No Mr Santos...

Mr Santos was not at the club tonight. He was missed.

Other than that, for entertainment value, there was a train wreck in a sleeveless peach flowing thing, blue jeans that were two sizes too small and a mauve thong that was visible for far more of the evening than it should have been.

Chicky poo was even getting up wildelf's nose about requesting songs that he didn't have and wouldn't play if he did. He told her as much more than once, too. And she just refused to get it.

A group of us had the misfortune of watching her play pool very badly (so badly, in fact, I wanted to go over and just drop the 8-ball into a pocket so they would have to stop playing), but the coup de grace was when she and her boytoy decided to dance on the stage. It was beyond train wreck and into Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.

It was laughably bad, and if she remembers it tomorrow (she was three sheets to a very strong wind), also extremely embarrassing. I think her dancing was meant to be titillating, but the stimulated sex/dry humping looked awkward and silly. Oh well, at least I got a laugh out of it.

(no subject)

I just couldn't be bothered to look for work this past week. There's no guarantee that I'm going to get a call back on the phone monkey job for a face-to-face interview, either. Have I mentioned yet that I hate interviews?

Maybe I won the lottery last night...?

*snicker*

Back to looking again, methinks. But tomorrow. It can wait until then.