Tonight I waited on a drag queen whose real name is Lance Lashley. I never did get her stage name, but I doubt very seriously that it is any more appropriate.
It took me all day to realize that I had a hangover. Apparently five drinks in five hours is more than my aging body can now manage. Ah well, what are you gonna do, right? So the night lasted FOREVER, which sucked. The money was okay, but only because the generosity of the gay community somehow managed to outweigh the obliviousness of the rednecks. Yes, that's right, I said rednecks. How the hell they found their way into such an event I do not know, but the image of the pudgy mullet man with the Freddy Mercury mustache and the fucking dog collar on is burned into my mind forever.
Of the two creepiest creeps in town, only one made an appearance tonight, despite the presence of the girls from Effie's Club Follies, our local burlesque troop. I won't say his name because with my luck he will stumble across this blog and I'll never hear the end of it. But trust me, he's gross. Leering and smarmy and alltogether unlikeable.
The b.h. is asleep on the couch, the dogs are both passed out on the floor, and Tombstone is on the tv. All's well that ends well, I suppose. Now I'm off to bed.
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