Let's NOT Do the Time Warp

Friday Night Midnight Screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show with Live Cast- The Samurai Electricians.........starring Me.

9:45pm
One of the Samurai Electricians enters the lobby just as I sit down to eat my naked chicken burrito. I stare longingly at my burrito then walk over to him.

ME: Are you with the cast

SAMURAI ELECTRICIAN: How did you know I was with the cast?

ME(internally): 1. You look like you've never touched a boob
2. I can see the bra strap peeking through your Pac Man t-shirt
3. You smell like Captain Morgan's and body glitter

ME: I recognized you from last year

11:25pm
The rest of the cast members begin to filter into the theater in full costume, including one dressed as a banana. Admittedly the few times I've been forced to endure the Rocky Horror Picture Show (including an unfortunate encounter at a high school drama club meeting) I haven't exactly been rapt with attention, but I don't remember a giant banana- least of all one with a lace garter wrapped around it's peel.

11:33pm
Another Samurai Electrician approaches the concession stand. It's impossible to not stare in wide-eyed wonder at her cartoonishly large breasts spilling over the top of her corset. Envy washes over me as I stare down at the empty void that is my own bra.

11:45pm
Audience members converge on the lobby. My third can of Sugar-Free Red Bull is rapidly wearing off. I have now, between my two jobs, been at work for a grand total of fifteen hours. It has become harder and harder to reign in the sarcasm. I convince myself that the customers come here for these snappy retorts, like one of those restaurants where they throw the rolls at you during dinner.

11:58pm
Dear God, why are there still so many people here? There seem to be two schools of costuming going on: 1) People who are dressed as actual characters from the film, and
2)Girls who have been given the occasion to dress in outfits that would make a prostitute blush. I feel like I'm in the middle of some bizarre David Lynch Showgirl Revue. There should never be an occasion for a middle-aged man to squeeze his doughy shape into ill-fitting lingerie and slap on some fire-engine red lipstick. Some of us would like to eat again in the near future.

12:24am
All's quiet on the lobby front. The masses have assembled in the auditorium as I survey the carnage left behind. It looks like a bomb went off in a drag queen's dressing room. There isn't a square inch of carpet that isn't covered in stray boa feathers or body glitter. I'm pretty sure there are Geneva Convention laws set up for this. The Red Bull has completely warn off and I briefly contemplate gathering up all of the feathers into one big pile and taking a cat nap.

1:34am
My manager, Dale, takes one look at my pitiful state and lets me go home early, but not before a two hundred pound man in garter belts and a large pearl necklace asks me where I bought my wig. I wasn't wearing a wig.

2:15am
I slide under my warm down comforter only to remember that I have to work at 9am.