Every Cinco de Mayo, it becomes mandate to act a fool, if you will.
Let's just say that I am not completely unfamiliar with:
a. getting ravaged off of Tequila.
b. dancing inappropriately to Berlin (you know you love that shit).
c. talking like Harriet Tubman's sassier and more refined cousin, hailing from the other side of the Mississippi.
d. pointing profusely to make a point that ultimately makes no sense.
e. drunkenly confessing to a certain deep and irrevocable obsession with Fleetwood Mac.
f. chatting up a globe about the atrocities of global warming.
The list does not end there, by any means, but I am too busy to list all of the doltish things I am capable of doing in any impaired state. (Read too busy as my pressing need to watch Jeopardy! Kids Week on Tivo and bask in the knowledge that I am far more intelligent than those tiny fucks. Granted, they are ten years of age, tops, but it never stops feeling oh so good
I decided that this Cinco de Mayo should be different than those of the past. Since Mary-Kate is far too busy to take my calls, I ended up deciding that it was time I got down with the G-O-D (for those of you who are not in the know, he is the guy with the long flowing beard, a white stallion, the never-ending supply of Fun-Dip, and the ACDC shirt... Oh, yes. God loves the metal). So I kicked it with Jesus at a press-only screening of Saved! and, fuck me, I enjoyed it. Like a lot.
Obviously, it took an extended amount of time (and pain pills) to try and block out Mandy Moore's harrowing almost-mullet, but after that initial anguish, it was all good. It made me think of how my very own private school subliminally programmed each and every one of us to inexplicably grind to Christian rock and shun all Jews. I am glad we can all laugh about it now.
Wait. That's not funny.