I’ve always been a trendsetter. Take that time my bloated buddy, Rush Limbaugh, loaned me his windbreaker jacket because I was cold. I got drunk, fell off a cliff, and—well, I assume by now you’ve heard about this hang-gliding thing?
Or the time I went to the plus-size women’s department at Sears, and somehow got my thong string jammed in the escalator. This spawned the trend of $12 million frivolous personal injury lawsuits, in which a lawyer argues that moving machine parts were recklessly and irresponsibly placed in an area where people were known to try on pants.
Believe me, $12 million goes a long way, especially when you don’t go out much anymore. Crotch recovery, you know.
But a few months ago, I briefly left the house, and found myself in a bar. Believing the drinks were overpriced, I asked the gentleman on the adjacent stool to hold my ankles, while I dove over the bar, and helped myself to the schnapps. Halfway through the bottle, the guy says he’s “got an itch,” and drops me into the sink. Next thing I know, I’m covered with soapsuds, and felt like dancing.
So, it came as no surprise to me when I read a story out of New York about the latest trend sweeping the nation’s bars. From The New York Times News Service:
“Two seemingly immortal Manhattan nightclubs, the Limelight and the Palladium, are throwing foam parties. Club-goers brazen enough to sacrifice vanity for novelty writhe, grope, and dance in waist-high foam, a concoction of water and highly concentrated liquid soap propelled through an engine.”
OK, maybe that “propelled through an engine” thing was someone else’s stroke of genius. But the rest is mine.
“It’s quite sexual, but also safe,” one club patron told the reporter.
I made a list of other things that fall into the same category, but I can’t find it. I seem to have misplaced my really thick glasses, and to be honest, I am blind without them.
Anyway, the deal here is that people who are under the influence of drugs such as LSD now fling themselves into a giant vat of soapsuds with their clothes on, and fondle whatever happens to be nearby (man, woman, the butt-crack plumber just finishing up with the tank). Then, they get blasted with a hose to clean off the soap, all right there in the middle of the nightclub.
Not that ballroom dancing isn’t still popular, too.
The reporter followed the soapy escapades—I think I once sued somebody after falling down a soapy escapade—of a New York girl who gave her name only as “Girly.”
“And so,” the story said, “Girly tumbled inside an oversized kiddie pool brimming with foam, eager, finally, to immerse herself in the club scene’s latest ‘event.’”
I recently called a lesbian colleague “Girly!” Doctors tell me it would be too dangerous to try to remove the hardcore edition of Webster’s New World Dictionary. They say it’s resting up against some remaining vital organs. I now refer to her simply as Ms. Maloney.
The soap thing was brought to New York, the story claims, by Steve Dumington, president of a company that designs nightclubs. He said he first saw foam-filled nightclubs in Barcelona back in 1992.
So, Dumington—and not me—has been given credit for bringing this trend to New York, which has all the raw ingredients to make it work: soap and drugs.
“Many foam enthusiasts,” according to the story,” freely admitted using LSD, Ecstasy, marijuana, Special K, and an animal tranquilizer that is pulverized and usually snorted.”
I don’t know about you, but there are few things I enjoy more than pulverizing a handful of animal tranquilizers, stuffing it up my nose, and settling in for the three-hour special Great Moments in Bowling on ESPN.
Seriously, though, a word of caution here from someone who has experimented with this sort of stuff: If you are under the influence of LSD, pulverized animal tranquilizers, or even Spam, and find your shoes covered with slippery soap, please stay off the escalator at Sears!
Unless you have a good lawyer. But, hey, consider the source here.
Bye for now.