pervy with a chance of meatballs
We went to a show on our wonderful Alaskan cruise that was random but more importantly, risqué. The day after, on a whale watching trip, we were still laughing about it when my new friend, Asha, from Cape Town, told me that the cruise director had warned everyone that the next show wasn’t appropriate for children. Oopsy daisies, I missed that message.
It was the one night my husband agreed to go to the theatre. Kind of. It took some dragging, drinks, and convincing from his dad that they could leave. I told him he couldn’t. There we were in the back row with Josh’s brother, our sister-in-law, and our two girls. In front of us was my 16-year-old son sitting next to Josh’s parents.
It started off with some jazzy ditties but got increasingly more bizarre and, well, more pervy if you will. Imagine Madonna’s Truth or Dare meets Moulin Rouge meets Chicago. Talent wasn’t the only thing abundant on that stage.
My son kept turning around giving me a death glare while my father-in-law also turned around to look at my husband who was sleeping or hiding, I’m not sure which. The three of them apparently sharing a brain, got up precisely at the same exact time, when there were men on stage with suspenders on and no shirts, and darted out of the theatre. My brother-in-law soon followed.
Unfortunately, for them, they missed the menage-a-trois bit where a man dressed like an attendee at Octoberfest played peek a boo and hid under a sheet with two giggling ladies in white and blue crinoline and lacy undergarments. They sang about “two girls being better than one” and the look on my daughters’ faces is not something I will soon forget. It was one of bewilderment, amusement, and mortification, etc.
Then, this past weekend, while in Boston to take my daughter to camp, walking home after dinner in the north end where we were serenaded by a tenor over cacio e pepe, a parade of dozens of naked mostly men on bikes came flying down the street. Laughing, I told my daughter not to look which made me laugh even harder. Of course, she was going to look, how could you not!?! The next day my daughter said she was having flashbacks of the men’s nether regions. She did not say nether regions.
The moral of the story is that there isn’t one. I just wanted to share. Life is absurd and it’s good to take note of what’s absurd and then laugh at it.
When my son was little, he used to say when it was raining hard that it was “porning” out instead of pouring. My husband and I never corrected him because we laughed so hard at the idea of porny things falling from the cumulous clouds above our heads. But fair warning, from the looks of it, the weather forecast for this summer appears to be pervy with a chance of meatballs. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the show!