Ever get annoyed? Ever feel like someone needs to be told where the dog died? Or handed a crowbar and a tub of Elbow Grease to help them pry their head out of their arse? Congratulations--you've come to the right place.

And when I'm not commenting on the latest thing to piss me off, I'm trying to figure out my own twisted life. Because, hey, I'm like that.

On a gentler note: for anyone dealing with depression, anxiety, and other assorted bullshit: You are NOT alone.

And if you're looking for a laugh, search on the key word "fuckery." It's just my little thing (as the bishop said to the actress).

Saturday, February 19, 2011

St. Teresa... 'Round the Twist?

…Or Just Out to Get Me?

I promised this story a while back and never got the time to type it up. Tonight, as the regulars know, I'm off to see Jim Jefferies down at Foxwoods; my friend Tess is going to the show with me. There is going to be another passenger with us: St. Teresa. Yeah. You heard me right. Pray for me.

In December, St. Teresa was hospitalized after she did a nasty faceplant in the kitchen. Being the Good Kid of the Year (FOUR YEARS RUNNING!), I went up to visit her daily while she was in (except for one night, but I was working). Well, I had my laptop with me on one of those nights, and as I was taking it out of my satchel, I also happened to pull out Alcoholocaust. (I had that, along with Going Postal, in the bag because the lappie is the only DVD player I have set up for UK DVDs). Well, of course, she had to look at it.
“He’s not bad looking in this picture, Lee,” she remarked, looking at the inside sleeve. (From Mum, this is high praise for anyone not Elvis Presley, Tom Selleck, or the Loon who played Mad Max.)
I just shook my head and smiled. “Yeah, well, as he hasn’t announced a Boston date on this tour, I think I’m going down to Foxwoods in February to catch him.”
“Oh, good. I’ll come along.”
At which point, my head snapped up, a look of wild-eyed panic on my pan.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You can go see him, and I can go play.”
To which I replied, in an effort to keep my rising panic at the idea of being saddled with Her Daftness at Foxwoods while trying to enjoy myself and relax, “Why don’t you call Marie and ask her along? You two can make a night of it.”
“That’s a good idea!”
“Yeah, I can just see it now… I make a pass at Jim, and say, but we have to go to your place because I’ve got roommates. Real smooth.”
“Oh, you get your own room then.” And then she looks at me—y’know, the way a mum looks at their kid and REALLY looks at ‘em, and says, “Y’know, Lee, you should try to lose a lot of weight before February. You could do it.”
There was no meanness in this statement (for once). My mother was actually trying to help me get lucky, and not just with anyone, either.
I don’t know how I feel about this. Honestly. I really don’t. Aside from the fact that I was joking about making the pass (I am still embarrassed about NYC, and I’m having a laugh at my own expense, folks), I don’t know whether to a) be flattered that she thinks I would actually have a shot at him; b) be worried that she WANTS me to have a chance at him; c) ask her what the aliens did with my uptight mother who can’t stand the idea of me having any kind of fun that might lead to sex.
Either that, or she was having me on.
No matter what, I’m doomed.

My real fear is that she's going to show up in the lounge and accost Jim and the story will end up either on the podcast or in his act. Pray for me.

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