To be honest, I don't remember what I said in the last post about Rock TV coming to my house. I had been up for something like five or ten minutes when I wrote that, so it may as well have been written by F. Scott Fitzgerald's autistic grandson. I do remember saying something about Kevin Sawyer, and he wasn't here--I didn't cry about that, but I almost thought I would. The people who were actually there, though, were great.
So what did I do with a house full of great people filming funny stuff about goodness knows what? I napped. A sensible person naps, but I napped anyway. I napped until it sounded like they were blowing up my furniture, and then I napped some more. I kept on napping until Christine started belting out the theme to Golden Girls. Then I could nap no longer.
Then just now I found underpants under my pillow. Which means that last night I slept with my head floating above a pair of underpants. Which thankfully explains why I dreamt about giant man-eating underpants last night, but it's nonetheless disturbing.
All in all, I'd say it was a successful Saturday morning. Rock TV, you're welcome in my house anytime. But next time, check your underpants at the door.
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1 comment:
This was a good post. References to autism, underpants, that one famous writer guy. A
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