Write me:
skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com

Friday, 18 April
Being And Somethingness

Tomorrow the fiancee gets the whole bridal shower treatment, only I know that it's not going to be the usual deal, knowing my friends. She'll be gone the whole day, which leaves me more or less on my own for entertainment. I'm merely speculating, but let's visualize the two days:


FIANCEE and fearsome bunch of wild-eyed girls head out for mimosa-fueled brunch. There is much squealing.

SKOT remains in bed. There is hopefully no squealing of any kind.


FIANCEE and entourage sack an unsuspecting glamor-y place and loudly demand mud baths, manicures and "some fucking red wine wouldn't killya." They wave twenties around until the staff snaps to.

SKOT, finally unable to ignore the activity of the rest of the fucking world, gets out of bed.


FIANCEE et al. head to the waterfront and commandeer a boat. They spend the next few hours chasing terrorized seals around Puget Sound while shrieking "Cute! Cute!" By now tequila might have materialized.

SKOT, wearing ratty bathrobe, stares emptily at a baseball game, casually noting the deathly performances of his fantasy league players.


FIANCEE and her roving band of madness descend on an innocent restaurant for much-needed nourishment. They look like a band of deranged, but adorable, harpies.

SKOT, wearing ratty bathrobe, stares emptily at a baseball game, clutching a Bloody Mary, coming to enjoy his fatalism.


FIANCEE and the rest whoop it up at a male strip joint, and howl madly at all the dancing sausages. The dancers twitch nervously at the group of maenads, and caution each other backstage, "Watch out, man, those crazy bitches are fast."

SKOT, noticing that his body has started devouring its own tissue to live, reluctantly showers and goes to find fast food. Tragically, he finds it, and ruminates on the depressive qualities of the phrase "Taco Bell."


FIANCEE, possibly half-crocked, wanders home and begs for a glass of water. She sprawls limply on the couch and tosses a tattered, purloined g-string on to the floor. "What a great day," she sighs.

SKOT, having just finished up around nine hours of sedentary inactivity sprinkled here and there with cocktail breaks, says, "Same here."

Note: Comments are closed on old entries.


You won't have Tanyon Sturtze to kick around any more.

Comment number: 002864   Posted by: Steve on April 18, 2003 03:56 PM from IP:

Post a comment