And To Think That I Saw It On Parrot Street

Devil's Rejects

I know the party has reach critical mass when a girl with a pierced cheek starts fondling Kevin's bare chest. Kevin, incidentally, is (or was) wearing a torn white t-shirt covered in fake bloodstains and a platinum white wig purloined from another partygoer. Jacki, Emily and I hang back and watch with a kind of mute horror. What can really be said when confronted with this kitchen tableau? Any sounds or sudden movements will provoke their attention and it goes without saying that they can't let us live.

Jacki is dressed in a typical fashion, a tight, black velvet bodice and skirt. She insists her costume is actually "What Jacki would wear if she wanted to get fired," but I think she could get away with it. She is the only person I ever met who could make goth look both sexy and professional.

Emily and I wear matching sweaters and jeans, claiming we are a cult of two. I tried to convince her that our chant should be "Who loves the little, little duckies in the pond? I do, I do, I do, a chicka quack quack." This failed to catch on outside my head, but was marvelously entertaining thus confined. In our capacity as cultists, we brought more than enough Kool-Aid for everyone. It was pointed out that our cult seemed to be a conglomeration of Jonestown and Heaven's Gate, but I prefer to think they copied off of us retroactively.

Emily felt the need to apologize for our matching appearance when we procured our Kool-Aid and "something with nutritional value," which we interpreted as a precooked turkey breast despite my protest that pumpkin pie is chock full of autumnal gourd vitamins. I did not think anyone, least of all our cashier at the grocery store, would care one whit that we had the same sweater. I imagine we amuse a lot of strangers who think better of mentioning it.

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