Tag Archives: villain

It’s so frikkin on right now – Act 1

Where was I? Ah yes, pausing for warm joo-joo pleasure and Judd Nelson air-punch. So, following the technicolor hurl that was Poppins, NASA and I went into superhero mode.

Context. A month ago, we were invited to a costume party of superhero proportions. And on that decidedly traumatic Saturday, we sat over lunch musing how to achieve social awesomeness – finally landing upon the notion to go as super versions of ourselves.

I went as a villain (which basically meant adding a mask) and NASA as a hero (in spandex, pink-metallic mask and cape – springs of hair punching the air in victory).

We rock up to this gig lookin’ like comic strips on a night off, anticipation and six-pack in hand. We’re going in, cover us. But wait, what? Lo and be-fucken-hold, every single person is in a fucking toga. Kiss my Ikea, you bastards. What the frik.

“Hey everyone! I’m in a BED SHEET. Come see how good I look!”

By this time, they’re 3 fitted-sheets to the West. And there we sit – two masked comics in the corner; corkscrew hero and brooding villain. Good anti-climatic times.

Cut to: NASA and I exit Poppins, our hopes and dreams violated, but in surprisingly good spirits. Wucs. Time to kick this puppy up a notch. We head to our haunt, a club with themed entry and 80s joo-joo. The theme? Superheroes, bitches! It’s a sign. Totally psyched, yo.

Time for a costume change. We duck into an empty shopping mall, passing a little geek parade of geisha and wizards. (O-kaay. Guess we aint the only ones getting our freak on.)

Into the toilets and suit up. I don my pink wig and Elvis sunnies (don’t ask for logic), and NASA assumes heroic form. We eye our reflections in the mirror. I look like a candy-dipped Uma of Pulp proportions. Accidental, but I’m feelin’ it.

Upon exit, the mall is deserted but for a lone security guard. He tips his hat, as if to say … “we get heroes in ‘ere all the time, no big deal.”

go to … It’s so frikkin on right now – Act 2

Festy like an armpit in June.

My bus to work is like a moving asylum that doubles as a taxi service.

I love living in large cities for the very reason they proffer up all kinds of weirdos (they add colour and save humans from becoming rote), but all city folk know Survival Rule No 1: avoid eye contact and keep the crazies to a minimum. Guys who mutter to themselves are given a wide berth and friends who represent train wrecks are rerouted to other stations.

But riding the bus is like having my face pressed up against someone’s proverbial crotch (or literal, as the case may be). You’re trapped in a glass case of emotion with every kind of kook, and there can be no escape.

We have a regular crazy who sidles up to women, clapping loudly in their ear. I figure it’s his way of saying “hey baby, how about a drink?” but frankly, it needs work. Then there’s the ones that breathe on you, like aircon at full blast; or creep up real close (no matter how much room they have), as if your part of the bus is better than theirs. What the?

And today, some dude got on the bus reeking of gasoline. Some possibilities …

  1. He’s a stunt man who was recently set on fire;
  2. He’s not a stunt man but was, nevertheless, recently set on fire;
  3. He finds petrol a cheaper, more manly alternative to cologne;
  4. He’s a villain of Joker proportions who was spawned in a smelting accident;
  5. He’s actually a robot that needs fuel as … um, fuel.

That’s all I got. Can there be any other reason? The smell went the length of the bus, leaving commuters to cram their face up against the windows in desperation. But I do thank him for clearing my nasal cavity – he was the equivalent to smearing Vicks Vapor under my nostrils.

If his ass was a tissue dispenser, I’d be set.

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