Here's to You, Mrs. Robinson
So. Last Sunday night, my parents, El Dukay, and I all went to see The Graduate, starring Morgan Fairchild and her naked body, at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta.
The good news, and I may have mentioned this before, the good news is: they serve wine at the Fabulous Fox. And also, martinis. And we needed them, y'all, because YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW.
Now, have y'all heard about this? This Graduate stage production thing? Because I will be happy to tell you ALL about it, namely, that it involves Morgan Fairchild, BUTT ASS NAKED, and also, with no clothes on, and incidentally, the woman is NAKED AS A JAYBIRD, right there up on the stage, in front of my PARENTS, and that may be a sign of the apocalypse, right there.
When we told my father about our evening plans, he was less than thrilled. And my mother kept saying, "Oh, come on. You'll get to see Morgan Fairchild naked. Every man wants to see Morgan Fairchild naked." And this horrified my father. Deeply. And he kept on protesting, "No, I DON'T, and why WOULD I," and he was VERY BOTHERED, because Dad...well. Poor Dad had mixed up Morgan Fairchild with Morgan Freeman. And they have different hardware entirely, and I am not even going to get INTO the look of pure, sweet relief on his face when he realized his mistake.
But speaking of hardware. People, we are talking about watching NAKEDNESS with parents. My parents do not have a "naked." I don't even want to talk about it. They were born wearing shoes and parkas, and that is that.
Now, my dumb ass was responsible for purchasing the tickets for our evening of theatre, and because I am both AWESOME and STUPID, I (through no fault of my own, I may add) ended up procuring front row seats for the show. And so we went, my MOTHER, my FATHER, my BOYFRIEND, and myself, to see Morgan Fairchild in her birthday suit, because DID I MENTION that the woman is NUDE.
Now, they use tasteful lighting in the scene where Morgan Fairchild shows us the goods, and by "tasteful lighting", I mean, "it is kind of dark." So people who are in, say, row FIVE will see nothing. People in row one? Well...hello, Morgan Fairchild's vagina! And how have YOU been?
People, it pains me to say this. But Mrs. Robinson...well. She got herself a Brazilian. KILL ME.
(Sidenote! As someone who wrote one of her two theses on The Graduate (this is true. The other one was on Marilyn Manson, but that is a story for another day), well, as someone who did that...this made my cry a little. From SHAME.)
So, anyway. We're sitting there, my MOTHER, my FATHER, my BOYFRIEND, and MYSELF, gazing at Morgan Fairchild's girl parts and thinking, "How did this happen, exactly?" and also, "Oh my FUCK," because I never, ever want to be in the same room -- nay, not even the same ZIP CODE -- as my father gazing at a woman's netherreigons. This is not RIGHT. This is the sort of thing that drives otherwise healthy people to insanity, I am thinking.
What made it worse, what made it MUCH worse, is that Morgan Fairchild...well. Y'all? Just between us? NO. That woman was not born with those breasts. There is a team of surgeons in Malibu high-fiving each other every time she exposes herself, because HI, THEY ARE ENORMOUS, and they are WAY BIGGER THAN MY HEAD on this BITSY little Morgan Fairchild body and that is NOT RIGHT. Frankly, I was terrified. Now, THEY deserve their own zip code. And area code. And dress code. Frankly, they may take over, and Kiefer is looking into it, and we are all in danger.
So, Morgan Fairchild (I feel the need to use her full name, because I HAVE SEEN HER PARTS) waltzes out onto the stage in NO CLOTHES, and I think, well, things can't possibly get any worse than this! No, my discomfort could not possibly increase! Because, hi, DAD!
But, unfortunately, this was not the end of seeing way more of Morgan Fairchild than I have ever wanted to see. Because remember, WE ARE ON THE FRONT ROW at the Fabulous Fox Theatre, and she kept on getting under the sheets of the bed and then they'd...MOVE, and stuff, and the woman is not wearing undergarments and it was HORRIFYING, and I say this because I AM SITTING NEXT TO MY MOTHER, and the woman is very liberal, BUT THAT DOES NOT MATTER, and I JUST SAW WHERE THE BABY COMES FROM.
I freaked out accordingly. So I had to drink several martinis. Y'all know.
At the end of the show, as we're all sitting there, with everyone else in Atlanta who is thinking "Hello, I just saw SNATCH on a Sunday night, and that is the day of the Lord," my father turned to us while Morgan Fairchild was taking a bow, and said, "I have one word for you: PLASTICS."
And the man was so right, y'all. So terribly, terribly right. Please send help. And more martinis.