Dear readers, we are not the typical blogger in that we are loathe to share personal stories. We're shy that way, and frankly our personal stories are tedious. In general, we prefer to talk about other people, ridicule celebrities, expose hypocritical folly, talk about poop, etc. But we've decided to momentarily succumb to the blog-as-confessional meme and share an embarrassing story about yours truly.
When we were young (MANY years ago, we'll say 1989-ish), we were new to NYC and attending school. We were behind in rent. We had already received two summons for hopping the subway turnstyle. We were desperate. So, we accepted employment from a sadistic outfit known by the treacherously cute name of Eastern Onion.
We did singing telegrams. Forty bucks a pop.
We invite you to take a moment. Enjoy the mental image of the Whup-Ass Master schlepping foam-rubber-and-fake-fur costumes around Manhattan. Perhaps we had a 3 o'clock chicken. A 2:30 Gumby. An 11 o'clock fuzzy pink gorilla. These experiences, once thoroughly suppressed by our fragile psyche's intense survival instinct, include the following highlights (or lowlights):
We remember being hired to disguise ourselves as a foam rubber frog and do a "Happy Anniversary" tap dance for a mortified attache at a black tie event at the French Embassy. Think about that for a minute.
We recall doing a "naughty cop" strip-a-gram during high tea at Le Cirque. Picture a table situated dead center in the main dining room of a five-star restaurant. Envision a surly 22-year-old in cop drag, approaching the table to arrest a middle-aged society matron for "being too sexy." Then stripping down to heart-covered boxers. Picture a 22-year-old stripped down to heart-covered boxers being politely asked by the maître d' to kindly leave Le Cirque. It was just sad.
Visualize a "Congrats-on-your-promotion-Gumby-gram" enthusiastically executed on the news floor of a local television station, which as it turned out was broadcast live in the background behind a newscaster reporting breaking news on the Central Park rapist.
In your mind's eye, envision a child's birthday party at a hoity-toity Upper West Side brownstone, during which several embarrassed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (yours truly included) showed up in inconvenient synchronicity, and the demoralizing (and highly surreal) shoving match that ensued.
Imagine, if you will, a "the-rabbit-died-a-gram" performed on the trading floor of Solomon Brothers for the benefit of a profoundly uncomfortable stock broker, whose co-worker/apparent "piece of A on the side" fled the floor in tears as the Whup-Ass Master (attired as an off-season Easter Bunny) executed a frenetic tap dance and delivered the news that his OTHER squeeze had a bun in the oven.
Humility is a wonderful thing. It builds character. At the end of the day, no one has ever emerged a lesser person after being taken down a peg or two. Do a "Happy Birthday Hot-Pink Gorilla Gram" for a barely-coherent Brian Dennehy in Sardi's before a crowd of inebriated Broadway types. That, my dear readers, is a humility so acute it approaches Zen.
As God is our witness, these stories are 100% true.
You'll have to agree, we've earned the right to ridicule whomever we please.
And yes, we can tap dance. We've had lessons.
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