How Tripod Lost His Leg

I've been a crazy cat lady before I knew what a crazy cat lady was. I was born a cat-loving goon. So it stands to reason that I would love all cats (and animals for that matter) in a ferocious, determined way. Every. Single. Cat.



People are funny: the more they get involved with something and learn of that somethings' quirks, the more they become snobbish and dull about it all. Buttons are one example. Coins, stamps. Shoes. I know someone who likes yarn. A lot. You name it, and there is some poor sap out there who is completely and utterly obsessed about it and can tell you all about that commonplace item he so raves about until you're dead and he's blue in the face. And then they get a complex about it. Button superiority, coinage hubris. And they're discriminate little buggers. Very discerning customers, those item fanatics. And they love to regale people of how amazing their thing is to everyone in the vicinity; this is why I'm bad with small talk, by the way. I cannot seem to join in their cultish love of shoes. I stand there awkwardly nodding to everything they're babbling on about as if I had some insight or interest.



Pet people are no different. You get dog snobs who turn their noses up at yippy little things hanging out in purses, and small dog lovers who hate clumsy slobbery beasts, especially as they knock into everything. Snake people hate bird people, fish people are lonely little sods, exotic pet people are right out, ferret people hate everyone and so on and so forth. But cat people are a breed all their own.



It's not so much the physical appearance of the cat they go on about. It's the personality. This one is a shit, that one is stupid. Mitsy has a co-dependency with a stuffed bear. Mopsy gets angry when we leave for the weekend and pees on the bed. I'm certain you've heard it, and if you've heard it and did not immediately worry, then I'm positive you are a cat lover. Cat lovers get off on stories of other cats being horrible, selfish creatures.



I am immensely guilty of such exaggerations. I revel in them. I am, however, a cat connoisseur. Everyone I know has normal looking kitties. You get the exception of the Hemmingway types (the polydactyl cats who look eerily like they have furry little hands, which then leads to the even eerier theory that, once they've evolved thumbs, then it's the beginning of the end for man-kind...) and the cross-eyed Siamese. But nothing in the way of a weird cat. This is where I gleefully come in.



I posted a blog about one of my cats, Pharrah. You know, the one with the eating disorder who successfully drove the sea lions from Pier 39 (because, I have discovered, they were jealous that she out-sealed them)? Well I have another one. I collect them, you see. I had Ophelia, that sad, strange little thing who had a water fetish. She would still be with Mother had the mother ship passed her over. It didn't. She loves it in outer space. /squish

In light of my eclectic collection of feline companions, I thought I’d all introduce you to my newest little bundle of fur: Tripod. I fucking hate his fucking name. And so does he. Know why? Because it rubs it in his face, every day, that he has to make his way through life with only three legs. Yep. I have a “special needs” kitty. I think the definition of that is wide, and as a result, I have aptly expanded it to include all of my kitties as “special needs” kitties.

I found Tripod in a Pet Smart cat adoption fair. All the cute, normal kittens were purposefully placed within eyesight, all healthy and shiny and spritely. I love to love kitties in cages, as it rips at what semblance of a heart I have; I do it to remind myself that it is still there and beating, despite what I may think. While ripping at my heartstrings, I stooped down to peer into a dark cage at the bottom, and I see this huge kitten. He’s thoroughly depressed, covered in fleas and has the ominous name of “Tripod” on the little placard. At first I didn’t see his nub—that shiny pink little thing. But as he slept, I caught glimpses of it. And I knew I had to have him. The little old lady seemed dubious at first, but then delighted in the fact that, yes, I did in fact want damaged goods. He was a steal at a discounted price. I think they calculate cat prices like they do cars. This cat comes factory standard, fully loaded. This one has some miles. This one was manufactured just last month. This one has some parts missing, so, we’ll discount the price for you to make the offer more attractive. I was sold. I’m a sucker. Bite me.

When I was buying him cat food after getting him in his box, the clerk was so happy he had another home, because, according to her, he was returned. Who the fuck returns a cat? Peter O’Toole and maybe some other weirdos. Whatever. He was mine.

  

(CALIGULAAAAAA!!!)

I love to gleefully tell people I have a 3-legged cat. It amuses me—they cannot believe it. Sometimes, I get people asking how he lost his leg. My need for attention takes over at that point, and, with the spotlight on me, so I wax hyperbolic different accounts of T-Pod and his Compton days, or some other such nonsense. So I’m here to set the record straight once and for all:

Saigon- 1968. During the Tet Offensive, T-Pod flew a solo mission just after midnight, shortly before the first battle of Saigon. The main point of this was to completely overtake all military operations of the Viet Cong army amassed outside of the US Embassy in Saigon. While the battle primarily fought on the ground, raged, Tripod with his kitty instincts, fired heavily on the advancing enemy, which then drove the Communists back. In retaliation, the Viet Cong army fired on the air strike raiders, downing several planes, including solo pilot Tripod.

While Tripod went down, the US Embassy did not. The Viet Cong army failed to meet their military objectives, in large part due to the daring aerial acrobatics of our hero. Luckily for us, T-Pod’s wrecked plane landed in friendly territory. His life was spared, but he lost a leg in the crash. To him, it was but a small price to pay for driving the enemy back and saving the US Embassy. It is still a point of pride to him to this day. He was honorably discharged and given a life-time supply of catnip, which he promptly sold for booze.

The end. 

Gerald the Very, Very Large Spider

In San Francisco, you don't get much wildlife. Occasionally, you get a feral male cat who likes to bite defenseless 3-legged kitties, and lots of pigeons, but that's about it. The only genuine wildlife we get here in this city are hobos. They range from gargantuan to sickly skinny, fully toothed to toothless and every age from 16 to 80. It's bizarre, the wide variety of hobo. There are seasonal, varietal hobos as well as hobos whose public frequency is dependent on temperatures. 

Knowing my luck, however, I was bound to stumble upon something not many people get to have. And as my luck would have it, that something had eight legs. And large mandibles. 


Gerald. 

Gerald was a spider. More than that, Gerald was the spider who decided it would be a smashing good idea to set up shop in my window sill. The cats paced anxiously on the other side of the window, mewing at him. He didn't seem bothered, but I'm sure he had a tough exterior which only coated the soft, loving spider he was deep down. He had all his legs, all his eyes (I think) and a very impressive set of pointy teeth-things. And he was big. He was also an attention whore.


Gerald was disconcertingly placed in my window ledge, and would often look down on me as I slept. His pointy leg-hairs and the creepy way he spun his web all made me rest easier knowing I had him to watch over me. This one time, Pharrah decided she wanted to eat Gerald; I recalled  her back inside, but her tail caught the bottom of Gerald's web, and she took it with her. Gerald managed to salvage the rest of the web, and in the morning, a very disgruntled spider was re-spinning his web. He hated Pharrah ever since. Pharrah had it out for him, specially when I began to take pictures of him...


I would come home from work to make sure Gerald was still there-- talking to him, checking to make sure he had eaten. Boy he was HUGE. And a little creepy. 


And then, one day, when I woke up... Gerald was gone. He literally packed his web up and flew the coop. I don't know if the cats ate him, if I had accidentally swallowed him when he went to hug me good bye, or... what... but he was gone. :-( No web, no Gerald, no nothin'. 


I like to think Gerald finally got that job promotion he'd been going on about and moved out into the suburbs where he could finally buy a house, get a dog and meet a nice lady-spider (or male spider...) and live a quiet life. Maybe he would pick up Shakespearean acting in his off-work time, join a nice Masons group or get a part time job in the mall during the holidays as Santa Claus. 

Now I feel better about potentially swallowing him. Goodie!

All I Need to Know I Learned at Renaissance Faire

In light of the upcoming Renaissance faire season (at least for us Northerners), I have taken it upon myself to give back to the faire community. It is a community of givers and people who work tirelessly for themselves; who toil and slave away endless to climb that invisible social ladder that exists in all theatrically-minded microcosms. This community, chock full of inflated creator-types has much to teach the bottom feeders like myself, and I cannot express to them how invaluable I find their hard learned lessons have been. For who knows better about myself and my private dealings more than the mob? Vespasian knew this, which is why he began construction the Coliseum. I hang tenuously on every single word, every single opinion they have to gift me. For in that short span of three months comes the culmination of thousands of peoples' lives from all walks of life who share a single goal: popularity. Like Nero, I am seizing upon the mob's love of theatrics to better myself. However, I am reciprocating. It is to this community I bestow my gratitude and am giving them back what I hold dear in my heart: everything I need to know, I learned at Renaissance faire.

1. Share everything. Including your personal life, in great hyperbolic detail to everyone and everything. The higher you are on the Great Social Ladder of Renaissance Faire, the more people care.
   
2. Play fair. But only when you're being watched closely. Otherwise, sling mud profusely. You'll look like an ape when you do it, but boy! It sure is fun!
   
3. Don't hit people. Except when they're down or they're trying to steal your business but fail due to their own ego being twice the size of the actual man.
   
4. Put things back where you found them. Except for your personal morality and sense of accountability.
   
5. Clean up your own mess, only if you spill your alcohol on someone. Otherwise, your personal mess is for everyone to share in and get involved with!
   
6. Don't take things that aren't yours, unless it's married spouses, tankards, opening weekend business, ad space, volunteers and contracted acts.
   
7. Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody, but only after faire has been closed for a month.
   
8. Wash your hands before you eat… wait, don't wash your hands before you eat. It's not period.
   
9. Flush. Wait. Nevermind.
   
10. Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you. They cause you to forget you're a rational adult and put you right back in the 7^th grade. I mean, we all act like it anyways, right?
    
11. Live a balanced life - learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some. And by "play" I mean slosh around in a vat of jell-o or mud in a bikini a size too small while a real-life cartoon takes pictures of you and posts them for creepers to see. Also, Catholic School Girl Night counts as "dance."
    
12. Take a nap every afternoon. In the street. While being paid. Because you can. It sets a great tone for the faire.
    
13. When you go out in the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands and stick together. Unless you're trying to climb the Great Social Ladder of Renaissance Faire, in which case you're free to gouge out eyes, slander, insult, berate and lie. Popularity is the key to having fun. Being popular is fun. Fun is cool.
    
14. Be aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup: the roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that. Also, be aware that Styrofoam cups and raccoon tails and cat ears aren't period… and facial piercings, and off-the-shoulder-chemises…
    
15. Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the Styrofoam cup - they all die. So do we. So live it up! Get really really drunk and insult a few patrons!
    
16. And then remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first word you learned - the biggest word of all – "LOOK," is all well and good, but "DICK" is the operative word.
    

Well, my throngs of adoring groupies, I'm glad you've enjoyed this. Feel free to reprint it for your own benefits. I would be honored, but I would also expect it. I look forward to seeing you all in less than 2 months for our glorious Opening Day at the Renaissance faire! :D

How to Survive in Los Angeles

The Greeting:
It is of the utmost importance to make your greeting as loud and attention-getting as humanly possible. The first impression has more to do with how you greet someone then to whom you greet. If they are a good friend, you may forgo the formal greeting and you may commence with slang terminology. Note: Learning slang may or may not be helpful when dealing with Hollywood talent agents. Learn at your own discretion. See Slang, below.

What You Need To Begin:
What follows is a list of recommended staples one would need prior to moving to LA.

1. A cell phone (two if you plan on using one as a "business line.")
2. Some kind of addiction. Cigarettes are preferable mainly because everyone smokes; if you opt for a drug of some kind, crack cocaine is the only way to go.
3. Some kind of complex, but "little man" syndrome is not recommended. Tom Cruise called that one in the '80's and you want some kind of originality.
4. The presumption that you are prettier /better / more talented than the current Hollywood elite.
5. Some type of network where mindless bodies are readily available for miscellaneous reasons (see The Friendship.)

The Friendship:
Throughout the duration of a friendship, formed purely for selfish reasons, call only when you need an entourage to make an entrance. Drunken groupies make you look like a stud. Form networks of other Struggling Actor/Model/Singers so you can rely on each other in times of desperation. The friendship should only be continued in the light of dismal failure (wherein you both bemoan the life that is a Struggling Actor/Model/Singer). The friendship should be discontinued only after prominent success or if the said friend attempts to kill your career. Attempts at killing you will only give you an edge over the others, and thus should be overlooked as a favor done for you.

A Ride:
Never be seen using the Metro. If you need transport, use the Metro or Orange Line only in the cover of darkness and even then, Bono-type sunglasses and a do-rag are recommended. If you can, mooch off of someone else in your network who owns/steals cars. (Reality Note: Grand theft auto does exist in the real world-- it is not just a video game. If you're riding in a stolen car, be wary of speeding and loud gangster rap. Cops run plates. Minimize attention to self by listening to smooth jazz.) But failing all these and you are reduced to walk everywhere, walk in style. Ladies, do not remove your stilettos. You look cooler when you arrive in heels. Cool is fun.

Food:
Don't eat. When you eat, it implies you're human and weight gain/aging. That isn't cool-- skinny is. Besides, with the diet regime of coffee and cigarettes, who needs food? But if you must eat, vegan is the stylish way to go (think Pam Anderson. She's cool.)

Clothing:
Women, the less the better, unless you're a recent transplant and have yet to get on the Cigarette and Coffee diet plan (See Food, above.) Men, as long as you're tan and buff, pretty much anything goes. Except mesh. And flannel. Designer clothing is a must. Save up all your money to buy Chanel or Prada or Gucci, and then to look cool, wear all three designers at the same time. You'll bring to mind Paris Hilton. And that's cool. Don't worry about rent (see The Friendship) because with network friends, you can mooch a couch or and air mattress for a few months. Keep in mind: couch hopping is acceptable only in the Valley. But no one wants to let a network friend borrow their favorite pair of Jimmy Choo's. Don't even ask.

Starbucks:
A word for newcomers to the Los Angeles region: you will find a Starbucks within a half-mile radius of your domicile. Find the location nearest you. Go everyday (Tip: along with spending money for designer clothes and your cell phone bill, section off a chunk of your money solely for coffee.) Go twice a day. The sooner you've got the day and night shift of the Starbucks calling you by your name/drink, the sooner you can bring a date or your entourage. Having others know you by a first name basis builds up your reputation. Plus, it makes you look cool when you play it nonchalantly in front of prospective one-nighters. A one-nighter is someone you plan on sleeping with only once in a drunken flurry. Men should do this frequently. Ladies, if you must do this, be discreet unless you idolize Tila Tequila.

Slang:
In this town of informality dressed up in Italian silk suits, you need to know both ways of speaking. Taking speech classes will help you rid yourself of any annoying regional dialect you may have from the continental states or an accent if you are from anywhere else besides Canada. However, Australian and English accents are acceptable, but only if you're able to do a decent American accent on command. But in order to communicate effectively with today's youth, find a few useful slang words and pepper your lexicon with them. A few good ones to try out to your dog or plant:
1. "Holla" (basic definition: What's up, attractive fe/male? I want to talk to you but the only coherent thing I could think of was "holla". Please think that I am cool.) "Holla" is to be said outside of context only if something really cool happens and cool seems so ubiquitously said.
2. "Bone out". To "bone out" means to get your ass in gear and scram, which should be used while in a car and you need to leave quickly.  
3. "Home-girl/home-boy". Referring to someone you consider being so close to you, they could live at home with you and you wouldn't mind all too much. The exact translation was lost years ago.
4. "Ill / Sick / Tight." Before the 2000's, each of those words had their own respective definition. Now, they've all been reduced to a singular meaning: "Cool."

Of Religion and Politics:
If you are a conservative, you have two options. 1) Do not let anyone know. Conservatives can survive in LA if no one knows you're one. 2) Switch sides. Liberals have more fun anyway. And fun is cool. A few things you can say in public to gain favor: "Bush sucked." "This country's going to hell." "Big oil sucks." Repeat as needed. And if you belong to any of the Western religions, find an Eastern one that seems similar to yours. Then switch. Western religions are so last century.

Agents:
Every Struggling Actor/Model/Singer needs one. If you don't have the money to afford one right from the get go, forego the Starbucks and save your money to get one. In the meantime, a temporary solution is to have someone back home like a sibling labeled "Agent" in your contact list on your cell phone. Then when they call and "Agent" pops up on Call-ID have them pose as your agent. No one with you will know the difference. And then when you've saved up the money to get a real agent, casually let it drop that you've switched agents because the last one didn't do anything for you except call you. You'll seem cool. 

Nightlife:
Get one. In LA, there are lots of local clubs and bars to frequent, especially on the Westside. Learn all of the restaurants and little cafes open after midnight. The more obscure the place, the cooler you'll seem to fellow entourage members. Here is a recommended sequence of events, which should transpire almost every night: After that quad-shot of espresso (see Starbucks, above), shower and dress with extreme care (when complimented, off-handedly mention that you just threw something on. You'll seem cool because of your natural flair for chic.) After you're ready, call your network friends, and find a place to get shit faced. Stay out until Last Call or security has to forcibly remove you. Either way works for going out with panache.

Failing All of the Above:
If it happens that you do not achieve your goals, you have one choice. Go home. You stay at the risk of being sucked into the world of Adult Entertainment or being a waiter for the rest of your days. Good luck!

 

Celebrities, or, Why I’m Awesome

These days, you see pictures of movie stars and other various celebrities plastered everywhere—like a rash you can't get rid of. It's itchy and has weird bumps and you don't know what the hell is going on but you know you're uncomfortable and you just want it to GO AWAY so you can get some sleep! >.>

But what is more annoying than just the itchy bumps and interrupted sleep caused by mere photos of spoiled people? When the spoiled people try to tell everyone else who isn't famous how they are "just like us!" As if. I read all the time in interviews with celebrities how "we feed our kids ourselves!" Or: "we clean up after ourselves!" Or, my favorite: "we get our own groceries and make our own dinners!" And they spew that with such enthusiasm! I think they're expecting applause after uttering those rehearsed lines. Hello… this isn't the Awards Show of You and you aren't getting a stupid trophy for wiping your own ass.


It's almost as if they're retarded, or 2 years old, and they have to announce to everyone how they can do mundane things and expecting us to all exclaim in unison: Aw! Good job! Who wants a cookie? Oh. Wait. They can't eat cookies. Their contracts specifically state: No carbs or refined sugar until they hit 30. Expiration date, you know. Social networking sites do not help matters at all. Sites like Twitter and Facebook are yet another forum on which those brain-dead monkeys can self-postulate and peacock. Joy of joys. -_-


I wish I got a cookie for doing what I was supposed to do with my own two hands. Hell, I'd collect those cookies and sell them to schools so I can at least make some money DOING WHAT NORMAL PEOPLE DO EVERY GODDAMN DAY. I love how the stupid-rich movie stars try to glean every scrap of attention from everything. They shouldn't be called "celebrities," they should be called "opportunists." Srsly.

Conversely, I could become completely lazy and dependent on the external reinforcement of others, and refuse to move or feed myself unless I'm guaranteed a standing ovation. Let the games begin. People who do things so mind-numbingly stupid or lazy or socially irresponsible that it hurts: kind of like Octo-Mom, or the woman who is actively trying to weigh 1000 pounds.


But I think what really bothers me most about those people is their complete delusion. They really think everyone just gobbles this shit up like it's the greatest way to spend an afternoon watching other people feign normality. Incredulously, they believe what they have to say is important. I like to think of it as the Bono Complex. Pure narcissism is like pure cocaine. Shit hits hard, roughs you up and leaves you feeling more used than Vietnamese hookers after 1975. Too soon?

One day, I'd like to become the most famous Geek Girl EVAR. And when I do, I can assure you all that I will be the most lazy, self-promoting, selfish creature on the planet. I'll lock myself away and become a hermit, playing World of Warcraft for days on end—and I'll emerge only to work the Renaissance Faire or to do something so blindingly retarded that my royalties income will be secure for another year.

It's the American Way. Manifest Destiny! Onwards to Oregon!

Aw, shit. I just died of dysentery. Press space bar to start over… /fail

My friends, Jordan Grout and Shao Tam

I'm positive everyone out there has that 
one friend of which you're simultaneously ashamed and proud. You know: the dweeb who laughs a little too hard at dead baby jokes while in a Babies R Us. We know they are weird, we know they are loveable. We know that they are really fucking awkward. And we keep them around for a myriad of reasons. I happen to have such a friend. Well may you be surprised. LOL.

His name is Jordan Grout and he is an Irish piece of shite. Now, Jordan is one of the categories of Guys Who Go by Their Middle Name. You know, the quasi-douche M.O. "I think my name is so boring, so I'll go by my more interesting middle name. It works on chicks."

I know several of these guys, and while lovely in of themselves, I can't help but not take them wholly seriously, and I giggle at them, sometimes to their faces. Jordo claims he moved from Ireland as a toddler, but I know otherwise. They kicked him out. The Irish forcibly removed Jordan from their country because he's a gigantic asshole. Even as a baby. Now, when I met Jordo, he was going through his Cave-Man phase. 

He was creepy. He was hairy. He sat in the corner of our poetry class and made weird commentary which was amusing only to him. And yet, in spite of that, we became friends. To this day, I have yet to find a redeeming quality besides his ability to turn into Caveman Jordo. We've never had any adventures or journeys that seem to be a staple to enduring friendships. What we've had instead is mutual, irreverent sense of humor. I, of course, am far superior and better at pretty much everything. But I keep Jordan around for a basis for comparison. Also, he introduced me to Brian Peppers. How can you not keep that person around?? He laughs like a baying hyena, which is a great hobo-deterrent.

There have been legends told in the San Fernando Valley of this creature, this Jordan Grout. I mean, with a name like "Grout" how can one not make up wild (and mostly true) tall tales? I once heard Jordo wrestled a rabid Joan Rivers after a plastic surgery session went south. It has been said he managed to subdue the Wild Rivers with his crappy Irish teeth, peed on her to counteract the acidic stinging venom spurting from her eyeballs and hog-tied her to a Hummer; the city of Westwood gave him a medal—which he promptly laughed at and smelted into a chastity belt. He wears it to this day.

Another redeeming quality Jordo has is his buddy, Shao Tam. Jordan, in a moment of pure spite and genius, decided to give my phone number to this tubby Asian fuck whom I'd never met (and have yet to meet in person to this day) who promptly began to harass me. Daily. And even sometimes at 2 AM. "Tits"… no joke.

Shao Tam is diry and wrong and inappropriate. And Asian. I have a sneaking suspicion he listens to disco music dressed in shiny spandex a la Richard Simmons. From what I understand of Shao Tam the Wortheless Hobo is that he is some kind of chef in a crappy restaurant in Glendale, CA. Why they would let this monster filled with volatile gases near anything served to other human beings is quite beyond my comprehension. But as long as he's not near my food, I can sit back from a comfortable distance and laugh. And I do. A lot.

Seeing as I've never met this fuck in person, I find it only appropriate to make up some things about him for my amusement.

1. Shao Tam wears shiny spandex and listens to disco.
   
2. Shao Tam is retarded.
   
3. Mullet.
   
4. He has Pant-Weasels.
   
5. Shao Tam was the inspiration for Jabba the Hut. 

           =















Well folks. That's all you're getting. I will leave you with Brian Peppers time: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RuOxnflYQ6E

MAYO!

-- County, USA—The Annual Mayonnaise Festival happens every year, but for some, this gathering of Mayo Aficionados is a brand new, and big, deal.

Held in the height of summer for one week, mayonnaise makers, eaters and friends set up shop on the east block of High Street and have a grand old time. One booth, run by some of the original participants since 1978, Bertha and George Mason’s We Love Mayo!  draws large crowds year after year. They offer homemade classic flavored mayo, but they also put some twists on old classics.

“We cure one line of our mayo with red chili peppers for about 6 months,” says Bertha, 79, of –County. “Folks our age can’t eat it, what with digestive problems and whatnot,” she continues, “but that doesn’t stop ‘em from trying,” she says with a wink, and nodding to the near by Port-o-Let.

Just down a way from the Mason’s classic booth is the newest addition to the festival: Hot Mayo.  “It’s our way of telling the world how new and hip this festival really is!” Missy Smith quips. Smith, 29, is the newest appointee in a long line of Public Relations administrators for –County. “We want the MTV Generation to come on down and be able to enjoy themselves along side their grandparents.”

Hot Mayo features two main attractions, not so much selling mayo per se, but selling an image the tiny host town is trying to renovate. The first is a large, clear vat of mayonnaise outfitted with a dunk chair on which local high school cheerleaders perch, waiting for the chair to drop them into the melting goo. Contestants line up and throw baseballs at a bull’s eye lever. “We’ve noticed we get a broader demographic with this one than with the kiddies’ pool filled with warm mayonnaise,” Smith muses. Smith doubles as the high school’s cheerleading coach. “The prospect of throwing something at a pretty girl seems to hit home with the other girls from school who might be jealous of them,” Smith goes on.

On the whole, Hot Mayo draws the largest crowd, using a pass-the-hat method to raise money for the cheerleading department. The kiddie pool, indeed, did keep audiences’ attention much longer: young girls in bikinis rolling around in the yellowing glop makes people want to drop their dollars.

“Overall, this looks like it’s gonna be a good year,” Bertha Mason surmises, looking into the setting sun on opening day. Silhouetted against the sunset, the ever growing line of elderly people for the Port-o-Let brings a smile to Bertha’s face. “It’s only going up from here!”