Last night, I stepped back and viewed the entire political situation through my 3-B glasses (that's three beers for those of you who missed Strange Brew). Today, I'm a calmer, more peaceful person, and will try to not let the shenanigans of others enrage me quite like they have in the last week or so. In that vein, I will now use Scott Kurtz as my muse, and share with you one of those wonderfully painful, horrific and yet highly amusing stories I occasionally like to put down here.
In high school I was a choir boy. I also liked to act, so I naturally found my way into the various musicals the school would put on. As a result, my junior year found me taking the lead in the school production of Guys and Dolls. I like to pretend that I achieved this through my singing and acting skills, and not my ability to grow a full beard which made me look appropriately sinister for the role of a professional gambler.
So, it's opening night. The gym/auditorium is pretty well packed with family members, faculty, students...the usual high school musical crowd. The show is going well. No major screw ups have occurred, the singing has been pretty good, yadda yadda yadda. Overall, this is a success thus far.
I leave the stage after a big number and proceed to the small room they have designated for the men to go change outfits in. I shut the door, and was suddenly reminded that before a big show, I probably shouldn't have opted for for my traditional weekend snack of a giant grinder from Mancino's. My stomach was growling painfully.
Fortunately, I remembered that our changing room was also one of the many mostly soundproof rooms set in the walls of the choir/band room of the high school. I quickly peeked out the door to ensure that no one was loitering in my area, and, quietly apologizing to whomever it was who was going to have to change after me, proceeded to rip several extraordinarily loud and boisterous farts in a row. Having alleviated my stomach issues, I continued to change my outfit. I took off the jacket I was wearing, and that's when I realized that I had made a grave error.
I was still wearing the wireless microphone.
The little red light indicating that I had forgotten to turn it off stared at me accusingly. I was frozen, mortified at the thought of my trumpeting being broadcast through the auditorium speakers, trying to remember if there had been any tell tale grunts or noises of relief either proceeding or following any of the bursts. I waited, listening for...I don't know what. I was picturing the crowd in hysterics, people gasping, old ladies fainting...all as the choir director frantically ran around trying to locate the source of the new instrumental number.
After a minute or two without indecent, I continued changing, still terrified of what I had to face when I left the room. It turned out that the thick concrete of the walls had stopped the signal from reaching the masses, and I was spared the humiliation of facing my classmates after carpet bombing a musical. So, let that me a lesson to you - always, always make sure your microphone is off as soon as you leave the stage. The life you save may be your own.
On the other hand, I was always left wondering, if the signal had gotten through, would I have been the one voted "Most Musical"?
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