual, we enjoyed several bottles of wine before the discussion. An assortment of scrumptious appetizers were dutifully served up by our wonderful cabana boy who alternated between orchestrating a Vogue-style walk off and pining slavishly over a hot stove. As instructed, he remained bespectacled with shades in our radiant presence. To this day, his appearance remains a popular cameo in Booklub history; a source of much debate, mystery, and intrigue...

Below, the Mayor excitedly licks her chops over a delicious glass of wine. She loves white wines in the summer, and refuses to drink anything short of remarkable. Judging by her delighted expression, this glass clearly meets her high standards...

The Escape Goat might appear harmless, but she is a ferocious debater. She is known for her emotionally peppered oratorical pleas, and ability to suavely structure an argument with the skill of a seasoned politician. Below, she entertains the table with mindless banter--a ruse! We all recognize this as preparatory activity for her nimble vocal chords...

And what of the Cricket? She rivals Gregor Samsa. Witness the master practicing the simple, yet fluid, gesture of a match-strike. It was that gesture--along with a bored, stoic posturing--that would come to best us all in the Infamous Joan Didion Smoke-Off. Below, this calculated impersonator is featured in-training. Little did we know that we would witness such a chameleon-like transmogrification in our midst. Her metamorphosis, undoubtedly, was the stuff of Ovid, and it will go down in Booklub history as a feat just short of spectacular...

I suppose all of this hype about the Joan Didion Smoke-Off is a subject of curiosity at this point? Perhaps I have referenced it too many times without dishing on the origins of the great Smoke-Off? The history of this challenge is spotty, but I will do my best to recollect...





It all started when the Mayor of Moneytown, a Pan-like figure indeed, recommended The Year of Magical Thinking via e-mail. The Escape Goat responded to the Mayor's e-mail with the attached photograph of Joan Didion looking really hot surrounded by a hazy cloud of cigarette smoke:





I was so intruiged by the photograph that I repeated the image thirty-five times on a sheet of paper, Andy Warhol style, and tacked it up at my desk. How could I resist? The car. The dress. The smoke. The cock of the head. The jagged line of her stance.

Good one, Escape Goat. Laugh it up chucklehead...





Curiosity got the best of me, and a simple Google search produced numerous photographs of Joan Didion casually weilding her signature cigarette like a Literary Lady Liberty whose blazing torch of postmodern boredom serves as a beacon in an otherwise dark and gritty, fog-filled harbour. This prompted the challenge for our Infamous Joan Didion Smoke-Off...




Already at a disadvantge, the Mayor, myself, and the cabana boy are not smokers. It is a well known fact that for approximately three years the Mayor survived on a Coca-Cola and cigarette diet, but long gone are her days of reckless youth. The question remained, could she channel a caffeine and nicotine induced stance of nonplussed irritability with the mundane details of life to remain a contender? How would the rest of us fare in the contest? The odds did not seem favorable for the non-smokers. The cabana boy put it best by posing the question, "What will my Mom say if she comes across a photo of me brandishing a lit cigarette on a blog?" Indeed, we non-smokers tackled the challenge sheepishly and saw it through a fish-eye lens...





While the smokers relished the challenge, and laughed at our ineptitude. Two chuckleheads for the price of one, Double D' Wicked?





Clearly, the gauntlet had been thrown and it was time to separate the Joans from the Moans. We set the scene and bade the cabana boy leave the stove for the challenge; we decided no one would be exempt from the Infamous Joan Didion Smoke-Off. Although the non-smokers were unhappy about it, we remained good sports...





We prepared the props (all optional with the exception of the cigarette which remained a prerequisite): alcohol, dry ice, a smart dress, and a slice of lemon to inspire a pursing of the lips. A sense of tension mounted as we argued over the order of operations...

Finally, the Escape Goat came to the rescue and recommended that logic dictated we should follow the flow of the table--starting with Double D' Wicked. Everyone agreed to the plan, and the Escape Goat took a well-deserved congratulatory swill of wine...





Up first, Double D' Wicked, whose natural charm with a cigarette was underestimated. This look says, "I'd rather do Dorothy Parker, but the yoke of Joan Didion has been thrust upon me. I am a beast of burden. I am Joan Didion after a satisfying promotion at Vogue. Right now I can't be bothered with anything less than a refreshing scotch on the rocks; Quintana Roo, fetch me Joe Lelyveld's wife on the phone--and be quick about it."





Next was the Escape Goat, who--with her extensive background in community theatre--was a favorite to win. Further, she has performed on the stage with her arch nemesis. The Escape Goat is a shrewd impersonator whose forte is mimicking gestures. Her performance was stellar, but only enough to reward her with the title of runner-up. This look says, "I am Joan Didion, and I'm angry about it, so you can pry that dick out of your ass and eat it. If you're not convinced, let me slap you with that dick before you commence to indulge. Would you like some mustard? Empty boxes of Parliament Lights grovel at my elbows. Quintana Roo--how many times must I remind you--NO WIRE HANGERS! Where is my stand-in?Wardrobe! Makeup! Lights!"





Time for the Minx to go. She was feeling creative and introduced the element of fire. This look says, "How can I do Joan Didion when my mind keeps reverting to those delicious leftovers that I'll be munching for days to come? When it's my turn to pick the book, I think I'll order an unprecedented meat pizza. Quintana Roo, bring me a coupon for Dominoes!"

My turn. Unfortunately, with my amused smirk and devilish eyebrows I will never be able to capture Joan Didion's deep gaze of melancholic boredom. This look says, "I'm doing me; doing Joan Didion. Try and light this cigarette and I'll shove it up your winking anus. Quintana Roo, bring me Ms. Pearl and be quick about it."






And here we have the Mayor of Moneytown, whose pensive look says, "I'll be Gawddamned, this cigarette tastes good. Whyever did I give this shit up? I haven't had one since I was pickled in the womb. How can I fucking do Joan Didion with this tasty morsel tickling the taste buds on my tongue. Quintana Roo! Bring me a carton of Lucky Strikes Unfiltered with a kerosene lamp and a gallon of black coffee. Get the lead out, asshole!"





And here we have our slightly nervous cabana boy, who put on a brave face and his best Joan Didion. This look says simply, "Can you Photoshop out this cigarette? Please? Mom--if you're viewing this I was forced. Quintana Roo, fetch me a fire extinguisher."





Finally, our champion, the Cricket! Joan Didion, in the unlikely event that you are reading this, we have cast the perfect woman to play you in a Lifetime-made-for-TV-series--AND--she's Chinese American! A Chinese Joan Didion! Who knew? A twist no one would expect! And behold! I defy anyone to challenge our decision to give the Cricket the championship title in our Infamous Joan Didion Smoke-Off. Just look: The languid posture. The expression of umbrage. The lit cigarette on the verge of burning her knuckles. This look says, "I listened to Joan Didion's NPR interview, and know her pain. I have experienced love, loss, and really bad hangovers. All the Pulitzers in the world are trivial and I would trade them for times lost. Death be not proud, and fleece me if you will, but be quick about it. I have a kicking corpse in a bag to bury. Its bones have bleached in the sun. I'm still a cool customer." Congratulations, Cricket! You are the Infamous Joan Didion Smoke-Off champion!





Reveling in her victory, the Cricket took a victory lap and smoked one for the road. She had a difficult time getting out of character...






Eventually, our cabana boy announced that dinner was served, and we wrapped up our banter without having discussed the book. We decided to eat first--since we needed nourishment after such an intense competition.





The Minx declared the competition over, and set up the next phase of Booklub; our long awaited feast, funded by the Mayor of Moneytown.





Once inside, the Escape Goat began dispensing tabs of acid...





The Mayor launched into the first of her many tyrannical rants for the evening. Below we see her cautioning the Escape Goat about the ill-effects of hallucinogens (including PCP and psilocybin). She referenced the much-loathed after school special about "angel dust," the one where Helen Hunt takes a nose-dive out of the window, and lectured relentlessly until finally pouncing on the Escape Goat, and pummeling her to "save her" from herself.





All the while, the Cricket savored a potpourri of delectable tastes. Our cabana boy's feast was truly a masterpiece...







In true minx fashion, the Minx was satisfied with her ability to sit back and enjoy the fruits of others' labors. The grin on her face says it all...





Below, Cricket looks on as Double D' Wicked spears a hapless vegetable...





We even allowed our cabana boy a plate of the food he cooked...






After dinner, we momentarily returned to the Minx's patio for drinks. By that time, Double D' Wicked's friend had arrived. Our cabana boy was disappointed, but remained hopeful.






The Escape Goat recommended taking Booklub on the road, and proposed a night of dancing. The Mayor of Moneytown agreed with the Escape Goat, and eventually we all concluded that we were too wasted to prudently confine Booklub to the Minx's balcony, and we could not be held accountable for any unwise decisions--so why not? 10,000 lemmings can't be wrong. Below the Escape Goat unveils her seated rendition of "The Cabbage Patch," a dance popularized by the immortal M.C. Hammer.






Our cabana boy was easily persuaded. A night on the town was right up his alley...





One more cup of coffee for Double D' Wicked (and company), and we would soon be off!





Devious Escape Goat. She was satsfied with her sly plan, and had already invented a mental map of the hot spots and seedy dives she wanted to hit...





By now an acid-eating Escape Goat was hugging the walls in true Timothy Leary fashion. She began singing "Frank Mills" from the musical Hair and claimed she was camouflaged. Below you will note that she is indeed incognito, as she sneakily blends into the very fabric of the valor walls. Tricky Escape Goat. Watch out for the woman in the yellow wallpaper.






Always savvy, the Sly Little Minx concocted a first-rate plan for concealing a spill. Like an ostrich, find a hole and bury your head in it; out of sight, out of mind. We admired her ingenuity...





Pathetic! I do a better Joan Didion without the cigarette...





And after all of this, where was the escape Goat? Still hugging the woman in the wall!





The Mayor sensed that it was time for an intervention. There are two things the Mayor cherishes most: 1. Picking a fight and skipping away merrily as it ensues. 2. A good intervention. The Mayor loves a good intervention; everyone knows that an intervention is just as fun as picking a fight and skipping away merrily while it ensues. Below she reminds the Escape Goat that she is not trapped in the yellow wallpaper--she is, in actuality--trapped in a bar with really bad music, a sticky ping-pong table, and extremely irritating Bucktown assholes. The woman in the wallpaper looks on and nods in agreement...





As evidenced by the Escape Goat's demeanor, no one wants to be on the receiving end of the Mayor's lectures. Here is brief recap of The Mayor's monologue:

"No more. Do you hear me? You need to step away from the wallpaper. No more acid tonight--or ever. That purple deer is not your friend; you have too many balls in the air to notice. That wallpaper is not lickable. Do you want to be a team player, or not? There's too much on your plate for you to be eating acid unsupervised. Look at yourself, you need a chaperone. Don't count your chickens before they hatch or you'll find yourself up the creek without a paddle. You could really hit the ball out of the park with a bit of Diversity Training in Acid Eating Etiquette. So I have an integrated solution for you; think outside of the box, but keep me in the loop when you want to eat acid and we've got a win / win situation on our hands. Bring me a shrubbery."





Possessed by a sudden and violent mood swing, the Minx attacked me. Content to watch, our cabana boy whispered dirty tips to the Minx such as, "Throw sand or hot coals in her eye." Fortunately, I am trained in the art of ninjutsu and was able to defend myself with ease. Blocking each of her feeble blows, I remained unchallenged. Finally, I became bored and froze the Minx in her tracks by pressing a potentially fatal combination of pressure points. I did this for her own protection; she had become a liability. I told the cabana boy that he would be in charge of picking her up and dragging her from dive to dive; this pleased him as he is a cabana boy who enjoys a statuesque woman by his side. He remarked that he would call her Minx de Milo. I replied, "Do. It has a nice ring. But first let's rip off her arms."






Still incapable of straying too far from her lonely "friend," the Escape Goat casts a skeptical glance in the Mayor's direction. The Mayor remained some distance off with her arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently. Needless to say, she was disappointed in the Escape Goat for eating an entire sheet of acid and chasing it with a bottle of bleach. I mean--why didn't she share?






The Minx enjoys a cigarette...





Always a good patriot, the Escape Goat waves a flag. Everything else is upside down...





We were off to another bar, but not before pausing to pay homage to The Shit Fountain, which--encouraged by random onlookers--the Minx promptly vomited on.





Escape Goat. Shame, shame, you know your name...





Look at this. For all of you who doubt the Mayor's entrepreneurial spirit, observe her now. It's Friday night--no Saturday morning at about 2 AM--and The Mayor is checking stocks on one of her multiple start-ups with two seperate phones! She owns Wall Street.






What is it with this phone-checking contageon?





After a harrowing plummet in the Dow, the Mayor turns a critical eye towards the crowd. Someone will pay dearly...





And who should it be, but me. Once again a victim of the Mayor's tyrannical verbal abuses. Below she is depicted hurling insults from a notable distance. Coward! Anything to hinder my ability to retaliate. Afterwards, the Mayor took to drink and drowned her sorrows in a glass of Hacker-Pschorr the size of her scrappy forearm. She consumed enough of these in thirty minutes to pickle her liver for life. She even gnawed on the lemon peel to "freshen her breath."





The Escape Goat is a night owl who nests in green alcoves...






Double D' Wicked and company...





As you can see, the Minx is indeed frozen--thanks to the punishment I dispensed. Good job, cabana boy, see that she doesn't get out of hand...





Double D' Wicked, left to your own devices you would be a menace to society...





Let the below series of photographs be known as the Ziggy Stardust files. The Mayor loves signs and symbols. For example, she recognizes several interplanetary signs from outer space as signals to go extraterrestrial. "Ziggy Stardust" randomly played across a jukebox is one such sign. As soon as she heard the opening phrase, "Ziggy played guitar..." she knew she had encountered a rare (and public) opportunity to fancy herself one of the Spiders and rawk a classic air guitar solo. In the Escape Goat she found the perfect accomplice. Here the Mayor of Moneytown is seen screaming, "Raise your devil horns aloft! Ziggy!" Initially, the Escape Goat can only laugh, as she knows encouraging the Mayor could lead to folly.





Next, the Escape Goat tries to play it cool while the Mayor becomes the hero on her own stage; wearing spandex and makeup with an androgynous mohawk, rawking a guitar solo in a lone beam of light while dry ice swirls around her ankles. Below the Mayor feels the force of a mystical amp and the roar of an imaginary crowd. Rawk out Mayor! You're a star! And you--Escape Goat--don't look so dour and glum; it won't be long before you are pulled into the Mayor's imaginary web of deceit! You can't resist the urge...





Somebody call the police! We have two rawkaholics on our hands getting crunk and disorderly!






Time for the breakdown. Just look at the Mayor and Escape Goat working the crowd...





Spent, the Mayor and Escape Goat quenched their thirst with more booze. No wonder musicians party out so hard. It's tough rawking a crowd every night. How do you avoid recklessness and stay connected to your roots when everybody wants a piece of you? Just look at these two. Shortly thereafter they closed down the bar. After this night of debauchery, the Mayor went out into the evening and fucked some shit up. She was dancing on the roof of a Lincoln Continental...





Musical chairs...





Once the Mayor's narcolepsy kicked in we knew it was time to go...






As we sauntered off into the night our cabana boy demonstrated the perfect sashay. Once again, a wonderful evening of Booklub comes to a close, and we begin reading anew. The Escape Goat hosts our next event, and although I never reveal the selection beforehand, a clue is in order: Southern Gothic. Perfect for the sweltering summer humidity. She even has a willow tree beneath her balcony.