I’m worried about T.
You know T, don’t you? The man who abandoned Minnesota for Florida so that he could “work on his tan”? A man who calls for his cat by calling “Who’s so sexy? Who’s so sexy?”? A man with an amusing yet inappropriate love of the slogan tee-shirt (“It’s Not Going to Lick Itself, You Know”)?
T is exhibiting signs of further silliness.
His latest foray into “What the???” territory?
We take you now to a phone conversation already in progress.
”… and so I says to the guy, ‘purple monkey elevator’.”
“Really?” I say. “Good God man but that’s fascinating.”
“You’re just jealous,” he says.
“Me? Surely you have me confused with someone else.” Pause. “OK. I’ll bite. Jealous of what?”
He laughs. “Me and Lady Gaga.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “What? What are you talking about?”
“Me. Me and Lady Gaga. We got a thing.”
“A thing, huh? Have you seen a doctor?”
“Again!” he shouts. “Again with the hilarity! What, don’t you want to be one of Lady Gaga’s little monsters?”
I sigh. “I’m going to pretend that I fully understand your babbling while quietly e-mailing the authorities in your neighborhood. Give me your address. No, don’t tax yourself. I’ll look it up. Clearly a full mental work-up is in order.”
“Oh, yeah, baby,” he sighs. “Keep using the words “work-up” and “Lady Gaga” in the same breath, would you? I don’t care how mental it gets.”
I would like to say that T’s embracing of all things “Gaga-like” came out of nowhere, but that’s not true. I once saw him sing along with a Madonna song when he thought I wasn’t looking.
It haunts me.
T, of course, is free to sing along as he likes, dress up in bubble wrap, and encourage large groups of similarly minded people to dance behind him while he lip syncs, while I, being his friend and confidante, quietly and discretely hire a local to set up a tiny camera in his living room.
Who’s the little monster now?
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