|We caught a Wild Hulk on Safari.|
Apparently, the universe was testing both of us because I later sent in a compliment to the guy's boss (via the police chief, since we'd just spoken that very day about a computer problem he was having) on how well and professionally he handled the night. Less than a month has passed since that day, and here he and his partner are behind us in traffic, looking anything but normal. I giggled uproariously until he went straight through an intersection where I had turned right. There was a small part of me that wished he'd have passed me, and I could have smiled a genuine smile and wished him a good night. Shaking up the world in an unexpected way is something I kinda enjoy.
Anyway, we arrived at Beardfest without incident. There was merriment, there was a hookah, and there was punching an Incredible Hulk pinata with our bare fists. Because, you see, we were graced with the power of the mighty beard! There were one inch punches, there were bare knuckle boxing left hooks, and there were tributes to Karate Kid's crane. In the end, shreds Hulk bits were scattered the lawn and there was much rejoicing.
I'm not sure if the highlight of the night was the mufti-faceted facial hair contest, or if it was the impromptu suit jacket modeling at roughly midnight. We had one guest arrive with a pretty epic beard. She has electric cotton candy colored hair, and had dyed the rest to match. And upon seeing it, suddenly the comment about having to iron the beard before the party made sense. Though, we weren't exactly sure what to call that in the whole carpet/drapes innuendo arena. Is a beard the welcome mat? Meh, that's another train of thought all together. '
But, the lovely lady won Bearded Lord. One of the residents of the house with a natural beard won bearded lady on account of his looking fantastic in a wig and cocktail dress. (I don't know if I would have put the cowboy boots with it, but hey. We all know my fashion sense is about as attuned as an autistic sloth, so I'm sure that doesn't have much weight.) After the last award was give to the creative sci-fi fan who took her long blonde locks and braided them under her chin, the host somehow came up with the idea that everyone in attendance should be wearing suit jackets. Not just any jackets either, but *his* from his very own closet.
Two minutes later, he reappears with several hangers slung over his sword cane and begins to pass them out to anyone who's paying attention. Most of us who had been in the contest were still close by, and are also equipped with a strangely deformed sense of shame, so we each ended up with a jacket. Somewhere along the way, the idea gets tossed around that we should wear them like Victoria's Secret models, and by that I mean without a shirt under them.
Off with her clothes!
So, at about the same time Cinderella's coached turned into a pumpkin, we're standing in the back yard, having a very involved conversation while the boys are trying not to stare at the epic cleavage that is mere inches away. Oh hell. Let's be real. I don't think it was limited to the menfolk. Nothing like a good craft beer, bouncing bosoms, borrowed clothes, and light conversation about interplanetary space travel in the middle of the night to make it a party.