Just to set the mood. This is the closest to a picture of 'snark' I can find in my iPhoto.
So lately the Hubby is a huge patron of the performing arts.
Which in lay terms means that a few months ago I had a huge tantrum over not having anything to do on the Saturday nights, and that South Africa sucked because everyone I know has children (when will this fad be over?) and they couldn't get sitters and so couldn't come out to eat with us (and to answer that look in your eyes: No, I don't want to go out to a fancy restaurant with you and your offspring), drink nice wine with us, play night-golf with us, go to concerts with us, or do any of the kind of fun and cool wasting time stuff childless couples in their thirties spend most their time on. Or at least their Saturday nights.
South Africa was boring me. I was getting the urge to relocate, and had my mind set of Bolivia.
Don't you just love the sound of that name? Bo-LI-vi-a... (Yes, that is what I base many of my life-altering choices on - how things sound. What else?)
Imagine the panicked Hubby who still has a whole year of his contract left here in SA. And combine his desperation with an ingenious invention called Computicket.
Move forward a few months, and find out that we have already been to see the Beauty and the Beast, Cats, Cinderella on Ice, and we still have tickets for Saturday night performances of Stomp, Grease and Mamma Mia.
All local productions. Sure. Which until now has signified unintended humor and Cats dying (the Beast included). Metaphorically, yet extremely painfully, on stage for two whole hours. Except of course for the latest nightmare, Cinderella on Ice, which was mainly performed by Russian, Ukranian, Latvian and other skating hasbeens and neverbeens.
While it was about 30º celsius outside.
On a stage that was roughly 30m x 20m (i.e. miniscule for any attempts at skating), and that by the beginning of the second half had become more of a puddle than actual ice to skate on to awkwardly move on whilst wearing skates.
But that eventually offered plenty of Saturday-night entertainment in the form of:
- A possible drinking game based on the clap-happy South African audience who obviously feels that anyone who can turn on skates deserves a round of applauds. Whenever that person turns on skates. Yes, every single time. Every. Single. Time.
- Another kind of potential drinking game based on checking out who in the first couple of rows is hit by the sludge coming off of the skates as the performers manage pirouettes. And what parts of the body are hit. Face of course meaning a double-shot.
- A possible drinking game for the people around me based on the numerous times I turn to the Hubby to have the following exchange:
Me: Ha! I can do that! I can. I totally can. And I can do it better!
Hubby: Honey, you're Finnish. All Finns can do that better.
Me: Exactly! How much are we paying to see this again?
Hubby: Just watch the damned thing.
- A different kind of potential drinking game focused on the guy playing the prince/ mayor's son getting his light-colored pants wetter by the second from the puddle he attempts to skate on and guessing how long it will take for his pants to be wet all the way to his crotch and reveal the part of him he, according to the program, doesn't normally reveal to Cinderella but to the evil stepmother instead, who he has a son with. This game can, and possibly should be extended to the numerous times the prince/ mayor's son checks out his wife's 40 kilogram body and clearly isn't turned on by the sturdy thighs (or any other sturdy/hefty/ample body part of your choice) of our poor Cinderella.
- A possible drinking game based how many times all of us will have to admire someone's russian panties. (Really, aren't these people supposed to wear a sort of leotard if the audience is going to be exposed to their undergarment area? Not panties underneath a pantyhose? because the latter just doesn't somehow spell Cinderella to me. It spells Victoria's Secret and just leads me to wonder whether Heidi Klum can skate and whether she ever could, what with those enormous wings they make her wear at all times, but maybe that's just me.)
- A fun drinking game involving making up professions for Heidi Klum where the wings would be a bonus and not a hindrance, while giving the other people in the audience dirty looks for coughing something out there that very well could be H1N1.
- A slightly off drinking game based on the parts of the clock (?) emerging onto the stage, and how many dirty ways one can find to describe what goes for their 'costume': A helmet-type of contraption that any sadomasochist enthusiast would find orgastic indeed combined with what can at best be described as Captain Kirk's Sunday best. With sequins.
- A devious drinking game involving flapping bingo-wings during the standing ovations (I'm at the brink of losing all faith in South Africans' common sense.) and a weapon of your choice. be gentle and only aim for the wings. You know that is the right thing to do.
Disclaimer: All rights reserved. These games may induce nausea, sleep, and hate mail. But generally, we're cool with all that shit, so no worries.