I’ve been up all night talking to the porcelain god after a few too many Mojitos. I was booked to play a wedding party that turned out to be the marriage of two obviously dangerous alcoholic folks who liked to insist everyone drink with them till they fell over in a pile of their own vomit. Tony ain’t one to turn down a proposal like that, so count me in, baby.
The problem with such events is, once you’ve finished your stint, you’ve usually managed to wow a few folks with your suave tunes and debonair mustache, usually folks who’ve had several too many glasses of champagne.
And it’s never the nubile bridesmaids either. It’s more like the bride’s mom. The bride’s mom loved the shit out of me. She also had about fourteen hands judging by the bruises on my ass right now. Pincers might be more accurate. She couldn’t keep her mitts off my hiney. It was like trying to dodge a large, mechanical octopus. She was also reminiscent of a hippopotamus squeezed into a pink polyester two piece and horn-rimmed glasses.
As y’all know by now, Tony is a fan of all the ladies regardless of size and physical abnormality but this chick was just a test of my faith in womanhood. She probably hosted every damn weird defect known to the human race and a few previously undiscovered ones too. I mean even the seventeen cocktails I’d consumed didn’t Madonna-ize her or anything.
I gave her the slip by telling her I was heading to the buffet table to get her some crabs then hoofed it out the back way and hailed a cab home. I called Pedro from the cab to tell him to take care of my organ.
I’m getting too old for this shit, seriously.