Dolly Parton Is My Homegirl

My friend Sean just went to Berlin to play jazz and drink beer in 200 year old pubs with handsome blonde women named Uta. Sort of makes your life look like a stack of crap, huh? That's what I thought, too.

On the other hand, I went to see Dolly Parton at Radio City Music Hall on Thursday night. Smyres took a picture of me in front of the marquee.



It's also worth noting that there used to be a woman's ass in this picture. She was crossing the street when Smyres snapped the photo.

"No worries, Fatsuit," Smyres said. "I'ma photoshop her ass right on outta there." And she did.

Smyres is teaching me to like country music. I think she's done too good a job, maybe. I'm pretty sure my next-door neighbor would agree with that, poor thing. It's like a 24-hour-a-day chain gang and cotton-picking session over here these days. If I don't blog for awhile, you'll know it's cuz I'm playing the washboard.

Dolly P is my new hero, however. She plays about 900 instruments and she's cute as a button and she works the ginormo boobs like nothing you've ever seen before. Also, I love someone who can attack themselves with a bedazzler and look normal. She's not human, our Dolly. She was given to us by the la-ord-uh, and all we can do is be grateful.

She played "Jolene", which made several Dolly Lookalike drag queens in the audience weep, and "Me and Bobby McGee", which made me weep, and "Nine to Five", which made Smyres punch me repeatedly in the shoulder from sheer joy.

Also, something disturbing happened. A mother and son, definitely foreign, perhaps alien altogether, started making out with each other in the seats in front of us. The boy was about 13 years old and fat and had a bowl-cut and wore a t-shirt that said, I kid you not, "No Fat Chicks." The mother was small and skinny and looked like a librarian. They started out with their arms around each other in a way that a New Englander like myself might find a little disturbing, and wound up kissing each other loudly on the face whenever the show hit a highlight.

At one point, Smyres leaned over to me and said, "I am going to call the police," and I have to tell you that I didn't think it was a bad idea, really.

Later on, I ran into them again at the t-shirt stand while I was buying my unironic Dolly Parton baseball tee, and they were still fondling each other, only this time, I could hear that the mother had an accent, so I decided that maybe it's OK to fondle your son in Denmark, and I tried to brush it off.

I showed Smyres my shirt and she informed me that it will pay for itself in free drinks. I will let you know how that goes. I killed two drinking companions this weekend, and not for snoring. Part of this is because I generally stick to beer, and I'm good at drinking beer, and part of it is because I never ever want to go home and go to sleep, even when it's obviously what I should do. Especially then.