If I Were 21 I'd Vote for Johnson

The last Saturday of the month is a good day for antiquing. This is convenient because the Chicago Antique Market happens to be the last Saturday of each month. In September, the Marquis and I went out to see what we could find. Thanks to her preternatural ability to sense the pop of a flash, she is seen shielding her face with cat-like reflexes. It's tough being a cult-figure with a grudge against the paparazzi--you can't walk these mean streets without getting meaner.





The sky looked like the hands of god had smacked together two massive chalkboard erasers; there were lots of clouds and lots of grey. It was on the verge of raining (but never did), and this kept the outdoor vendors on their toes. If you like taking pictures for blogs, the Chicago Antique Market is a visual feast; I kept wishing I had dragged the Escape Goat along. She could have trained her wizened lens on any number of items, like a tea kettle bust, for instance.





Speaking of the Escape Goat...the more I wandered around I kept thinking of her run-in with Dot the puppy at a flea market this summer. Dot was a cute puppy, and I bet she's bigger now. The point is, the Chicago Antique Market--while fun to troll around--is a huge rip-off! It's just a gigantic overpriced flea market masquerading as an "antique market." Since it's a metropolitan area I think they want it to sound posh, but don't be fooled! Fortunately, the Escape Goat photo documented her day at the flea market. If you doubt my theory about the Chicago Flea Market masquerading as the Chicago "Antique" Market, go to her blog of ill-repute to see a (proudly) self-professed flea market, and you will probably agree. The only difference is the setting: urban versus rural; otherwise, you will note that the wares are of a similar caliber. Also, her flea market has its own mascot--Dot the puppy.





I think the Marquis said it best when she made the apt comparison, "I could buy a neck scarf for twenty-five cents at a thrift shop, and they're selling the same neck scarves for twelve dollars here!" Truly, it was a flea market run amok by commerce. I think they should change the name from the Chicago Antique Market, to the Chicago Yard Sale and Swap Meet. I'm thinking about starting an online petition on the matter.





These two abominable guys were slapped up on a red board looking really cool. I especially like how the guy with the long beard has a gold tooth. His eyelashes are nice as well. The other one looks a bit more pensive.





I liked this guy so much that I had to take a picture of him without his friend. He even has a beauty mark.





I think this is a mask of a burning jaguar. He was hanging out with Goldtooth and Pensive. My favorite jaguar of all time is Jet Jaguar, of Godzilla vs Megalon fame. Indeed, Godzilla vs Megalon is among my top three of the Godzilla legacy. The guys at Mystery Science Theater 3000 even covered Godzilla vs Megalon, and the best thing about it was that they "translated" the Jet Jaguar theme song. If you watch it you can see Jet Jaguar in action. Jet Jaguar's powers include, shooting lasers, growing several times his original size (to match Godzilla's height), and the amazing ability to turn his own artificial intelligence on and off. Why would he bother? Because he's one of the good guys! He'll even put up with that irritating piece of shit kid, Roku. This kid is perhaps one of the most irritating kids I have ever seen in a movie--a bold claim. The only kid possibly worse than Roku, is the kid in Problem Child. Just compare for yourself--here is a clip of Roku in action (okay, so he doesn't appear until 3 minutes and 22 seconds into the clip), and here is the little bastard from Problem Child. Both of those kids are little shits.





This statement begs many questions: How many people really do what they love; if you could quantify it, what would that statistic be? What about if you do what you hate? Do you think there are more people hating what they do, or loving what they do? Who painted this in such sloppy penmanship, is he or she left or right handed?





More masks. In this case, I think I prefer the devil to the angel. But Goldtooth is still my favorite. He must be something in-between, but still that type of guy your mother warned you about.





We also saw a really weird Saint Francis.





Interestingly, Saint Francis was in the same booth as these guys...

On second thought, really, I wasn't surprised.

Can't you just hear the auction barker shouting, "Divisive iconological imagery: Saint Francis, OR...





Uncle Tom and Aunt Jemimah! Do I hear 20?" Pick your poison...





It was hard to concentrate on St. Francis with a dumpster looming in the background. Dumpsters without irony? Impossible!





If you doubted my flea market theory, please allow the platinum-plated tiger to reinforce that hypothesis. I like his aggressive posturing. Who would dare pick that guy up and take him home? I know a man who accidentally cut off his finger with a lawn mower and his cat ate it. Felines are really ferocious--even if they become domesticated.





The Marquis was disturbed by this ceramic squirrel. She was suspicious of its expression. I kind of blew it off at the time, but in retrospect it's very mean looking.





This lamp looks like it could provide the perfect lighting for a Jack the Ripper crime, doesn't it? I think it's very Spitalfields. It's very Jack the Ripper.






You might want to believe that these two guys are salt and pepper shakers, but they aren't. They are just two gay roosters looking for the queer pride parade. My parents had two gay roosters when I was growing up. They preferred each other to the hens--their names were Snappy Sam and Black Beauty--okay--totally uncreative names, but gay names nonetheless. Even as children we discerned their homosexual tendencies--those names are perfect for two queer roosters! They aren't the only foul to take up with members of the same gender.





Below, the Marquis inspects a table of handbags. She came away from the table with the vendor's card, address, phone number, passport, birth date and social security number (who demanded the Marquis drive to Willmette and visit her farm of range-fed vintage clothes). I believe you can locate her there now, sparing over the price of neck scarves, if I'm not mistaken.





This was one of my favorite items at the Chicago Antique Show--a busted up lock on green valor.





I also really liked this dish of letters.





I love the below curiosa. If you enjoy trolling through countless images of similar design, go here, to BibliOdyssey. This is the kind of stuff I could really see the Weasel getting into--it reminds you of Science class. My mom is a science teacher and when I spoke with her on the phone yesterday she mentioned that her class had been dissecting grasshoppers, and that her advanced biology class had moved on to cats. She said that she checks each lab kit when the students return them so that no one will steal a scalpel.

All of this talk of specimens reminds me of the movie Angels and Insects. Anagrams...Insect / Incest...you get the picture. Mystery...intrigue...the Oracle of Kevin Bacon.





My mom also told me that you should never leave your classes unattended--besides--it's illegal in most states. To reiterate the importance of this she told me a story once about a time she left a class unattended. Obviously, horseplay had transpired in her absence. When she returned the entire class had surrounded the chalkboard and was fidgeting with it curiously. One student--a massive football player--had his back pressed up against the board. Upon seeing this spectacle my mom instructed everyone to return to their seats. Everyone listened but the massive football player. Again, she instructed him to return to his seat and he began to stammer and sweat and plead, "But...but...Missus--" and he was prone to mischievous antics so my mom would have none of it. She told him to sit down. When he finally stepped away from the chalkboard (which he was apparently holding up) the entire thing came crashing to the ground.





I took a picture of this turtle shell because it reminded me of a scene in a book I was reading. In the book, a man gives the woman he hopes to marry a pet turtle with her initials set in diamonds on the turtle's shell. The turtle would drag its shell around their massive home and wander the empty halls and meander in the gardens. So the woman's younger sister became more concerned about the turtle escaping (with all of thosee diamonds on its back). Eventually, the turtle disappeared and no one thought anything of it. Had that been a Dickens novel, the turtle would have popped up again and tied the plot neatly together in a perfect red bow. But the people in this story were excessively wealthy and the War eventually ravaged their lands and societal prestige and privilege. Should you plan to give your betrothed a diamond encrusted turtle, let that be a lesson to you. Give her a hermit crab instead. They don't cover as much ground as a turtle.





I love these old presidential-election buttons. I really hope that Barack Obama runs in the next presidential election. This is his website. Here's a cool piece on the BBC that you can listen to. When he ran for the Senate I was a very active volunteer at his campaign headquarters, so I feel especially invested in him. If you want to check out his voting record as a junior senator for the state of Illinois, go here. If you want to get involved in the next election cycle, go here. If you want to sign a (serious) online petition to encourage Obama to run in 2008, go here. I kind of think he won't run--because his resume (and voting record) is so thin--but if the public propels him into the election, who knows? Maybe he'll end up on the ticket as VP--but I hope he goes big for the presidency.





Look at this guy cockin' around! He was sort of confidently strolling between the malt mixers and martini shakers. I hope he found a good home.





All of the more expense items were on display inside. If you like brass figurines, lampshades with tassels, and overpriced vintage movie posters (that you can buy cheaper online) you'll want to go indoors. I noticed that some of the dealers positioned outside had equally interesting items, but I think the only thing determining where the vendors are positioned is how much the vendors are willing to pay. I'm sure the spots inside are pricier than the spots outside.





So I looked up BICARBON. NATRIC., and I think it's either a dated spelling, or a misspelling? I think it should be BICARBON. NITRIC. If so--whoa--check out the things you can do with that stuff. Kind of funny seeing it next to an average household item like baking soda. Well...come to think of it, baking soda isn't so benign, either.





After all of that antiquing we needed some nourishment, so we stopped at a really interesting place called the Breakfast Club. The best thing about this place is that it appears to have been made of bubble-gum, or dipped in Pepto Bismol and left out to dry. Or Pepto-Bismol ice-cream...seriously. Read this.





If you ever go to the Chicago Antique Market, we both recommend the Breakfast Club for a quick bite to eat--especially if you are in the mood for brunch. The Marquis is a vegetarian and she was pleased with the meatless options.





After a delicious meal, we walked all the way to the Loop. The weather was nice, so the walk was fun. We talked about several subjects; among them, Mini Coopers and driving a clutch. When it was time to part ways the Marquis would not even pose for a farewell shot. The only thing I could get out of her was this frosty palm with RED RUM engraved in blood.

Dirty Sanchez in a Poncho

Me, the Escape Goat, and the Mayor of Moneytown converged on the Chicago Diner to celebrate the Mayor's birthday. The Mayor was being predictably terse with me, and for no fault of my own. Below she gestures angrily; note her pursed lips and furrowed brow.





I know that most vegetarians get starry-eyed over just the mention of the Chicago Diner, but our dinner there left us feeling most unpleasant. The Escape Goat is a vegetarian, and she was just as noxious as we were. I vow never again to eat seitan. From this day hence it shall be known in my vocabulary as satan. So if I say it in front of anyone who reads this, please don't correct my pronunciation--I intend to align seitan with the ultimate Prince of Darkness.





This red glow is reflective of the turmoil we were experiencing in our stomachs. Do you know those "Just Add Water" toys? They start out as a tiny shape the size of a jelly bean, but when you add water they grow like a tumor and assume a mysterious shape unidentifiable to man? That was what happened with the seitan as it coagulated in our stomachs.





Look at the Mayor slumped over and disheveled as a result of her Chicago Diner experience. After that--we all swore off the diner. I could see the Escape Goat caving in and returning to the diner in the future, but she did comment that they focus too much on the weird fake meats at the expense of the vegetables. Further, they starch everything up by giving you tons of nasty, cakey, rice along with your fake meats. They are very stingy with the delicious vegetables.





Finally, we decided to leave and go to the Mayor's. That was also kind of depressing because she had sort of started packing a few things for her move. That's right--the Mayor will be moving so her upcoming appearances on my blog will be limited. Enjoy all of the Mayor's kindly expressions while you can:





As we buttoned up to go outside the Escape Goat put on a sort of poncho-like garment. You may notice the titular reference to a poncho, so the story is about to take a turn for the worse! Below the Escape Goat prepares to gear up in her coat of many colors. That's right, the Escape Goat and her Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Basically, when we left the vegetarian restaurant we looked exactly like what you would expect to see vacating a place of such category.





The night air was fine, but we were feeling worse for the ware. The Mayor exclaimed that she might collapse, and expressed shock at her extreme and violent reaction to the wretched and vile concoctions the Chicago Diner was serving. She likes to fancy herself a "walking medical miracle," whose resistance is subhuman, yet, even she proved fallible in this instance. Initially, I thought things were so bad that we experienced a mass hallucination of angry and vengeful candy canes. But now that I have sufficiently reviewed the photographs, imagine my pleasure upon realizing that we were--indeed--attacked by vengeful candy canes!





Confusion ensued as we walked the strip. This blurry image is a pretty accurate representation of the mood.






This is first photo of the Escape Goat's amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Unfortunately, this is not the best image, but you can see its shag-like texture groping at her shoulders. This picture was taken as we were walking down the street bitching about how grotesque we felt and feeling sorry for ourselves. Otherwise, the occasion was a happy one, and the Escape Goat was pleased about the finery of the excellent haircut she had just received. Apart from the food induced trauma, the evening had the potential to be a success.





Finally, we were at the Mayor's Clark / Diversy intersection. This is an even better picture of the Escape Goat's poncho. Martha Stewart briefly popularized the poncho (in certain circles) when she finished her prison sentence and was seen leaving the maximum-security facility with a knitted poncho. I have even seen the Minx adorned in such a poncho--and now this! I think the added weight of the poncho did not help the Escape Goat in her already weakened state; below she tosses back her head, cursing the heavens.





Here is an even better shot of the poncho. The Escape Goat looked like Dirty Sanchez himself! She is Dirty Sanchez in a Poncho! The highlight of the evening came after we all parted ways for the night.





We went back the Mayor's place and hung out, but we were feeling terrible from the coagulating satan in our stomachs. After a brief period we decided to call it a night. We left the Mayor's in an ill-humored state of disorientation. I caught the Clark Street bus, and the Escape Goat meandered around confusedly before passing a Trixie and a Chad who jeered at her poncho and shouted, "NICE CAFTAN!" Harassment! That unsolicited comment left her emotionally scarred--I have yet to see her wear the alleged "caftan" since that rueful day! I mean--it was clearly a poncho--but a caftan? When she relayed the story to us the Mayor and I repressed our snickers and offered our undying support, as only good friends can (and then--of course--I blogged about it). The Mayor said, "Caftan! Whatever! That's no caftan. I know what a caftan is--and that...uh...coat?...is no caftan! What do Trixie and Chad know!" So faithful readers beware. If you are prepared to wear a caftan in Lakeview, be prepared for the Trixies and Chads to come out en masse and express intolerance to garments widely accepted at the United Nations and on Star Trek reruns.

Birthday

Every September I have a birthday!





My favorite way to spend my birthday is to schedule several different activities over the course of approximately one week. I did the same thing this year--going out to dinner with some friends, seeing a movie or a play with others--but spending one evening with the Escape Goat, Sly Little Minx, and Double D' Wicked proved to be damaging.





We met up at the 14 K. Lounge on the ill-fated Friday night, and everything seemed off to a good start. I suppose I should have taken the fact that the Minx was smoking like a chimney as a bad omen, but you never really recognize a bad omen until you examine a situation in retrospect.



It's as if the Escape Goat's expression of suspicious apprehension served as a premonition. Clearly, she is an intuitive beast...





The below photograph is one of the last known images of the Escape Goat smoking. She has since sworn off tobacco, but I doubt she can maintain such a stance. A hipster without a cigarette has the potential to become as confused as a horny bisexual in an orgy. Don't worry, Parliament Lights, you haven't lost a patron--she's just on hiatus.





And this picture is one of the last known images of the Minx sober. On this ill-fated night the Minx ended up stealing my birthday thunder and awakening with a psychological hangover the size of the Grand Canyon. Consequently, she has been on a bender ever since.





The Escape Goat hijacked my camera to take a few choice pictures. Below, she captures my true nature as I bark directives at Double D' Wicked while wagging my finger like Bill Clinton. None can wag a finger like Bill Clinton, but my finger wag is a great substitute for the original.






The Escape Goat took this shot of Double D' Wicked and we proclaimed it one of the hottest Double D' Wicked pictures in existence. I like to call this photo, Portrait of Double D' Wicked against Incan Motif Upholstery. This shot was taken right before Double D' Wicked became combative and unruly--I think she channeled the magic of the mighty Incas. She was all thinking she was in Machu Picchu and shit--spacing out and what not, visions of alpacas dancing in her head.





We exchanged salty glares several times throughout the course of the evening, and this was but the first of many...





Someone ordered shots; no doubt the guilty party is pictured below. I always think shots are gross, and that shot was no different. If you guessed--by its milky texture--that the shot featured with the Minx tasted like lactation, you guessed correctly. If only I had a time machine, I would go back and say to the Minx, "Hey Minx. You better not drink that sugary, booze infused elixir. You'll be sorry if you do." But--in the moment--she looks happy enough. Look upon the Minx and despair! MINX! You birthday-thunder-stealer!





The Escape Goat's expression spoke for everyone. That shot tasted like Allen Iverson rang his sweaty jock strap out in our glasses. And just maybe he did.





At some point, we decided to go back to the Minx's pimp pad, where we witnessed quite a spectacle. Dryfus, Pussy, and Ring Neck Pheasant awaited us. (Bah-Bah was suspiciously missing from Dryfus's harem of stuffed toys. However, Dryfus lay shamelessly unconscious on the linoleum with his penis exposed. He was covered in cotton and asbestos, bloated and gorged from a stuffed toy orgy. Since the Minx had been out so late he sought revenge in the form of a Roman holiday.) I don't know what kind of naughty business transpired in our absence, but the below picture looks a bit questionable. Judging by Ring Neck Pheasant's rug burns and Pussy's inability to make eye contact (accompanied with a mischievous grin), nothing you'd ever watch on the 700 Club. These two look like they are headed to a casting call for a Meet the Feebles sequel.






Ahhh...Once again, the familiar box of Ritz crackers atop the Minx's refrigerator. Like a beacon of light at the end of an otherwise dark tunnel it calls to me. The Minx's kitchen reminds me of an Andy Warhol painting--you have an aesthetically pleasing setting intercepted by a trademark image of pop culture: a can of Coke, a can of soup, Planters cashew's, a box of crackers, the Mayor's mom, etc...






DOUBLE D' WICKED: See this cup? That's about how much virgin's blood I pour into the bathtub each night when I bathe. It keeps me looking good, feeling great, and gives me a preternatural resistance to hangovers.
ESCAPE GOAT: Right on. You're like...Che Guevara in the face of a hangover.
DOUBLE D' WICKED: I dare you to eat one of those Ritz crackers.





ESCAPE GOAT: Hey...these Ritz Crackers aren't so bad. Do you have any curdled lemon yogurt for me to dip them in?





Lately, I have been referring to the Minx and Dryfus in combination as Pamela and Tommy Lee (or Kid Rock interchangeably). Speaking of the Devil, the Escape Goat forced Dryfus into compliance for this portrait. Clearly, she abandoned her purist philosophy in which the snapshot reigns supreme. She's like, "Okay, so you won't look at me? Let's just yank you up by that obnoxious tuft of hair, Kid Rock."





Double D' Wicked pauses to contemplate the uncanny resemblance between Dryfus and Tommy Lee versus Kid Rock, "Physically, he's more of a Kid Rock--you know--Kid Rock is a blonde, after all. But behaviorally. I don't know, Tommy Lee is pretty bad. You saw that video with Pamela and Tommy Lee, right? I didn't care for it--I prefer lesbian porn. Xena and Lucy? Hot. Willow and Tara? Hotter. That one episode of the Gilmore Girls, season 4, Episode 17 where Rory and Paris are on spring break and Paris kisses Rory, completely ruining her chances with that hot guy. Ha! Funny. She only did it to score some deal with a hot dude because dudes in the bar dig chicks kissing, but it all backfired. And then Paris had the nerve to ask Rory if she was a good kisser. Hottest."






Take note of the Minx's sad decline. She has gone from bad to worse and is full of MTV slogans. Below she shouts a composite, "Holla! Raise the Roof! The Roof, The Roof, The Roof is on Fire! Holla!" Predictably, the only respectable picture of her taken this evening was her mug shot.





You can tell that the Escape Goat is wondering if the Minx is up to her favorite prank of serving rotten berries with the wine. She's probably using her tongue to dig at a piece of rancid berry stuck to the roof of her mouth like peanut butter. Ahhh...that joke never gets old, does it Minx?

Below, the Minx proudly splays her tainted popcorn shrimp toes.





Double D' Wicked's all like, "Gross, Minx! I didn't know you had popcorn shrimp for toes! Does anyone have ranch dressing? Come, Minx. Let me suckle."





While all of that nasty business was going on over in the corner with the Minx's toes, I was opening a present. Once again, the Minx demonstrated how well she knows my temperament by giving me a biography in photos of the Washington DC Zoo's panda cub, Tai Shan. Thanks, Minx! You shouldn't have! The Panda Cam...






Clearly, the Minx regretted letting Double D' Wicked skewer her toes and eat them with grilled vegetables. This was the beginning of the end. Her red-rimmed eyes were rolling up in her head Linda Blair style! Probably, the Minx should have taken herself to bed at this juncture, but she was determined to rage on...





Double D' Wicked opines, "Come on, Minx. What's your damage, Heather--you don't need toes to go out tonight. Think of all the things that don't have toes: jellyfish, Satan, seashells, honeysuckle, sand dollars, Voltron...if they all stopped what they were doing and demanded toes just think what a pisser we'd be in. The entire equilibrium of nature would cease to be. You'd be like...I don't know, a Star-Bellied Sneetch if you had toes. Who needs toes?"





Convinced she did not need toes to go out, the Minx tossed on a jacket and led the way. But first, we stopped by the Shit Fountain to pay our respects. Eventually, we ended up at Happy Village. As the name of said establishment implies, we're always happy at Happy Village until they tell us to come inside because they're shutting down the patio, and so on and so forth. Once that happens we always go elsewhere, because you find you are left standing shoulder to shoulder with lots of unhappy Happy Villagers who are disgruntled about having to come inside. But first some Happy...





We found ourselves with prime real estate beside a hedge that reminded me of the topiary labyrinth scene in The Shining where Danny and Mrs. Torrence are exploring the maze. Meanwhile, Mr. Torrence is inside slowly lapsing into an irretrievable state of madness.





The Escape Goat took over my camera at Happy Village, and I think this portrait of Adonis is some of her work, but I can't remember. You'll have to watch for her signature shots.






After the general sense of creepiness inherited by parking ourselves next to The Shining hedge subsided...





We were all in a positive humor.





The Escape Goat prompted everyone to smile for portraits. Here's Adonis...





Here's the Escape Goat...






Inevitably, 2AM loomed on the horizon, and we were not smiles for long. We knew the outdoor patio would soon shut down. A discussion began about where we should go next.





There were disagreements...





The Escape Goat was quick to suggest several choice venues, and alliances began to form.





Adonis found the heated debate amusing.





Finally, the stalky guy who resembles Barney Rubble began to stack the chairs and tell everyone that the Happy Village patio would be closing in twenty minutes. We splintered off into two camps of dispute: the Club Foot camp versus the Inner Town camp. One fraction preferred the route to Club Foot, while the second preferred Inner Town. Each camp elected a spokesperson to plead their case. Predictably, there were several pansies who refused to share allegiance to one camp or another. The Club Foot spokesperson was Prêt-à-Porter, and the Inner Town representative was the Sly Little Minx.





The Sly Little Minx seemed to be operating on a purely instinctive response. She could not articulate why she didn't want to go to Club Foot, but she was adamant that Inner Town was the best choice. Oh Premonition!





As you can see, Double D' Wicked was no ambassador of goodwill; she even became impatient when negotiations stalled. She still had the taste of popcorn shrimp in her mouth and was looking for a chaser.





At this point, it should be noted that the Minx would not be talked down from the ledge. She was partying with the stamina and determination of Britney Spears with divorce papers. The Minx was insistent, but she was losing ground. Her chief ally, Double D' Wicked, was a fair weather fan who primarily wanted a nicotine fix and cared only that the route to our next destination included a convenience store along the way. Poor Minx! The stubs that once were toes throbbed painfully.





Below, the Club Foot camp is closing in for the kill. You know your enemy is in its final throes when you can raise a palm and count off reasons on your left hand.





The Escape Goat called her bookie and started placing bets...our fate depended on the outcome.





Despite the tension, a compromise seemed imminent.





Prêt-à-Porter exhibited confidence in his position. Below he shares a laugh with Ray-Gun at the expense of his enemies.





Here he plays the spy, listening stealthily as Double D' Wicked and the Minx hatch a plot.





I love how Prêt-à-Porter is like, "You know I don't need to ask. Let me just slide my hand out here and rub the genie's bottle I keep in my pocket for occasions like this. Mmm-Hmm."





Recognizing that this debate would be too big for the Escape Goat's delicate sensibilities to close out--in a bold move--Prêt-à-Porter proclaimed that shutting down the Happy Village patio was a reindeer game, and that we would only find similar reindeer games at Inner Town. Ray-Gun looked on knowingly...





But the Minx staunchly defended Inner Town, maintaining that we would find no such reindeer games there.





We all realized that camp Club Foot had won the day, but the Minx refused to concede defeat. An exasperated Double D' Wicked tried to convince a drunken Minx that we were off to Club Foot, but after having consumed the Minx's toes earlier in the evening, Double D' Wicked had very little leverage.






Out of frustration, Prêt-à-Porter became disgruntled and shouted angrily at the Minx, "You were nothing before you met me! You were playing Barbies with Betty Finn! You were a Brownie, you were a Bluebird, you were a Girl Scout Cookie! I got you into a Remington Party! What's my thanks? It's on the hallway carpet. I get paid in puke! Monday morning, you're history. I'll tell everyone about tonight. Transfer to Washington. Transfer to Jefferson. No one at Westerburg's going to let you play their reindeer games."





"Yeah, I said reindeer games. I mean, you have antlers, snow, Frisbees, naked elves, booze, a Jacuzzi, Santa, "Sister Christian" playing on an eight track in the background, and lines of coke cut up on a mirror with a broken Gillette; what the fuck. Reindeer Games. That's what I said."






"Goddamit. He wouldn't know a reindeer if it bit him on the ass. After six years apprenticing at a taxidermist's in Racine, Wisconsin--if anyone would know a reindeer biting them on the ass--it's me. I stuffed fucking Dasher, Donder, Dancer, Prancer, Hans Blixen, Vixen, and that Fucking Rudolph. His balls were bigger than a Britney Spears comeback would be. So you can shove those reindeer games up your ass."





"Like I said, you have antlers, snow, Frisbees, naked elves, booze, a Jacuzzi, Santa, "Sister Christian" playing on an eight track in the background, one Minx testifying with a red hot poker of molten lava in her hands, and lines of coke cut up on a mirror with a broken Gillette; what the fuck. Reindeer Games. I rest my case."





"Yeah. Reindeer games. It's indisputable."





With that, it was decided that we would go to Club Foot. Having finally admitted defeat, the Minx was inconsolable...





Prêt-à-Porter was a shameless victor. His lewd gestures were a bit off sides. But--as events unfolded--the Minx would have her revenge.





But he made nice in the end and gave the Minx a peck on the cheek for good measure. Still a bit frosty, the Minx dryly accepted his olive branch. Amends made, we proceeded to Club Foot. It was so crowded that we decided to return to the Minx's place. The Minx was out of wine, so I decided to walk to the store with Pret au Porte for drinks while everyone else headed back to the Minx's. But in the interim, drama transpired at Club Foot!





So insipid was the drama, that we ended up stranded and sour on the corner of Division and Paulina. We couldn't reach anyone over the phone, and when we finally did we were met with panic and inaduible screams. We ended up coordinating a rendezvous at Ray-Gun's. We caught a cab, and as we were rolling down the street we approached a red light. Upon stopping at the light, we encountered a rare stroke of good fortune--Adonis and Ray-Gun slinking along the curb preparing to cross the street. We called to them and they jumped in our cab.





Once we got to Ray-Gun's, we asked Adonis to give us an account of the drama that transpired while we were stranded with a case of Miller Light on the corner of Division and Paulina. In his typically cryptic fashion he proclaimed, "I was a witness to many things, but nothing at all. Life is a mystery. Everyone must stand alone. I hear you call my name and it feels like home."





Ray-Gun was equally perplexed. Drama had transpired and no one could bare witness accurately! In the melee, everything was confusing--there were sirens, and an ambulance. Prêt-à-Porter was understandably mortified that we could get no coherent explanation. We were at a loss.





Suddenly, the timely arrival of Buckles and the Escape Goat. More witnesses. Perhaps they could shed light on the evening's events? I love how Buckles skips up the stairs like he's auditioning for the Rockettes, "Hi-De-Ho, Neighbor!"





Meanwhile, a notably crestfallen and defeated Escape Goat trudges along with nothing more than one shred of dignity which was--fortunately--small enough to be transported in her watch pocket. I love her signature look of bedraggled defeat. She's like, "I'd rather be home right now, but I mean. I guess you were incubated, or hatched, or cloned--or whatever process germinated you--thirty years ago to this day, so I felt obligated to come over and not inflict Ray-Gun with your presence solo, and all. Don't mind me. Lentils anyone?"





We forced Adonis to give us an account of the events that transpired in our absence. He finally divulged the source of the drama. 911 was called and the EMT was dispatched on the Minx's behalf! After an evening of walking around on bloody nubbins, she needed an emergency prosthetic toe fitting! All Minx fans, mourn the loss of her sensual "popcorn shrimp toes." The paramedic was quoted as saying, "The assailant gnawed your digits clean off--I've never seen such damage." You have Double D' Wicked to thank. She is still picking her teeth with a straight razor.





No doubt, you will be pleased to learn that the Minx is making a speedy recover (although she cannot walk without the aid of a man servant). He crawls in front of her with his right arm extended, serving as a cane. He also catches treats in his mouth, kind of like Dryfus--only Dryfus never misses. Of course, Double D' Wicked does not regret having consumed the Minx's unique and beautiful toes. Those toes were her bread and butter--her claim to fame.





If you see her in public, it is best to not mention the incident. Double D' Wicked, on the other hand, is proud of her actions and will freely welcome a conversation on the matter. Just yesterday, she was heard to remark, "It serves her right. Flashing those toes. Everyone knows I have a shrimp fetish. It's my weakness. Besides, she can grow them back. I mean, I dabble in the culinary arts--I should know--you can popcorn anything: popcorn fingers, popcorn spleen, popcorn testicles. And then there's just regular old popcorn. Jiffy Pop and shit. I don't know what everybody's whining about. She should just popcorn her whole foot and call it a day. All you need is batter and a Fry Daddy. The Weasel's got a Fry Daddy. Tell her to borrow the Weasel's Fry Daddy and I'll slap some Crisco on that shit--she won't feel a thing. Not a thing. What? Don't look at me like that. I'd do it again. I'm hooked on a feeling..."





Don't hassle the Hoff.





Of course, Prêt-à-Porter expressed no sympathy over the 911 call. He only cracked open another beer and gravely opined, "I knew that was going to happen. Eventually." When asked how he came to possess such prophetic insight he gladly elaborated...





"Reindeer games."