Sometimes, you start out an evening with certain expectations.
You think, It's Friday night. The house is clean. You have the night out with gal pals.
You get more dressed up than you do for car pool, a little less than for dinner with the boss, and definitely not the outfit you'd pick for church on Sunday. You have a Designated Driver who may know where she's going this time and a wad of cash in your pocket.
Part of you is thinking: "WOO-HOO! SHots and dancing and wildness that may result in an ill-placed tattoo before the sun rises."
And part of you is so freaking tired you begin to wish the ride to the comedy club in the old church was longer, that the girl seated next to you had worn one of those puffy coats that feel like pillows, that you could just close your eyes for a minute and feel twenty again.
Or thirty, for God's sake.
But then you take another sip of your Red Bull and Vodka and begin to rally--because, after all, this is Bunko Broad Christmas, and you have a reputation to upkeep.
Remember the last time you were in this town?
Remember how all the broads got thrown out of the classiest restaurant? How terribly naughty you felt. How sorry and guilty and embarrassed...
It wasn't YOUR fault, after all, and besides, the night ended on a high note, didn't it? At least that's what everyone told you- and that's what you're relying on, because brown outs are not just what happens in a three year old's underpants.
Besides. It's Christmas, and you're all armed with gifts that you found around the house, gifts that cost nothing,unless your Aunt Rose reads this blog, then you are totally going to be busted for re-gifting. I brought this..
The bag ripped upon exiting the DD's car, and Mr. Event Planner at the venue helped tape it up. Duct tape rules!I think it adds a certain appeal to the steal-able item, right? Okay, it was dark in there, but they did take our gifts and put them on the stage under the Christmas tree. A tree that one of the Comedians said RUINED his chances at taping his show, because he would never be able to lie about when he'd preformed... uh huh.
There were 3 acts, and with a room this small, you'd better be on. I'm just sayin'.
And they were not.
Let me explain. The room was the choir loft/altar of an old Presbyterian church. There was a large bar downstairs. Yep. Welcome to BUFORD.
Which one guy actually made a funny about. "...Sounds like the name of the retarded kid in school.. look everyone, it's Buford.. " hahaha ok
This same guy had another good joke about the Wii.
He said, "we're so broke we don't even call it the Wii. We call it the "they" because they all have it and we don't."
And that's about all I remember. They all had pot smoking jokes- crickets.
and cocaine jokes... louder crickets.
They slammed wives and girlfriends, people with disabilities and the problems with dating.. DUDES? Look around. You're in a room of mostly women and older married couples. Hello? How about a little improv? One guy did score best with the lines he admitted "weren't even part of his act" ripping on the short comic whose last name was Malice.. which he thought was a better last name for a super hero or a serial killer.. "how about Brian Benevolent? That might be a letter name for a comic..."
says the guy with the Italian name- who was able to deliver only one single Italian joke the whole set.
I swear our material on these guys was better than the jokes they kept pushing. But, then again. What do we want for $10?
Of course, it would not be a Bunko Broad night if we didn't play a joke or two ourselves... like giving this kit
to Dawn, complete with gloves, apron and wet wipes.
And I had to try to fake the good old "OMG, I'm so trashed, I got tattooed," trick with this
and this temporary tatwhich didn't fool anyone, especially when they know that a real arm tattoo looks more like this:or this:
and hurts a crapload more.
So, what was in my bag, you ask?
well PICKLES.and A PEZ. ( an extra from my extensive collection).
We did almost get booted from this place when I used a flash to take a picture mid-show, but we bought more cocktails, so they let us stay, and then after the gift exchange? We HAD to leave, because the guy in this picture's friend called us OLD. And who wants to hear that?
So we went to a jazz bar that recently transformed itself into rock and roll
and watched the ass from the front row table at the comedy show make more of an ass of himself with his trashed wife and the wife's chubby little orange panty wearing pal.
Gwen wanted to go home remove her eyeballs and dunk them in a soapy hot wash.
I wanted to dance. SO, Angie and Debbie and I tried, but apparently old people do not know about this new kind of line dance-hustle-disco-rock thing ?! or about the crowded crowded loud bar thing. ugh.
So we did what old people do. We went home, passing the tattoo parlor, the piercing pagoda and the Starbucks with an equal amount of remorse.
Until next time, Buford. Until next time.