Mean People, Vol. II

I was going to write about the strange things you do when you become a parent... like scrubbing your kid's toes with a toothbrush... as I found myself doing yesterday morning before we left the house for our daily excursion. Ethan loves Crocs, and he wears them often... but his feet get really dirty when he does. Apparently, he wears them so often that the dirt has started to permanently adhere to his feet. I was giving him a bath and realized that his toes were still almost black.

I kind of freaked out, thinking gangrene or some form of foot rot had set in... until I realized it was just dirt.... that wouldn't come off. So, I resorted to scrubbing his toes with a baby toothbrush. FYI: Works very well. No toe dirt left.

Anyway, I was going to write about that... until my friend Christi of The Ville (and Canada fame) commented on my mean people post about the vomit girl from Jimmy Buffett.

This is a story that must be told.

In April, after much searching and laboring, I finally got to attend my very 1st Jimmy Buffet concert. I L.O.V.E. Jimmy Buffet, even though I cannot ever remember if his name is spelled with one "T" or two... Buffet?...Buffett? I don't know.

Anyway, Robby -- my cousin Jennifer's hubby -- started all of this last year. He loves Buffet/Buffett (more than me), and we decided we had to go to a concert... but tickets were nowhere to be found.

This year, we decided to get a head start and sign up for the emails that alert you automatically to concert postings...except this one didn't... so we had to buy tickets off of one of the lovely websites that sell concert tickets for 500 times their face values.... (Isn't that called "scalping"?) Anyway, desperate and foolish, we paid 502 times the face value of 6 tickets, and we took off for Hot-Lanta one April afternoon.

Now, the concert entourage included me, K., Robby, Jennifer, Julie (sister of Jennifer, cousin of me, and fun person in general with which to engage in mischief), and Christi (may as well be family... traveling partner, fellow mischief engager-inner, and we'll leave it at that..).

Suffice it to say that we don't get out much.



Kids, jobs, obligations of various and sundry sorts.... so the concert was to be a treat for all.



Well... turns out we got lost (don't even ask how... but never ask Channon for directions to Phillips Arena)... so our tailgate smorgasboard became a mini-van smorgasboard... because we took the MV, of course.... what else would we take to a concert?!?!... and we skipped in just in time for the show.

Well, we ended up not skipping so much as we had nosebleed (one row from the top, thanks) seats.. but really, we were in no frame of mind to care. We hiked up the vast mountain... I mean stairs... before us, pumped because we were about to experience Jimmy.



The first bit of the concert was great... the seats, although high altitude, allowed a pretty good view, and the two 'neck women a few rows in front of us provided pretty good entertainment...

Enter 986 members of your favorite local fraternity and their numerous (and multiplying) girlfriends. Ok, not so great, but really... we were all there to see Jimmy, so it should have been fine.



Turns out that when you stuff 986 people + girlfriends into 20 seats, it gets a bit crowded. I got gently edged out of my seat by a really obnoxious (and vain -- but obviously insecure) young whippersnapper. K. had to intervene (like a good husband) and ask him to move. (I later found out that K. was really concerned that if he didn't step in, my 'neck roots were going to come out...)

All seems to be going well again... and then she shows up.

Vomit Girl.

Now, let me take this moment to remind you that we are 1 row from the very top.... and most people would not climb that far (willingly) for any reason other than if their tickets were there... like us.

And, apparently, Vomit Girl.

I didn't notice her at first, but after a while, I became aware that there is a life form behind me. I turned around to see a young woman... probably in her 20s... laid across two seats behind me. I asked her if she was ok; K. asked if she needed help. She waved us off. I turn back around and forget her...

Until I hear this odd noise... I've heard the noise before, but I can't place it....OH MY GREAT AUNT BERTHA!!! SHE IS YAKKING IN THE SEAT!!!



By this time, the rest of the group has figured out what is happening and turned around. We stared at her in horror/disgust as she finishes her vile business... and then watch in disbelief as she GETS UP AND LEAVES.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen! This drunk skank climbed 1,000 steps to the last row of the arena to pueke. She hadn't been sitting there the whole time, turns out. She appeared sometime after the intermission for the sole purpose of ralphing.

Did I mention that there was a bathroom right next to the entrance of the portal where we were sitting?

I could not believe it.



We, of course, became enraged as we realized she was actually leaving us with her vomit. I believe I said something to the effect of "I hope your drunk, vomiting carcass falls down the stairs, you nasty skank."

Grown up and mature, I know, but she did throw up in the seat directly behind me.



After she stumbled down the stairs and we/I recovered our dignity, we began to converse about the complete ridiculousness of the incident. K., always much more pleasant and well-mannered than I will ever be, said, "Well, at least it doesn't stink..." and we agreed.




This is, indeed, a good point. If someone has to yak behind your chair, it's definitely a plus if it doesn't smell bad.

We decided to go back to enjoying the concert... only to be overwhelmed by the enticing smell of vomitous drunkus about 30 minutes later.

I believe that, if we could have found her, we might have dismembered her.


Vomit Girl, wherever you are, I just want you to know that you have officially been hexed by The Ville, and your life from now until eternity will be miserable because you didn't have the stinkin' sense to deposit your smelly vomit into a proper receptacle. May some other drunk heifer yak in the seat directly behind you at every concert that you attend for the rest of your life.