"... AND THIS IS MY WIFE SKIPPER"

I DJ'ed a party last night for a local high school's 40th class reunion.

Nothing much to talk about really. A lot of old people trying to conceal their Depends lines in their polyester pants wanting to hear girl groups, ho-hum.

So while I stood there for four hours and played music, I was allowed to make observations about people that are 58 years old.

And that is ... you look really really sad when you have a trophy wife.

Three guys there had apparently done well for themselves in life.

They were all richly tanned, wearing Hawaiian shirts with their casual slacks and Docksiders with no socks.

Their hair plugs had all taken quite lovely so they had even more hair than they had at graduation.

And for the ultimate accessory, they had each went out and married a 20-something chick who enjoyed showing everyone her plastic cleavage.

It was obvious to me that these women were with these men for only one reason ... their money.

One girl with her sugar daddy looked positively bored. He was a little man, looking much older than 58 and she was wearing a tight black dress with a V-neck cut almost to her navel. Her fake boobs fell out of the side of the dress and her fake lips were so large and grotesque that she was actually more ugly than pretty.

He held her hand the entire time and she looked like a little kid being forced to accompany her parents to the bank to meet with loan officers.

At one point, they decided to dance (Righteous Brothers' "You've Lost That Loving Feeling") and she was dirty dancing with him.

I mean, straddling his wrinkled thigh and rubbing her coochie on him in a seductive fashion.

He was grinning like a retard.

His former classmates looked at him with a mixture of shock and awe.

The women were shocked.

The men were awed.

She was a good little trophy wife, very daunting and attentive to his every whim.

I especially liked the way she carried her bottle of beer with her everywhere she went ... by her side and by the neck. Apparently he hadn't yet sprung for the etiquette classes.

Another guy was announced as one of the most successful of the class.

He had won several million dollars as a pro golfer and the golf tournament they had organized earlier in the day was in his name.

Naturally, he won the golf tournament which I thought was either pretty stupid or pretty pathetic. You've got a bunch of 58 year-old schlubs out on the golf course and one stunningly tanned millionaire who does this for a living ... you name the tournament in his name and OF COURSE he's going to win.

They presented him with a trophy.

The trophy had much less plastic in it than his wife did.

She too was wearing a low cut dress and although her boobs were massive, they weren't as perky as the other gal.

But, Captain Millionaire was still proud of his million-dollar wife.

Who was at least 30 years his junior.

The last guy ... eh. His gal seemed to be more of a party animal/exhibitionist who probably dropped out of nursing school, brushed up on her oral sex techniques and started hanging around country club pools in skimpy bathing suits trying to lure a rich guy into marrying her.

It worked.

But she was probably nearing 30 and you could kinda tell that he was getting ready to trade her in for a younger model by the way he didn't hold her hand all that much and smooch all over her like the other two.

I think what made me the most ill with these three couples is that they basically hung together outside on the veranda at a table by themselves.

As if they were too good to be in there mingling with the bald and paunchy.

Then again, the guys were probably scared that their former classmates might ask their new wives tough questions like "What's your name?" that would end up embarrassing them.

I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned it here, but here goes.

I've got a sickness.

Y'see ... I can NOT go to the grocery store and pass up those little monthly cookbooks for $3.99 in the checkout lane mixed in with the TV Guides and Jet magazines.

I think it's due to the incredible marketing ploy the book title guys use.

Every cookbook sounds like I can't do without it.

"Easy Crockpot Recipes".

Easy?!? I MUST HAVE THIS ONE. I'm SOOOO sick of these difficult crockpot recipes that I've had to endure all my life!

"Only Five Ingredients"

OHMIGOD!! Technology has finally reached the point where I can make a delicious casserole with ONLY FIVE FUCKING INGREDIENTS!!! Who do I thank first?!? WHO DO I FUCKING THANK FIRST?!?!?!?

"Grillin' It"

This is the one I bought yesterday. Every cookbook marketing wizard out there knows that if you include any form of the word "Grill" in the title of your cookbook, you will sell at least one copy to Uncle Bob.

So today, we're trying Citrus Chicken from "Grillin' It"

Which explains why even though I went to bed at 2 a.m. I still got up at 6 a.m. on a Sunday.

I'm that freakin' giddy with anticipation.

As always, I'll forget to tell you guys if it was good or not because that's never really the first thing on my mind in the morning ... "Gee, I MUST tell everyone how good my Citrus Chicken was this morning!"

Sorry.

My brain ... she don't work that way.