Things are finally returning to normal around here, and it's a good thing, too. What with the Mardi Gras, and Super Fat Tuesday, and the drinking and the dancing and the overeating followed by the snowstorm, things have been a little topsy turvy in the Bubs household.
I don't know when Doctor Monkey Von Monkerstein "interviewed" all those models he featured yesterday, and I have no idea whatsoever what he gave them to drink, eat or otherwise ingest.
I'll tell you this much, though. When this doll
showed up at our doorstep in the early morning hours Wednesday, she already had a full head of steam going. She'd been drinking, of course, but there was something else. She was obviously worked up after ranting to Doctor MVM about the Bush administration, and she was out to take her edge off. No matter what we put on the hi-fi, it wasn't fast enough, or loud enough, or swinging enough for her taste.
Most of our friends left. The PTA Moms for Obama left. Not our model. She stayed, drinking and dancing and yelling VOTE YOU MOTHERF*CKERS, VOTE! MONKEY LOVE!
Some time before sunrise the neighbor came over, bleary-eyed, and asked us to turn the music down. Our girl here lurched over to the back door, grabbed the neighbor and planted a big wet kiss on him, which embarrassed the hell out of all of us. The neighbor reeled away, down off the porch. My children locked themselves in their rooms. The dogs wouldn't stop barking. I could see MizBubs calmly removing her glasses and taking off her loose jewelry, which she always does when she senses a brawl about to erupt.
The next few moments were confusing, a blur of popping balloons, shrieking and stereo speakers blowing out. Next thing I know, our model pops out from behind the tiki bar, stark naked, and asks where we keep our game of Twister:
And then she passed out on our zebra skin rug.
MizBubs and I breathed a sigh of relief, turned off the hi-fi, threw a blanket over our model, and went to sleep.
This morning she was gone. I spent the better part of the morning throwing out deflated balloons, confetti and empty Abita bottles. I swept out 8 pounds of lemon rinds from behind the tiki bar, and then I made a sad discovery. Whenever balloon girl crept out, she apparently took my last bottle of absinthe, a can of pepper spray, three of my Las Vegas ashtrays and my favorite Herb Alpert LP record. You know the one.
So Doctor Monkey...please. Next time you get some impressionable starlet all likkered up and politically agitated, don't point her in my direction. OK? Thanks.