What's a Dude to Do?

On the night of the first presidential debate, my wife Joan threw herself a 52nd birthday party. The following describes the zany events of that evening.

That question presented itself to me on Friday, the 26th of September, 2008 – a date that, to borrow a phrase from FDR, will live in infamy.

Two events, both scheduled long in advance and eagerly anticipated, dominated the evening. The first was the presidential debate between Senators McCain and Obama, occurring against the backdrop of domestic financial crisis and international military conflict and expansion of terrorism. The second event, happening under my own roof, was my wife Joan’s self-thrown 52nd birthday party, a girls-only affair featuring non-stop chatter, giggles galore, fancy dishes and fruity drinks, and a board game called “What’s a Dame to Do?!” in which one dame poses a hypothetical nonsensical situation for herself, and the others choose her most likely action from a list of equally nonsensical choices. To survive with my manhood intact, my game plan was as follows: to arrive home, pay my respects to the ladies, grab some manly chow and a beer or two, and sequester myself upstairs to watch the debate or whatever the hell else I pleased. Little did I know, and in no way could I imagine, the bizarre happenings that would foil a perfect plan.

The upstairs/downstairs scenario worked like a charm until the doorbell rang. All the guests had arrived, so who could it be? Perhaps a neighbor who saw all the cars and wondered why she wasn’t invited? Perhaps the Domino’s pizza guy at the wrong house? Perhaps the neighborhood teenagers acting like assholes? If only one of those were true. No, my friends, the organism behind the door, the creature my wife let in the house – well, he made Nightmare on Elm Street’s Freddy Krueger look like George Clooney. Imagine Woody Allen (younger version) clad in a form-fitting silver body suit, accessorized with a skimpy white tutu and a glittering crown sitting within the unruly hair atop the ugly head, brandishing a supposedly magic wand. If you can imagine that, then you have an inkling of what appeared before us. He called himself – with ample reason – the “Hairy Fairy.”

Even if we’d been warned, had some pre-conceived notion of what to expect, it wouldn’t have mattered. No one could have painted this picture and been taken seriously. No one could have described this . . . this freak show and withstood the reaction of horrified disbelief. Yet, it happened – “he” happened – and my poor wife Joan and her seven female friends may never – will never – be the same.

Only the most diabolical mind (or minds) could have conceived, planned, and executed this nefarious deed, this hideous home invasion. To conceive it is one thing – sick and twisted, but still only a concept. But then . . . to put the wheels in motion, to engage in pre-meditated planning, well, that is raw and that is cold and that is real. And finally, to give the go-ahead, to light the match, that is what separates the amateurs from the pros; and make no mistake, this was a bona fide professional operation – bearing all the earmarks of Nell’s Angels, that terrible trio of Southern belles -- Charlene, Gloria, and Patty -- who dared to turn loose the ugliest, homeliest of men, wearing the most unbecoming outfit, singing horribly off-key birthday tunes, showing up unannounced, unwelcome, and unwashed. Yes, these three fiendish femme fatales abolished all standards of human decency in the misguided attempt to give their adored employer a birthday to remember, to show her how much they love her. Have they no shame? Allow me to answer that: NO!!!!!!!! And they shall pay for this heinous crime. That’s right, at their annual Christmas lunch in Hilton Head, they shall receive their payback and it, I mean he, will not be pretty. Mark my words: The “Hairy Fairy” is heading south!

Once he became far too comfortable in our home, and once I became far too comfortable with him in our home, the “Hairy Fairy” in the tutu said ta-ta and was off to humiliate himself somewhere else. I prayed to God he was well compensated for his “work.” Given the nightmarish experience they experienced, I felt obliged to remain downstairs with the ladies, to give them the comfort of the presence of a real man who has rarely, if ever, worn a tutu. And what happened could not have been predicted, yet happen it did: I got hooked on “What’s a Dame to Do?!” I pulled up a chair to watch the action up close, to smell the . . . well, to sniff the . . . oh shit, to bathe in the feminine naughtiness that I’ve often dreamed about. These chicks rocked, they were hot, and they knew it! What’s a dude to do? I’ll tell you what: pull up a chair and watch eight broads play “What’s a Dame to Do?!”

To regain my composure I returned to the second floor, but before long the first floor summoned me again. This time it was music – not rock or jazz or rap or classical or polka – no, this was hypnotic, mesmerizing, almost tribal, like one might hear in the bazaars of Istanbul (or on your Turkish greatest hits collection). I was enchanted, virtually carried down the stairs by the pulsating rhythm. And when I reached its source I thought I’d died and ascended to heaven. Was she real? Was she the same meek, church-lady figure I had seen earlier? Va va va voom, baby! There she shook in our kitchen, wearing her very best “I Dream of Jeannie” costume, gyrating and swiveling and grinding with the ease of a professional belly dancer. And who knew? That’s what she is – young Sally, fresh out of the Penn State actuarial science curriculum, and holy hashish, how she must have put the pizzazz in that program!

So there you have it . . . another ho-hum Friday night in the Shea household, featuring a presidential debate, a hairy fairy, and a belly dancing actuary. Be sure to tune in next week, folks.