Blue Balls, Christmas and Toilet Paper - a Holiday Trifecta

Continuing yesterday's trend, I'm providing you with yet another story prior to my Christmas Break.

Yesterday, it was rodent scat.

Today, we'll be discussing face paint and toilet paper.

Toilet Paper and Chipmunk poo in TWO (count 'em...TWO) unrelated stories.

How cool is that?

Story #2:
Blue Man Group

This weekend, we’ll be taking the family to see “The Blue Man Group.”

If you’ve never seen Blue Man Group, or have any idea what I’m talking about…go to YouTube:



..or their site HERE. It’s really an experience.

...anyway...

...I'm not getting paid to do their Goddamn commercials...so let's get back to the story:

My problem, though, is that my daughter (who is 7) is scared to death of “the toilet paper incident”…and doesn’t want to go.

The toilet paper incident.

You see…my wife and I went to see Blue Man Group in Boston many years ago.

Me, being of limited stature and hating to pay good money for sh*tty seats, decided to get FRONT ROW tickets.


There was music. AWESOME music.

There were antics.

Some were crazy.

Some gross.

All were entertaining.

And then…

...there was the toilet paper.


(queue ominous music here)

For some reason, the finale of the show consists primarily of the use of toilet paper and audience participation.

Really.

The contents of rolls and rolls of toilet paper – strung at the back of the theater – begin to empty...

...toilet paper rolls, strung from the ceiling, begin to purge thier contents...

You may ask, at this point, two questions:

Question #1: Um...Why?

Answer: Good f*cking question. No idea.

Really...I'm not sure of the need for a toilet-paper finale.


Question #2: Where does all of this toilet paper go?

Answer: (here it comes)...

Well...the paper makes it's way forward...

...above and through the crowd...

...towards the stage...

...where I'm blissfully sitting in the front row...

...completely and utterly oblivious to the TP Hell I'm about to endure.

Behind me, the audience is pulling ALL OF THIS PAPER and heaving it forward to it's final destination of the stage...

Did I mention there's a lot of this paper?


LOTS of it.

LOTS AND LOTS AND LOTS OF IT.

I was not expecting to be on janitorial duty that day…but – lo and behold – I turn to look behind me and here comes a Tsunami of toilet paper….heading straight for us…seated in the front row.

…there was no warning…

…it just struck…

Then it hits us…

...a four foot high pile of paper…


AARGGGHHH!!!

..I’m grabbing it…holding it up…trying to hurl it onto the stage…

…my little arms struggling under the weight of it all…

And all I can see is white.

Like I’d been buried in an avalanche of Charmin.


It’s at this point that I realize that I can no longer see my wife…who was seated next to me…

She's gone.

Poof.

Gone.

I try to look to the heavens to scream, "WHY GOD?!? WHYYYYY?!?!?"...

But I can't lift my head...this f*cking paper is too heavy.

Seriously...did they NEED to use 2-ply for this?!

...I ponder a moment, and think:

"I hope my wife is happy...wherever she was carried to by the TP flood...and has a good life..."


…but...

...just then…

…amidst the music, and crowd noise…

I hear her…

...a tiny, far-off faint cry for help…

...emanating from somewhere under this massive pile of TP:

“…I’m…getting…sick…”

She's ALIVE!!!

Me: “I’m coming for you, honey! Hang in there!”

…but I couldn’t…

I couldn’t see her.

I couldn’t reach her.

Hindsight being 20/20, it would have been nice to have a GPS tracking bracelet on her.

…like the one I have to wear because of a Federal mandate (other story…mistaken identity…DAMN you CHRIS HANSEN).


Ten minutes later…the mountain of paper was up on stage.

I was tired.

My arms were sore.

My wife was nauseous.

The hour she spent getting her hair "just right" turned out to be a COMPLETE WASTE OF TIME...

Sonofabitch.

No more front row for us for Blue Man…

…but we made the mistake of telling this story to my kids before we got the tickets…

…so now my daughter is petrified of being buried alive in toilet paper.

We’ll see what happens on Sunday.

Maybe I’ll let my daughter wear the bracelet.

Blue Man, A.T (After Toilet Paper)

The toilet paper finale wasn’t bad at all.

No, no...

I'm not talking about my MASSIVE Bowel Movement after eating all of that Christmas food.

..which really was quite spectacular.

I should have taken pictures.

Again.

But I digress...

I'm talking a Blue Man Group post-mortem.

Here we go...

So…we went to see Blue Man Group on Sunday.

It was – as usual – AWESOME.

But, the day before we went – Saturday – I decided to go to the website and get some updated directions to the theater.

"Oops...that's video porn...how did I pop on there?"


(ten minutes and two tissues later, I actually GO to the "Blue Man" site)

On the "About the Show" page, I see it:

“Persons under the age of 5 are not permitted in the theater.”

Ah, Sh*t.

My son is four.

I’ve spent $280 bucks on these tickets.

Sh*t.

What will they do?

Check his ID? Ask for a birth certificate?

All he’s got is his fake ID that he uses to buy me medicinal marijuana…and it says his name is “McLovin.”


I’m not sure it will fly.

We’ll have to fake it.

Fine.

We’ll make him five.

For the next 8 hours into the following day, we drill him as follows:

Us: “Cam…if someone asks you how old you are…you tell them ‘Five.’ Got it?”

Cam: “Got it.”

We drill him on this for several hours.

Finally, we think he's on board with being five for a day.


Then...we then go through stress tests.

Like, in the middle of playing with his robots I jump into the family room:

Me: “How old are you, little boy?!”

Cam: “I’m five!”

I try using guerilla tactics to throw him off...

...like...

...sneaking up when he’s in the bathroom...

Me (breaking door down): “How old are you?!?”

Cam: (SCREAMS HYSTERICALLY)

Me: “Sorry. Sorry. Finish going poo. And...um...don't worry about all that. My fault. I'll clean that mess up later.”

Anyway, we got him to answer “Five” every time.

Good boy.

Now, we stress to him that he’s to NOT tell someone his age unless he’s asked.

He gets it.

Good.


We go to Boston.

The first order of business is lunch.

We stop at a Bennigan’s in the Theater District, as my children will eat only the following things:

Daughter: Grilled Cheese or Hot Dog
Son: Chicken Nuggest or ‘Mac and Cheese’

Yep.

Connoisseurs of Cuisine, my children.

But, because my kids are so picky, the taste of Bennigan’s chicken nuggets sends my son into a fit of dry-heaves…as the chicken actually has some type of breading on it that doesn’t resemble Purdue’s dinosaur bits.


“Oh NOOOOOOO…..Breading!!!!!!”

This happens every so often, where I’m forced to yell at my son as he’s making the “I’m going to throw up face”:

“DON’T SPIT IT OUT…SWALLOW IT…SWALLOW IT…”

(which, come to think of it, reminds me that I have only 6 hours left on my Spice Channel On-Demand rental)

Great.


Fine.

Mac and Cheese it is.

4 people, 1 dry-heaving session, and 5 meals later…

...we head to the show.

…whereas upon handing the ticket to the guy at the door, my son deftly announces to everyone:

“I’m five! My sister is seven!”

Ugh.

Smooth, son. Very smooth.

But we got in.

As usual, the show was awesome.

And the toilet paper finale that my daughter was so worried about?

Well, it’s different when you’re in the balcony and get to throw it down on top of the people below you.

They had a BLAST.

…because we then got to LISTEN to the shuffling sound of the toilet paper avalanche (instead of being in it’s deadly, rampaging path) as it slowly crept towards the stage…

…where, unfortunately…two old women were sitting in the front row…

…helpless…little old ladies…


I can only assume that the massive amount of TP simply snapped their osteoporosis-plagued bones, folding them like origami, where they then disappeared beneath the seats.

…as I don’t remember seeing them after the show.

You live and learn with Blue Man.


If you read my blog, Agnes, you stupid old bitch...then you would have been prepared for the TP.

I warned everyone ahead of time.

Just ask my five year old son.

I mean…four.