Well, It's A Nice Day For A Pink Wedding
Newsflash! It’s hot as a baker in the Illadelph! Now, I love a good excuse not to leave the house, especially one that’s not court-ordered, but I have a problem. I haven’t retrieved my air conditioner from home yet, so as of now I am just taking the Weather Channel’s advice to stay inside and hydrated. (Vodka is a liquid, right?) It’s not as hot in my apartment as it could be, but for the next week if anyone out there wants to let me come over and let me stand and moan in front of your air conditioners for a few minutes at a time, I would really appreciate it. The Wawa down the street is starting to get suspicious why I am always there, especially after the power nap I took in the snack aisle yesterday.
Today the staff of the chambers prepared for a Pink Wedding. I don’t know the exact definition or etiquette involved with said wedding, but to my knowledge, it goes a little something like this. A prisoner of a minor crime knows he is coming before the judge for resentencing of some sort. And while he is in front of a judge, he says, what the fuck! Why don’t I get married?! In this particular case, the guy was to show up, get a harsher sentence for violating parole and then he and his babymama were going to take the plunge. I am not sure why it’s a pink wedding, but I was told that I had to wear pink in some form. I even got up early enough to iron a pink shirt and put on a purple tie, let anyone think I was not in a celebratory mood. I had to do PR for the event, so I called a couple publications, per the Judge’s request, and had them show up for the blessed event.
Then we found out the blushing bride to be, in her nicest pink do-rag, forgot to get her marriage license, so the whole thing was called off! Everyone was so disappointed. I was pretty excited to see it, but Sandy said it was better off because she smelled the bride and she happened to be emitting “funk that you could cut with a motherfucking knife.” C’est la vie. So, the proud groom had to go to jail unmarried. I am sure there will be tons of guys there for him who would love a pink wedding.
In case you haven’t heard, Michael Jackson is not guilty of all the charges levied against him. I sat around the tv with the judge and some others waiting for the verdict. The judge was really happy about the verdict, but I don't know if she's a big MJ fan or not. I think she was just happy she was right and Steve Shapiro wasn't. (The verdict was kind of a no-brainer if you ask me. That kid’s mother reeked of reasonable doubt.) My favorite part of watching it was seeing his crazy ass fans celebrating after the verdict was read. One woman even sent a dove into the sky for every time they said not guilty. She’s clearly insane, but I appreciate her ability to plan. Good for her. So, let the Michael Jackson jokes begin again. In the elevator this morning, which was packed to maximum weight capacity and 126 degrees, one huge Judge invited more people into the elevator, likening it to Michael Jackson’s bed…zinger!!!
Some right wing Christian wants to label gays as being dangerous. Gays would have to wear labels that would be like an equivalent to the warnings from the Surgeon General on cigarette packages. (Who knew pole smoking caused cancer too?) I think this physical labeling of discrete and insular minorities thing happened long ago in some other far away country, but I am not sure what ever became of it. Oh wait. It was the holocaust. My bad!
I went to a leather bar (the Bike Stop) last night with my friend JC who is doing a research project on gay subculture and oral histories of gays of the past or something. I don’t know, it sounds like bullshit to me, and frankly I stopped listening once he told me he’d buy me a drink. He wanted to get the perspective of someone who doesn’t go to leather or S&M clubs often. I seemed just vanilla enough for him, being the wolf in sheep’s clothing that I am. It was jock-strap night there. So imagine ugly older men with big stomachs walking around in jockstraps in a hole in the wall bar. Or don’t, it’s up to you. Afterwards he told me to talk about it into a digital voice recorder, and I talked for 22 minutes straight before he cut me off. When he sends me the transcript of my diatribe, I will post some of the gems of soundbites I offered for his very serious, academic research project.
If you know me, you know I am obsessed with Mormons, right? So I am thinking about going to the amazing Hill Cumorah Pageant, which reenacts the Book of Mormon with a cast of 800 people every year. It looks like the scariest stuff ever. And I want to be a part of it.
And, today I will leave you with this nugget of wisdom from a friend, “Have you heard Kelly Clarkson’s album? All the songs are about how she got burned by some dude. She’s like Tori Amos without all the rape and shit.”
I need a popsicle.
Today the staff of the chambers prepared for a Pink Wedding. I don’t know the exact definition or etiquette involved with said wedding, but to my knowledge, it goes a little something like this. A prisoner of a minor crime knows he is coming before the judge for resentencing of some sort. And while he is in front of a judge, he says, what the fuck! Why don’t I get married?! In this particular case, the guy was to show up, get a harsher sentence for violating parole and then he and his babymama were going to take the plunge. I am not sure why it’s a pink wedding, but I was told that I had to wear pink in some form. I even got up early enough to iron a pink shirt and put on a purple tie, let anyone think I was not in a celebratory mood. I had to do PR for the event, so I called a couple publications, per the Judge’s request, and had them show up for the blessed event.
Then we found out the blushing bride to be, in her nicest pink do-rag, forgot to get her marriage license, so the whole thing was called off! Everyone was so disappointed. I was pretty excited to see it, but Sandy said it was better off because she smelled the bride and she happened to be emitting “funk that you could cut with a motherfucking knife.” C’est la vie. So, the proud groom had to go to jail unmarried. I am sure there will be tons of guys there for him who would love a pink wedding.
In case you haven’t heard, Michael Jackson is not guilty of all the charges levied against him. I sat around the tv with the judge and some others waiting for the verdict. The judge was really happy about the verdict, but I don't know if she's a big MJ fan or not. I think she was just happy she was right and Steve Shapiro wasn't. (The verdict was kind of a no-brainer if you ask me. That kid’s mother reeked of reasonable doubt.) My favorite part of watching it was seeing his crazy ass fans celebrating after the verdict was read. One woman even sent a dove into the sky for every time they said not guilty. She’s clearly insane, but I appreciate her ability to plan. Good for her. So, let the Michael Jackson jokes begin again. In the elevator this morning, which was packed to maximum weight capacity and 126 degrees, one huge Judge invited more people into the elevator, likening it to Michael Jackson’s bed…zinger!!!
Some right wing Christian wants to label gays as being dangerous. Gays would have to wear labels that would be like an equivalent to the warnings from the Surgeon General on cigarette packages. (Who knew pole smoking caused cancer too?) I think this physical labeling of discrete and insular minorities thing happened long ago in some other far away country, but I am not sure what ever became of it. Oh wait. It was the holocaust. My bad!
I went to a leather bar (the Bike Stop) last night with my friend JC who is doing a research project on gay subculture and oral histories of gays of the past or something. I don’t know, it sounds like bullshit to me, and frankly I stopped listening once he told me he’d buy me a drink. He wanted to get the perspective of someone who doesn’t go to leather or S&M clubs often. I seemed just vanilla enough for him, being the wolf in sheep’s clothing that I am. It was jock-strap night there. So imagine ugly older men with big stomachs walking around in jockstraps in a hole in the wall bar. Or don’t, it’s up to you. Afterwards he told me to talk about it into a digital voice recorder, and I talked for 22 minutes straight before he cut me off. When he sends me the transcript of my diatribe, I will post some of the gems of soundbites I offered for his very serious, academic research project.
If you know me, you know I am obsessed with Mormons, right? So I am thinking about going to the amazing Hill Cumorah Pageant, which reenacts the Book of Mormon with a cast of 800 people every year. It looks like the scariest stuff ever. And I want to be a part of it.
And, today I will leave you with this nugget of wisdom from a friend, “Have you heard Kelly Clarkson’s album? All the songs are about how she got burned by some dude. She’s like Tori Amos without all the rape and shit.”
I need a popsicle.
posted by ZRW @ 12:11 PM
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