Hair Today...Gone Tomorrow

So, the odda night, DV and I dress up in we finery and went out to celebrate the birthday of a mutual acquaintance. After a few Apple Martini’s (hic...hic) and a nice little buzz, we finished the night at a local pseudo-seedy hotspot. We did hol’ we self up in a little dark corner next to the dance floor, and while commencing some discrete bubbling and wukking up (on my part, cuz DV seh bad man doh dance), a heavy set, voluptuous Sistren wearing a little itty-bitty piece’ a some'ting decide she goin’ dominate the dance floor.

Now, from the way my Gal was gyrating and flinging she self ‘bout de place, it did cause me a moment of concern for she overall health and well-being but the I and I figure seh she mus’a know wha’ she was doin’. Foresight, intuition and common sense told me some’ting was goin’ to go bust (pun intended) at some point, ’cause the bikini top that she was sporting was under severe pressure from she Double-D’s, and there was no way that the laws of physics could allow for the itty-bitty piece’a cloth to restrain the busting bazoongas that could possibly hurt innocent by-standers when and if they did decide to blow. When I did see the pending explosion, I turn roun’ to mek a little side bet with DV as to the timing and nature of the explosion, but he nevah tek me on. Chicken.

Anyway, I digress.

So, my Sistren continue wid de gallivanting, and she drop to the groun’ on all fours, and start to rotate she head roun’ and roun’ like the woman from the Exorcist, or like she was in the midst of some kinda epileptic fit. All she needed was a spoon in she mout’ to mek sure seh she nevah bite off she tongue. I jus’ know seh I was quite worried about the state of the Sistren’s health, cuz I could envision the headline:

“Dutty Dancer Dominating Dance floor Dead! Spectator Traumatised By the Spectacle”

There would be far reaching consequences to her ill fated demise, as I am sure that I would be called in to testify and to provide witness accounts to the police. All because I was minding my own business, and the wench come an complicate my life by popping she neck and dropping dead at my feet. Yes suh. I considered all of this in a drunken stupor, as she writhed and contorted a few feet away from me.

Once again, I digress.

So, Missy there wukking she self into a frenzy, and I know seh drama comin’. This appealed to my morbid inner demon. But, alas, the entertainment did not take the form that I had predicted. In the throes of the Sistren’s seizure (lawd…mi gut…) she wig fly off she head and slide ‘cross the dance floor . Now, shame for she (and holding mi gut wid the laffter), I turn roun’ and hide mi face in DV’s chest. Being practical (and a coward), mi navah know if she wudda want to retaliate against those who should laff at her expense. Containin’ my mirth, I glance at she to see how she handle the shame, but…Alas! Ms. Ma’am still goin’ wild! She nah shame! After the departure of de wig from she head, she now bus’ the splits and gyrating same way! Some enterprising and helpful individual den pick the wig up (yuck!), beat she crotch wid it two times (I guess to tek out the dust) and fling it at she as she continued with her display, and she jus’ shift it outta she way, and continue wid de show!

What confidence! The show must go on!

Then, jus’ when I thought that it could not get any better, one stick man wid a big Afro (mus’ be her suitor) appeared and jump the Sistren, flinging she on she back on the dance floor, and spring himself between she legs, and start one piece’ a thrustin’ and grinding, wid she legs cock (no pun intended) straight up in de air! Before I could even tek it all in, DV cover my eyes, and said that I was too young to tek in such a display, and by the time I move he hand, I know for sure that I mussa miss something, like if de man did pull out a condom, and continue the safe sex demonstration. Choops!

Alas…it is not to end there!! When the sexcapade was finished, the Sistren pick she self up from the floor dus’ off she clothes, and THEN realized seh one saggy boob did pop out! Did she furtively tuck and attend to said boob? Did she discretely crouch, simper and blush whilst attending to her wardrobe malfunction? Hell No! My gal cup the boob in one hand and the wig in the odda hand, and strut off’ a the dance floor, head held high, nary to be seen again. She came (or did she?). She saw. She conquered.

We can all learn a lesson from this confident and stalwart young lady. When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Ta