LE VACATION, PART DEUX

So now I'm surrounded by old folks in a retirement community and I'm being told over and over again "Relax! You're on vacation!"

That's like telling a child molester "Relax! You're in prison!"

In other words ... it's kinda tough for me to relax when I'm constantly being badgered for my professional opinion of which song was Perry Como's greatest hit.

"Well, you're a DJ, aren't you?" the old lady would ask.

"Yes," I would say in my most mono of monotones.

"Then I'm sure you play plenty of Perry Como records, right?"

Yeah, Granny. Every Thursday night is Comopalooza. And if I really want to whip the crowds into a frenzy, I bust out some "Beer Barrel Polka" jamz. With a "Z".

Jeez Louise.

Keep in mind, we've got about 60 people in our group ... about 40 of those are over the age of 100.

And what does our feast consist of??

A little dish called "Firecracker Chicken".

While I don't claim to be an expert, it became painfully obvious that once a person gets to be about 90 years old or so, their taste buds take a turn into "Extremely Sensitive" mode.

Within two minutes, there was a bellowing chorus of "OHMIGOSH, THIS IS TOO HOT!!" echoing throughout the riverboat.

Using every ounce of energy they could muster, scads of old folks were waving their frail, withered hands in front of their mouths, fanning their scaly tongues in hopes that the fanning would be able to soothe their permanently damaged taste buds.

Several old folks were making the joke that they were going to dive head first into the river in order to cool their tonsils off.

Sensing a possible camaraderie to be made with the geezers, I suggested that I could help by heaving them overboard one by one.

My joke was quickly extinguished by some glaring stares from some extremely wrinkled eyes.

In the end, most of the withered and frail ate off the veggie tray while I gorged on firecracker chicken.

About four hours later, I figured out while it was called "Firecracker Chicken".

My ass felt like a launching pad for a thousand bottle rockets.

"Sideways".

I have watched "Sideways" four times in two weeks.

I stinkin' love that movie now.

The original "Assault On Precinct 13" was good when I first saw it in 1980.

Now?

Not so much.

"Team America: World Police"?

I still don't get it. And I'm beginning to think there's nothing there to get.

Tried to watch "The Life Aquatic" but kept falling asleep.

And the second season of "Reno 911!" kicks 30 different levels of booty.

Tuesday night we had yet another "hugfest" where I once again had to reign in my "Super Human Strength" and not crush any ribcages, which, as you can imagine, will ruin most smorgasboards.

We then had an old-fashioned sing-a-long.

Apparently, when all these old people were children back in the early 1800s, they would gather in the barn out back and throw down honest-to-goodness hootenannys.

Everyone would clap and sing songs about how Mama's little baby has a serious addiction to bread coated in Crisco and stuff like that while cowboys and indians would square dance amidst the hay.

And while that probably constituted a "party" in 1805, 200 years later "Shortnin' Bread" isn't quite the barnburner that it used to be.

Perry Como wailing the entire "West Side Story" soundtrack would have been better.

Within 2-3 songs, the sing-a-long fell apart like a sweater knitted by a chimp and everyone below the age of 80 gathered around a television to pretend to watch a baseball game while the older folks mumbled the lyrics to "Oh Suzannah".

The evening closed with a 30 minute reprise of the earlier "Hugfest" and I must shamefully admit that I copped a feel off one of the cousins-in-law.

In my defense, it was an accident.

I had no idea her ass was so high up on her back.

...Or...to see who was "FIRST!!"

Knock yourselves out, kiddies.