P.S. — The first game starts in roughly 3 days, 21 hours. Not that I'm keeping track.
This will be the shape my hand takes when rigamortis sets in.
Moving along, I can not remember who sent me this story, but I really wish I could remember. It is full of so much awesome that it can't be measured. It's the tale of a woman going to an event at a sex positive club. (Don't be afraid to click that link to the left. It's just the Wikipedia link for the sex positive definition. Promise.) There's even a quick Twilight reference in the story, hidden like a sparkly Easter egg. This story could be called What Not to Wear to a Sex Positive Club. The link to the original article is above, but I'm posting it in its entirety below. Empty your bladders and enjoy.
Last Friday, I was invited to Miss Kitty’s Parlour in Hollywood.
I wish I knew Helen Killer because I would be her best friend. If you are not familiar with Regretsy, do yourself a favor and spend an hour or twelve over there. The Whimsicle Fuckery category is a particularly fun time suck. I really think I need a beaver suit. This begs the question, if you had a beaver costume, where would you wear it? The question I'm asking myself is — if I had a beaver costume, where WOULDN'T I wear it?
Justin Beaver by Helen Killer
Last Friday, I was invited to Miss Kitty’s Parlour in Hollywood.
Miss Kitty’s Parlour is a monthly event at a nightclub called The Dragonfly, which bills itself as “sex positive”. I tend to think of it more as Tiny Top Hat positive, or Trying Too Hard positive, but maybe it’s just not my thing.
I’m not someone who spends Friday nights in a latex catsuit, giving simulated blow jobs to clowns. That’s more of a Sunday thing. No, on Friday nights I like to stay home with John and the dogs, and watch as much television as possible before the Excedrin PM kicks in.
But this Friday was different. It was the closing night of Miss Kitty’s, and I wasn’t about to pass that up. It’s not like you see throngs of dumpy girls in bustiers and yellow contacts every day, lining the streets of Hollywood. You want to see that shit, you have to wait for the next Twilight premiere.
So I decided to not only go, but go big. You have to make an impression at a scene like this, and there was no way I was going the burlesque route. I’m just way to old for that shit, and I don’t even have any tattoos. It would be like seeing your realtor with her tits out at a fetish club, and that’s not a good look. So I headed down to the costume shop with my friends, to see if there’s was anything fantastic for rent.
The minute we walked in, my eyes landed on a giant beaver head on a high shelf, and I knew immediately that I wanted to wear a mascot outfit. It was perfect. Anonymous and funny and weird, and completely adorable. Who doesn’t love a beaver?
The costume consisted of a large head with no fan in it (“It’s light! You don’t need a fan!”), a pair of fur mittens and snap on shoe covers that were sort of like beaver spats. I took it home and lovingly brushed it out, more sure than ever that I was doing the right thing.
The first sign of trouble came before we even left the house. By the time I got to the front door, the temperature inside the beaver had reached the thousands. I was sweating profusely, and my make-up was running into my eyes, causing black, Courtney-Love-style rivulets to run down my chin. I took the head off and rode in the car with my own head out the window, trying to cool off.
Our first stop was the Lucky Strike Bowling Alley in the same complex where they shoot American Idol (at one point I spotted a poster of Stephen Tyler, and realized that his head was actually much larger than the one I was wearing). The security guard checking IDs seemed completely unfazed by the beaver suit, and let me in without comment. But there was a lot of discussion about whether to let John in, because he was wearing an Elvis jumpsuit, and they thought that might be violating the dress code. Beavers yes, Elvis no. Check. Eventually the manager relented when he realized we had reserved a lane and were drinking heavily. Either that, or arguing with a woman in a beaver suit was making him question every choice he had ever made.
I started to realize how limited my vision was in the beaver head. I could only look out of one eye at a time, and only if I pushed the head to one side. It didn’t seem to be a problem in the bowling alley, so I simply continued with my evening, After a few drinks the head started making the rounds, and many interesting photos were taken.
Once we got to the bar, things took a turn for the worse. It was dark and smoky and very, very crowded. Even pushing the head to one side and peering out of the eye was giving me little to work with. I clung to John for dear life as he escorted me through the narrowing walkways, as people began to touch me and ask us to stop for photos.
At first, the photo ops were fun. People were excited to see me, and wanted to pet me and hug me. But as the evening progressed and people got drunker, things started to change.
The first altercation happened on the dance floor. I was trying to do the Robot and the Cabbage Patch, and whatever moves I could think of that I thought would look good on a beaver. It was very crowded and a lot of people were dancing with me and petting me, and it was getting really, really hot inside that suit.
Suddenly a woman turned around and saw me, and let out a blood curdling scream.
“That’s not cool!”, she shouted. “I’m scared of beavers!” And she proceeded to kick me and punch me repeatedly.
Fortunately the suit had a good bit of padding, but the whole thing was terrifying. I managed to get away from her and we tried to get out onto the patio, but it was so crowded that I actually got stuck. I was wedged between so many people that I couldn’t see or make myself heard at all. I still had John’s hand, but the people between us started groping me. And that’s when I realized that someone in a fur suit in a sex positive club was asking for trouble.
This went on all night. People alternated between grabbing my tits and beating the shit out of me. I got humped and punched, licked and kicked, people were grinding on me and one very drunk girl gave me a lap dance. It wasn’t as much fun as it sounds.
It took us a very, very long time to get out of the club, as we were squeezed in like sardines toward the end of the night. We spent minutes at a time completely immobile, pressed together so tightly that I couldn’t lift my arms to remove my head.
I thought I might pass out. I started thinking about the Stones at Altamont, or those T-shirts people used to wear that said, I’D STOMP ALL OVER YOU TO SEE THE WHO. I was trying to remember if that Who concert was in Cincinnati when someone reached under the head from behind, grabbed a handful of my wet hair and started pulling as hard as they could.
Eventually we got out of the club, and we collapsed on a bus bench on Santa Monica Boulevard. We sat there for a long time, trying to catch our breath, and people continued to take pictures of us, jumping out of their cars at stop lights and yelling, “Hey Elvis, is that your beaver?” I just nodded and waved.
The next day, we all went out for breakfast and talked about the night’s events. No one had any idea that I was getting accosted, because it was just so dark and loud in there. We all laughed about it, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought there was a valuable lesson to be learned in all of this.
And there was.
Never leave your beaver feet where your dog can find them. The costume shop will charge you $350.