Garnate
Died Tragically
- Joined
- Apr 26, 2008
- Posts
- 21,470
I love you funny bastards.
I've apologized like, what, 20 times for the cigar burn? To be fair, when you walked up to me you were covered in drool and I had no way of knowing at the time that it was drool.
I will never forget the first time I ever saw Garnate. She was understudying Dolly Parton for the role of Lady Macbeth at the RSC, in what became known as the Rhinestone production and, I confess, I did not recognize the name. Anyway, Parton was unavoidably absent (we found out later she had been moonlighting as the face of a large Beijing concrete manufactory) and there was a slip in the programme to the effect that her part would be played by this American ingenue.
You will remember that Lady Macbeth makes her first appearance in Act One, scene five, and is reading a letter from her husband. Taking her cue from Ms Parton, Garnate decided to withdraw the letter from her bosom, which had made an entrance appreciably before the rest of her. Well, that was it. Duncan's murder, Banquo's ghost...all of it was blurred before the the mesmeric sight of those Machiavellian mammaries, plotting and conspiring to rob me of words.
When she rubbed her hands together to attempt to get rid of the 'damn'd spot!' her whole upper body jiggled and, I confess, I had to slip out for a vital few moments to restore the tissues. Once her suicide was announced, I could resist no longer. I slipped round to the dressing rooms before the play ended and professed my undying love. It was only then I realized that she had a lovely face, too. And I will always treasure the first and only words she ever spoke to me:
'Who the fuck are you? Steve? STEVE! Get this creep out of my fucking sight!' I was unceremoniously dumped out the back exit by the recycling bins, and gazed, quite incoherent with lust, at the now-risible beauty of the cold Stratford night. Far beyond, the Malvern hills rose like a tribute act to her chest, and I traced my fingers lovingly over the swollen, puckered skin of my wrist, where she had pressed her post-performance cigar hard against my amorous flesh.
Ah. Such memories. Happy 20,000th, you mesmeric beauty.
I've apologized like, what, 20 times for the cigar burn? To be fair, when you walked up to me you were covered in drool and I had no way of knowing at the time that it was drool.