Okay, I’m late. Very late. Except I’m not a white rabbit, I tend to break pocket watches and, face it, if I was wearing a top hat and sporting a cotton tail, I’d be worried about more than a little lackadaisical time keeping on my part.
I meant to put these pictures up months ago, but life got in the way. And then sleep. Dinner, maybe some breakfast and, at times, a three square meals made up of laziness. So, I hope all who attended Dopeka will forgive me my creative punctuality.
Please?
Anyhoo, go to this site to see the pics. Have fun!
By the way, I just received an e-mail from our anonymous photographer friend (The Unnamed One) and she said:
“If you could relay a message from me (the Unnamed one ) on the current thread, please tell everyone I had a great time, they are all a great bunch, and I look forward to seeing them at the next DopeFest! Thanks!”
Anonymous people speak through me. I’m like a frickin’ John Edwards! (Except, of course, I’m a tad more honest than he is.)
Good time? Oh, good lord, no! Didn’t you see the picture of Horsedaughter? (Okay, I screwed up the logic of calling her “Horsegirl” and her brother “Horseson”, but what can you expect from… well, me?) She was viscious I tell you! She ruled over that Dopefest with an iron frisbee; there was no rest, no moments of happiness. We smiled for the pictures because we were afraid not to.
Did you not see her teeth? That look of steely, murderous rage? The flowery sandals? There was no escape! Why do you think Daddy was drinking?
You should be happy you avoided such terror. I’m telling ya’, it almost felt like I was married.
Hey now, that’s MR. Pinky Tuscadero to you, Oh Reproducing One.
(Truth be told, being Fonzie would have been better for my self-esteem, but dems are da’ cards yous dealt. Ya’ know?)
As it is, I’m positive that the only reason I’m color-blind is that my body wanted to shield mine eyes from my skin’s somewhat less-than-masculine wedge of the color wheel. But now that Auntie Em has graced me with the knowledge of my true hue, I can only hope that one cold, blistery winter evenin’, Santa will come to ask me if I could lead his sleigh that night.
Great pictures **SkipMagic. ** I hope we can do it again next year, either at your *Spooky Mansion * or here in Topeka! But if we do it at your place I want it to be when the grapes are all ripe!
Fellow Dopers, you should have seen the magnificent grape vine he had growing in one tangled section of his back yard. Beautiful bunches of grapes but most were still green. And **SM ** said he usually forgets they are there and doesn’t harvest them.
Host it again at your place and I will bring the same assorted set of goodies we made for the First Lady when she came to Topeka in January. Toffee squares, bon-bon cookies, chocolate pecan tarts and coconut cream tarts.
And to the person who liked the shirt, it came from Northern Sun. Back in 2000, when we had to fill out the census forms I did the same thing, marked “other” for race and filled in the blank with the word “human”
The **Horsekids ** were actually nice little rug rats. And the frisbee was fun, even though I am lousy at it. Bring them along again next time **Horseflesh. **
Feh. I sure don’t. She’s happy, sweet, fun, a hilarious writer and all that (and more) wrapped up in a gorgeous tan package. What’s there to miss?
Not only that, but when she reads this, she’s gonna tell me, “You’re not slick.” Or she’ll mention something about cliches and corn. And then I’ll have to defend myself by singing lines from an Air Supply song (it doesn’t matter which one, although my vote goes for the one with the lyrics about lost love). Or maybe Barry Manilow (with him, I have to be specific; it’ll definitely have to be his version of “Send In The Clowns”) . It’ll all spiral downward from there is what I’m saying.
Skip, I just want you to know that a few months passed before I knew your true name. Pink it was. And I know there’s some Pat Benetar wannabe rocker chick out there trying to usurp your right to the Pink moniker but you will alway be the only Pink for me.
Well, having heard the less-than-manly monikers of “The Chubby Perv” and “The Redneck Lover,” I suppose I got off with a light rap on the head as opposed to a direct kick to my yang. (Or is it “yin?” Since I have to ask, I fear, I’ve probably chosen the wrong one.)
That said, I definitely appreciate you giving me deference over that singing hootchie whose head looks vaguely like the mop of pubic color Rainbow Brite sports under her tinctured skivvies. However, loyalty aside, I probably wouldn’t mind so much if you pushed aside my unwanted appellative and decided, instead, to go with a more… say, masculine title. Like, for instance, “Spiny Portcullis, King of the Norms.” See? That just radiates raw power, doesn’t it? (True, it takes longer to type, but if you want short, why not stick with “Skip?” I’ll be happy, you’ll be happy and 'Em? Well, she’s out of town, so who cares if she’s happy?)
