lesbian jack and the mardi gras pirates of orlando

The line, she said, um, excuse me, but the line goes around the corner.

I already know this. I can easily follow the queue and the jingles of the faux dreads of at least five faux-Jack Sparrows and countless pirates decked out in what appear to be thriftstore bedsheets and prom dresses (and lots and lots of Mardi Gras beads) all the way to the exit.

Instead of letting the line stretch out the door, a theater attendant, dressed in a baby blue suit and (I think) real dreads scoops it across the exit doors and up the opposing wall. All the makings of a clusterfuck.

Stupid theater attendants nearly lost our place in line. They informed me that I was in the wrong line, and to go to the, uh...other...line. So I looked and found that there was no line, and the same brown hoodied-straw-blonde-bitch reminds me that, sir, um, the line is back around the corner, okay?

We take our seats. In front of us is a lesbian dressed as Jack Sparrow, and thus the most authentic of the bunch. The only difference between her and the genuine article is about 200 pounds of gigantic fat ass.

Now, I could go on about the film. How it is actually very good. The sets, costumes, art direction, and acting are all good. How the special effects are not over done and how I liked the twisting plot. How Johnny Depp comes out of his sophomore slump and how Keith Richards has maybe one of the best scenes in movie history.

But all that is far less interesting than the women in front of us.

Besides Lesbo Sparrow, her three companions have arrived in previously mentioned thriftstore garments. Brought along for the ride are toy swords and pistols.

Before the show, Lesbo has her arms full of sodas and popcorn. Pirate food. And she's having trouble sitting and distributing the stuff to the harpies. Her fat ass kind of smacks the seat. Her friend says, in the same shrill voice that will laugh and whose feet will stomp at every one liner in the entire film (and there are. many.) "YOU NEED TO LAY OFF THE RUM, GIRL."

Then, this is where it gets interesting. The harpy to the right of her quotes...one of the previous films. She says, "WHY IS THE RUM ALWAYS GONE??"

Then, all four of them, all together, I shit you not, they all go, "OH...THAT'S WHY!"

I guess it makes sense if you remember the scene.

When the film began, one of the fatties with slightly thinning hair unsheathes her sword and points at the screen. In a salute, I guess. I should mention at this point that they did not seem to be retarded. Any of them.

I started to think: What kind of desperate bravery does it take to be such a devoted fan as to be ignorant of the embarrassment of your own crippling nerdiness? It doesn't exactly matter what you or I think of them, but that's the point. They seem almost to exist in a different world, one that would probably be better than the one I and I'm assuming you live in (who wouldn't want to live in a world of pirates and mythical beasts?), but for the million constant crushing sad moments of 'you know that this isn't real.'

I remember when I was a kid I went through a minute in which my heart sunk into some place that it never came back from, when I finally realized that my favorite childhood movie characters, like Indiana Jones and the Jedis, are fictions. That I will never meet, nor be one.

I think that these people are the ones that never had that minute, for better or worse. They have those little nagging moments all the time, sure, but never the profoundly crushing moment that I remember, and maybe you remember, or that maybe you never needed to have or simply haven't.

As a side note, I believe this also ties into role-playing, not necessarily the online games, but the live ones, where people act like vampires and pretend not to laugh at each other. There's a similar lack of shame there.

Anyway, they liked the movie.

I liked the movie. Stubs choked on her spit and sounded like she had the croup, I thought she would die and nearly panicked. She didn't and she liked it enough to want to see it again.

But it's three hours...

advice for pussies part 1: don't kill bugs

Yesterday Stubs and I were getting ready for the day in the restroom when a bug flew in. Stubs said, "Bug" and then took a bottle of Centrum and smashed the shit out of it. It was still alive, so I suggested turning on the water to drown it.

Now, I've been doing a lot of Buddhist related stuff recently. Reading that just as you are constantly experiencing the universe, the universe is experiencing you, that kind of thing. Anyway, the bug was still (admirably) alive, so I decided I'd save it's life.

Wrapped it in a paper towel. Threw it outside. It flew away.

Now, I think that everybody at one point in their lives does something like this. Some people do it every day. But the thing is, I think everyone expects to feel super noble for it. Like, "I have given this small creature life, I am like the Jesus of bugs."

But the fact is, I (and I'd venture most people) are only convincing themselves that's the way they feel. The truth is I felt about the same saving a bug as it does killing them. Take from that what you will, but I think it's a great argument against killing in general.

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Went to Sea World again yesterday. It was the shit wrapped inside the bomb. We rode the Kraken many times.

I have not played poker in forever.

For. Ever.

There are no casinos here in sunny Florida. They have Disney, Universal, Sea World, Wet and Wild and a ton of old people, but no casinos.

I'm moving to OKC. Fire Lake will be my new home.