No? You haven't? Just me? Well then, perhaps I should explain. . .
It was 1993. My hair was still big, my waist still (relatively) small ( at least compared to my fat ass) and children were not even a consideration. Best of all, I was still working side by side with my three BFFLs .
We were young, most of us still in our late 20's, and we had both disposable time and income. And we had a raging passion to celebrate each other's birthdays in the most outrageous manner possible. Each birthday celebrated had to top the last one, and this particular event was to be the pinnacle of our creativity.
About four weeks ahead of our friend's birthday, the other three of us started conspiring to hatch a grand scheme of a birthday celebration. This would be our greatest birthday caper ever. We could envision our wrinked, incontinent future selves, sitting in front of a roaring fire and reliving the glory of this birthday event, every Christmas.
The plan was as follows:
- After work, we would blindfold our pal and put her in the back of the car (the back seat, not the trunk, people. GAH! Where was I? Oh yeah . . . ).
- We would stop at a local deli and fill our cooler with enough food, beverages and snackage to feed an army.
- We would pull into the parking lot at Westbury Music Fair (Theater in the round bitches! What? What?) and set up the lawn chairs that we had in the trunk.
- Then we would take the blindfold off the birthday girl, reveal our location and tailgate for a little while before going into the show.
- Upon completion of a fabulous tailgate meal, we would head inside, armed with a tote bag full of special goodies that would help add a little sparkle to the evening. They included:
- An underwire bra with the cups cut out.
- Several pairs of (to the knee) cotton granny nickers.
- The largest women's underwear we could find
- Fruit of the loom men's briefs
- A gigantic, two man rubberband/slingshot
- A huge, computer generated banner with a message requesting a kiss for our birthday friend.
From the time we pulled into the parking lot, it was clear that something was wrong with the birthday girl. She seemed a little odd and less than enthused. Here we were, absolutely brimming with excitement and anticipation and the birthday girl seemed, well, annoyed.
We headed toward the theater and as we were walking, our friend smelled a rat. "What's in the tote bag?" she quizzed. We gave an evasive answer and kept on truckin. But once we were seated, she started in again, demanding to know what was in the bag. Not wanting to create a huge incident in the mostly senior citizen filled theater, we showed our friend what we had smuggled in. She seemed ok with most of it, but we were warned within an inch of our lives, not to let that sign see the light of day. We promised that we wouldn't take it out, but we didn't mean it.
By the time old TJ took the stage, we had our ammunition locked and loaded. Once he got rolling, we would start firing giant underwear at the stage. We agreed that when he sang "What's New Pussycat", we would pelt him with panties.
Let me tell you a little something about ole TJ and that song. First of all, he gyrates his hips in the most obscene air hump you have ever seen. And the dude does not wear underwear, because his kit was swinging like a jungle gym. I feared that his careening genitals would poke out the eye of some unsuspecting senior, unfortunate enough to be sitting in the front row. The look of shock and horror on the faces of the blue hairs is something that I will remember for the rest of my life. And if that's not enough. . . When he sings the last line "You and your pussycat nose" he sings it like this:
You and your pussssssssyyyyyyyyyyyy (long dramatic pause) cat nose.
Again, the elderly were aghast and our poor friend was mortified.
OF COURSE we slingshot underwear on the stage
OF COURSE some of it was men's
OF COURSE we nailed the drummer with the cupless bra
OF COURSE we put up the sign.
Nothing happened. No kisses were offered. But our friend was M.A.D. Between being carsick from driving around blindfolded for an hour, to being publicly called out for both her birthday and for wanting a kiss (which she would have rather sucked a hospital mop, by the by) and the fact that none of us really liked Tom Jones and were only there for the irony of it, she was one very unhappy camper. And we were all left with a searing case of pranker's remorse.
The late, great, Johnny Carson used to say that the key to a great joke was - know your audience, timing and commitment. We clearly had only one of those things right and as I look at the calendar, I realize that August will be here before we know it and we will once again be drawn together to celebrate this friend's birthday. But instead of sitting around the fire reveling in what awesome pranksters we were, we will be reminded of our singular, but epic birthday fail.
F.U. Tom Jones. I hope your d1ck falls off. Aw, who am I kidding? F. Me.