I’ve got me one o’ them newfangled location finder gizmos in the Fat Mobile. It’s one o’ them whatchamacallems — you know, an FPS — Fat Position System. It always knows where my butt is. I wonder if, when I finally lose my Fat Butt, the dang thing’ll find it for me. Hope not.
After an early dinner, Ma Fat was acting all suspicious-like. She seemed to want to do or say something but just couldn’t find the way to do so. Finally she blurted out, “Let’s go for a ride in the Fat Mobile. I have a surprise for you.”
So, we bundled up in our snowsuits, mittens and boots, and headed out to the Fat Mobile. Ma Fat read me an address which I carefully keyed into my FPS. I wasn’t exactly sure of our final resting place, but I knew we were headed to Wind Bag Central (WBC), the Seat of Power for all of Fat Land. Into the city on a Friday night? What was Ma Fat thinking?
Now, there’s one thing that I can guarantee about these FPS units — there’s no guarantee that they know where you are nor how to get you to your final destination. WBC is one of those cities where positional accuracy is highly desirable — the streets are laid out on a Satanic System designed by the Freemasons and the Illuminati. It’s easy to get lost, if you don’t know where you are going, especially if you are following the directions of a machine — FPS.
Yes, I did miss a few turns. They were lefts onto one way streets going the wrong way. There were a couple roads that passed over the main travel road, rather than intersecting with it. After much ado, and despite the best efforts of my FPS unit, we finally arrived at our mystery destination — The Ronnie Raygun Memorial Office and Recreational Center, just off Pennsylneck Avenue in the heart of the city.
Now, all we had to do is figure how to get past the roadblock obstructing the driveway into the underground parking. Easy. Stop, talk to the armed guard and pop open the trunk. I’m glad my mother-in-law wasn’t in there.
We parked, then rode an elevator all the way up to the Concourse Level. And there, Ma Fat told me we had come to see the Capitol Steps. Silly Ma Fat, the Capitol Steps are outside at the Capitol Building on the other side of town. And that was too far to walk on a dark Friday night with a wintry mix threatening to blanket the region (not what the Weather Guesser Guy said, but what will likely happen, anyway). No, let’s get back into the Fat Mobile and call it a night.
Fat Man, Listen to me. The Capitol Steps is a Comedy Group. They say funny things. They revision the truth, just like the mass media, only funnier. Now, go ask that guy over there how to get to the Capitol Steps.
Silly Fat Man! Trix are for Kids and the Capitol Steps are for Intelligent Adults.
The guy I talked to pointed over yonder and said to go down that corridor, all the way to the end. Turn left and keep going. You will eventually run smack, dab, head first into it. “Tell ’em Charlie sent you.”
Easy, peasy! We ran into a crowd of people milling about. They were waiting for the doors to open. They were an eclectic group. Middle aged and nearing retirement age government-types mixed with texting twenty-somethings. These young ones were oblivious to the real world around them. I nearly tripped trying to get around a throng of them camped out on the staircase. The glare from their virtual online realities was reflected in their faces. It was difficult to decide which was smarter — the texters and net surfers or their smart devices. Beats me!
The doors opened. We found our seats and waited with baited breath — dang worms. The curtain went up and the show began. You will never guess who I saw in the show. None other than the current, sitting leader of the Free Fat World — Fatback Yomama. President Yomama wasn’t really there; however, the actor portraying him did such a convincing job of being the President.
Yomama was followed by a string of past Presidents and present politicians with speckled pasts. Their gaffes and indiscretions are the fuel for the Capitol Steps and their brand of humor. We all laughed so hard, so often, that I was glad I had on my Depends Big Boy Bloomers. Without those Pullups, I just may have soaked my shorts.
The hilarity continued for an hour and a half with a brief intermission in the middle. Potty time!
It was over before we were ready. Ma Fat and I could still be sitting there, enjoying ourselves, were it not for the friendly staff cajoling us to leave so they could clean-up for the night. Begrudgingly, we hauled our Fat Butts out of our seats and dragged them to the nearest exit. It was time to go home.
Thank you, Ma Fat, for this wonderful surprise. What a great way to celebrate our two birthdays. Remember, for the next 10 days, I’m only a year older than you. See, I must be getting younger and possibly better. Okay, let’s not get carried away. I remain the Oldest Fat in Our Family. That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.
Good night. Funny dreams.
ps. If you ever find yourself with the time to head down to Wind Bag Central — the home of the Blow Hards — checkout the Capitol Steps. I guarantee you will pee yourself laughing or at least come close many times throughout the evening. For their schedule and directions (in case you don’t have an FPS, or especially if you do) and so much more, check out their site on the Interwebs: Capitol Steps.