wickedflea | (no subject)

Last night I dreamed that I was taking a train to London for a concert. Ummm, yeah. And right after we left the station I realized that I didn't have my passport (not that it would have done any good; it expired probably fifteen years ago). And I was supposed to be at work anyway. But then I noticed a couple of girls I used to work with, and we had a fun time making fun of some old dude who was loudly singing along with whatever crap R&B song that was playing on his headphones.

That makes me think of this time that Pat H. was at work singing a song that she'd written. It was the most horrible crap I'd ever heard--some kind of maudlin nonsense about living your hopes and dreams, following your heart, and finding true love. And to make it even worse, she had a terrible singing voice. It was rather like the early rounds of American Idol, where it's so bad you just want to cry for the person singing--and for yourself for listening to it. So right in the middle of her baring her soul, I busted into my best Biz Markie:

Oh, baby, YOU, you got what I NEEE-EEED, but you say I'm just a friend, but you say I'm just a friend, OH BA-BY, YOU . . .

Yeah, that was pretty rude, but she took it in the right spirit. Thank goodness--she coulda body-slammed the fuck out of me.