And If That Diamond Ring Don't Shine, Momma's Gonna Buy You a Clinging Vine...Good lord. Good, sweet, motherless lord, did I have the most humiliating experience last night.
The day began pleasantly enough, a day filled with promise; there was a party going on, and apparently, I was guest of honor. The festivities included friends and family all gathered together in a large venue of mysterious whereabouts. Could’ve been a party house here in Rochester or a bamboo hall in China -- no matter. The place was huge, festooned with balloons and streamers, with maybe fifty tables, six or so chairs to a table, and a low platform that served as a stage. There was much merriment, sounds of laughter and popping balloons, kids running about. The unmistakable fa-WOP! of Champagne corks echoed throughout the space, music blasted from some unseen speakers. It was heavenly, especially because this party was all for me, glorious me!
My best friend, Elton John, was in attendance, and he never looked better. Lost a bit of weight since the last time I’d seen him, and his Botox treatments really did make him appear ten years younger.
So Elton and I were hanging together, just chilling with some Chandon and chocolate-covered strawberries that tasted like fish, when all of a sudden, he grew angry with me. Why, I haven’t a clue, but I felt just awful about it, tried to smooth things over by making him laugh; Elton sat stone-faced despite my usually killer Creepy Old Woman Face and flapping arms. I became desperate, started to jump wildly about the place while emitting chicken sounds -- I even slapped my own forehead a couple of times and shouted whoooo dawgie! as I stomped and mugged and spun in circles before the seated Sir Elton.
Nothing. Not even a whisper of a smile..
Then, as a last resort, I farted. It was a long, loud, squealing effort that shook the very foundation of the party house, brought silence down around me in that mysterious den of frivolity. You could hear a pin drop.
Embarrassed beyond my wildest nightmares, I ran to the ladies’ room and wept tears of bitter shame -- till Elton slunk into the room, head hung low, his own tears steaming up his orange-tinted, feather-trimmed glasses. “Come,” he said, offering me his chubby little hand. I accepted, and we walked back into the party, hand in hand. When we reached our table, he turned to me and said, “Please remove your clothing now.” Of course, I did just as he’d asked.
“Sit on my lap and sing me something good," he said.
No problemo. Would be delighted to, Eltie.
And as I sat upon his roomy, sequined lap, sang to him a lullaby of mockingbirds and diamond rings, and things that don't belong in that song because I don't know the words, our chair began to twirl, slowly at first, then faster, faster, until the room spun round us like we were rocket men or something, the twinkling lights, stars, the balloons, planets. It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful experience of my life.
Next thing I knew, I found myself in a tent, and it was raining. I was puzzled.
Evidently, I'd been banished from the party by my friends and family due to my drunken, obscene behavior with Elton John, and my good friend Liz made sure to tell me all about what a horrid woman I was. She entered the tent, wagging her finger at me, scowling, and said, “Lori, big women should never, ever take their clothes off in public. What you did was unconscionable. Lar hates your guts, the kids despise you, and, to be frank, so does everybody else."
I woke this morning a haunted woman. A haunted woman who feels very, very fat. Damn you, Sir Elton. Damn you to hell.