Monday, August 01, 2005

Chillin' @ the Sidekick Lounge

It's not smoky, dim, or dingy like you would expect. The lighting's ok, kinda subdued, and the overall ambiance is, unfortunately, similar to that of the Mickey Mouse club. No booze, just milk or seltzer, and the talent on stage is limited to card tricks and slight-of hand.
The big boys get strippers and hard liquor, but because most of us are either wards of the state or really smart animals, it's a toss up between Nickelodeon or Animal Planet on the big screen TV.

There are some perks to being one of us, but it's way overshadowed by the negatives. You hope to one day step into the limelight, taking over from your mentor when they're too old or injured to do the job, but before then it's years of short pants & names ending with "boy" or "lad". (The pants really chafe, and asking for a wardrobe update is like squeezing blood from a stone. It's always "Need more jet fuel for the rocket boosters" or "Can't do it now, I have to be seen in public to maintain my secret identity." ) What do you expect? They're not the one freezing their ass off in the middle of winter tailing some low-life thug to the super-villains hideout.

And after being "captured" for the ten-thousandth time, dangled over a pit of "whatever's-on sale-at-the-mutant-pet-store," and freeing myself while they nab the bad guy. ( Using the catch-phrases I made up! Lazy bastard.) What do I get? A pat on the back from a fat, smelly police commissioner, being told I was "lucky" to have the "caped crusader" around, and because of my "impulsiveness" I'm doing codpiece scrubbing duty while the butler's on vacation.

So I'm here. Stuck between a dog in a mask and a midget wearing a tutu. No point in talking to the girls in here. Ever since they found out I've been living with a guy who's old enough to be my father, But isn't actually my father, they all figure I'm either gay or confused, and like I said before, the costume doesn't help. Listen, the cape is short so that I don't trip while I'm running, not so you can see my ass. Can't a hetro man wear a short cape? Besides, with the way some of those girls can throw cars and the like around, I'm afraid to check out their undercarriage if you know what I mean. I'm not saying pre-op or post-op, but some of those virtuous maidens seem to have some large Adams apples.

Well it's almost time to go. You-know-who is probably three sheets to the wind right now, and he'll make me carry his tubby ass into the mansion. (Again) He'll cry about the pressures of being a hero while I pull off his boots and wipe the vomit from his cowl. I hope he got some while he's in the champagne room, otherwise it's clutch-and grab all the way home.

See you later, I'll be in next week to pay my tab.

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