Mornin’, kids. If you know me, first of all, I apologize. But second of all you probably know that I’m not very interested in national news stories due to my pathological distrust of everything and everyone. However, I can be pretty easily influenced by trusted sources. Call me a dang leftist hippie dirt farmer, but I trust National Public Radio. Which is exactly why they surprised me this time. Normally headlines like this are reserved for the brilliance of The Onion, or maybe even made up by some local obscure bloggers somewhere, but not this time. It’s apparently pretty serious as nuns are questioning why they can’t become priests. Or some such shit. I don’t know, I didn’t really read it. But the idea of American nuns facing probes from the Vatican should give us all a bit of a shiver. Also, I think that there shou.. Crap…I’m going to have to move on. The problem: Jesus Christ just walked in and is sort of hovering over my shoulder. Not like that boss you have who likes to rub your shoulders because your “stressed”. No, he’s actually about three feet off the ground right now, just glaring at me. I’m really getting the evil eye, if that’s possible with a guy like him. How weird. You’d think the second coming would have taken place somewhere holy instead of my living room. You’d also think that I’d have the class to not mention the second coming in the same paragraph as nuns getting probed.
I’ll get on to the weekend like he’s suggesting. I guess he’s totally jazzed about Little Shop of Horrors. But before he goes all Houdini again and leaves me to ponder my suffering alone, I’m going to ask him for two things. First, I’m asking him to take a freaking shower. I mean, can’t he turn stink into sunshine or something? I think I read that in a book once. Second, I’m going to ask him what the hell the deal is with that Lady Gaga dude. It’s haunting my erotic nightmares, and those are usually reserved for horrific explosion scenarios at the Eva Mendes factory. Go.
(UPDATE: NPR.org has since changed their headline, thus negating my joke and further proving the influence of The Lost Ogle.)
Well hot dang! This is something that you may actually find me at tonight or tomorrow. Friend and sometimes podcast mate, Matthew Alvin Brown, has the lead as Seymour (the Rick Moranis role, for all you kids out there), and Matt doesn’t do anything poorly. Well, I’ll admit he can get a bit handsy, but you just have to let that crap slide with talented folks. So, we all know how kickass the Civic Center is and how well-produced the shows by Lyric Theater are, so why am I even telling you this? It’s not because you’re reading it, because I’m not convinced that you are. Tickets are normally pricey for shows there, and this is no exception. If I hadn’t cashed in a Crown Royal bag full of change at Crest yesterday I wouldn’t even be going. And no — despite that last sentence, I’m not actually a single mother from the Midwest City. I’m telling you, go catch Mr. Brown (Or “M.A.B.”, as my tattoo says), along with the rest of an incredibly talented cast, before he picks up and leaves for New York, only to return to give high-brow-musical commencement speeches at Putnam City West high school.
Man, that’s a long ass event title. Thanks for the carpel tunnel syndrome, Wimgo. But if that picture is any indicator, this thing is all badass and stuff. Um, so…what the eff is a “reined cow horse” anyway? Here’s what I hope it is: Some kind of tied-up horse that when prodded correctly will produce delicious, wholesome milk and will also not be able to run away from me all fast-like. Lately I’ve been taking things a bit too literally in general, but they could’ve been a little clearer on this. I’ll briefly describe the childhood tragedy I experienced due to my literal thinking. Let’s just say that the first “cowboy” I was introduced to wound up knocked out and electrocuted in a bathtub full of hickory smoke marinade, right before being thrown on a perfectly-lit mesquite fire. He was delicious, as expected, but the two weeks of being grounded I got was hardly worth it. Sometimes when I’m lying in bed at night, I can almost taste his A1 sauce-tinted Stetson. I just wish I could still fit into my “Cowboys Guts Drive Me Nuts” shirt. Oh well.
Before you pro-level commentors jump on my flat, white ass about the missing date on this one, let me clarify: It’s only missing because it happened in the past. That’s right — you can’t go to this without a DeLorean and a brilliantly scientific pederast. See, when I saw it online I just had to have it. It wasn’t until I had almost typed an entire sentence that I realized it was on Thursday. I didn’t make it because I paid $12.50 to get into freaking Tinsletown for Rifftrax Live, one of the funniest things I’ve ever experienced in a theater. So, ok. Ice cream social? Furreallz? That’s still a thing that humans gather to do? Wait, what am I saying? It’s basically just an outdoors party with a bunch of people and a bunch of ice cream! Had I known, I would’ve been all over that faster than a sorority girl on the first black athlete she meets. That’s a little harsh, Chad. What a dick. If you could take an ice cream social and eliminate 100% of the people who aren’t me, have it inside my home, and not let pretty girls see me beard deep in a carton of Caramel Delight (the ice cream, not the 1920s Puerto Rican adult film star), well then I think I attended one on four separate nights this week. I’m fatter than I should be!
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