the miracle cure
Wow, what a weekend. I got 2 naps (I'm a champion napper) and 2 nights out. Friday was Ten Cat, then Lemmings, and Saturday I went with friends to see the Margaret Cho movie (which was okay…I didn't exactly bust a gut, but I did laugh) and then dancing at Neo. It was a good night for people-watching. I especially enjoyed these girls who were obviously exotic dancers on their night off. You know that dance floor move where you suddenly do a major deep knee bend with your ass sticking way out? And the one where you look like you're trying to do a backbend? Yeah, me neither. That's because only the professional girls know these things. They looked like they were thinking, “Damn, if only there were a pole of some sort on this dance floor. Then we could really bust a move!”
Whilst (whilst!) in Minnesota (see note below), LT and I visited the absolutely fabulous Museum of Questionable Medical Devices, devoted to quackery throughout the ages. I was in heaven, reading all that wonderful 19th-century prose in the advertisements. I purchased a poster of one of the best ones, an ad for a “rectal dilator” that claims to cure everything from impotence to acne.
Note: Was in Minneapolis for a wedding a while back, and if I was a good person and updated more often you would know all about it, but as it is I shall not rehash the past. Unless it's funny. Which it isn't, not so much, this time. Onward!
Please refrain from using your rectal dilators during takeoff,
–mimi smartypants