ROASTAPALOOZA!!!
Not since El Morocco tore up its striped banquettes has café society seen such a gathering of bright lights. The rout that was Roastacon 2009 will be as long remembered as the shrapnel embedded in the historic walls of the adjacent townhouse, whose owners, while initially stand-offish, did have to break down and agree that Kevin K’s recipe for Fish House Punch certainly has a kick. That the festivities began on the sixth hour of the sixth day of the sixth month was entirely unrelated to the subsequent deviltry. Entirely.
Rumproasters marindenver, Mrs. Polly, and gimmeabreak (aloft) shared their taste for snark, sammich-making, and a certain refreshing grape drink.
We first commenced with a toast to our absent friends, particularly our co-bloggers:
Hunger Tallest Palin, who, because he is a pure but attenuated Palin from the frozen North (of DC somewhere), I have chosen to depict as a noble fir tree:
the lemony meringue that is Betty Cracker:
the many-layered, pungent yet fresh, Yet Another Freaking Brit:
and the ne-plus-ultra of Rumproast, our sometime guest-poster, the always mysterious and electrifying Strange Appar8us:
Our fearless leader, Kevin K, displayed the extraordinary balance for which Rumproast justly is an award-winning blog.
Our DC friend Alt Hippo and Gil Mann demonstrated congeniality AND amphibiousness.
KC, Marindenver’s brilliant and spirited daughter, live-blogged the unfolding mayhem with the sang-froid of a seasoned war correspondent.
In order to protect TS of Instaputz from the results of his commandeering of Marin’s computer and the visits from serious, dark-suited men that ensued, I have disguised him as a thirties cartoon character, who while not like him, is similarly diabolical. Marin will contact you shortly about some of those DOD downloads, TS. “Joint” Chiefs, indeed!
Pumarubbernecker surveyed the perimeter for signs of a threatened invasion: caterwauling, the glint of sharpened knitting needles, cupcake liners and the acrid aroma of bitter tears. But the minions of muddled monotony were as absent as a Michigan superdelegate in a Puma pocket.
And you, you know who you are. Well, perhaps you don’t, but discretion forbids my saying more, except that the forwarding address you left for the damages estimate is actually a podiatrist’s office in Fresno. We don’t mind absorbing the fee for the rewiring, but restringing that entire chandelier with lead crystal droplets ran into some bucks. We rest assured that you gave us the wrong card out of confusion and an excess of Flying Mules, which we warned you about, but which you nevertheless imbibed.
Roastacon, Roastyricon, Rumproastanalia, however you would have it, was a glorious, blazing, whomping huge cavalcade of delight. It was hardly a surprise to find out that Rumproasters are hilarious, brilliant, and full of bonhom- and bonfemie. It was a just a swell confirmation.
There was one puzzle that was never solved: just barely audible, below the cheerful gabble and bursts of song, was a constant, faint snuffling.
Management attributed it to sewer rats.
Posted by Mrs. Polly on 06/13/09 at 04:18 PM • Permalink
Categories: Booze • I Don't Know Much About Art, But I Know What I Like • Rumproast Related •
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