VIP tickets to a high-brow charity event. Could be interesting. So, I went to my closet and threw on something dazzling enough to be inconspicuous.
First thing I learned: VIP’s get special parking spots.
It was a brilliant summer day when we walked into that tent. It was crowded and noisy. A grumpy old lady served us an over-priced hot dog. We jostled for a bench to sit on. Around then, the nice man who had given us the tickets had found us. “This isn’t the VIP section.” So we followed him behind the rope.
Behind the rope was a larger tent elaborately decorated according to that year’s chosen theme. It was obvious a lot of charity money went into those fabulously stunning decorations. They spared no expense. Beyond that were tables, (with umbrellas), and chairs, and wide open space. (I liked the space!) There was a food tent where the food was free, and there were no hotdogs. And the people serving it were very polite. So this was VIP.
As I walked through that section in my dazzling enough to be inconspicuous clothes, I spotted a man looking at me. Okay, that still happens. Later I learned that he was the organizer of the event. The king of the VIP section as it were.
So we found a table…the only table left actually. There were three women already there. A mother, a daughter and (I think) a daughter’s friend. I could see right away they were social climbers who had somehow wrangled tickets…all chock full o’ hope of possibly meeting some rich men, or at the very least have the thrill of being noticed by one. I didn’t say hello. There was no point. I had nothing to offer them. So I did the most merciful thing and without a word turned my chair around to face the entertainment provided. It was merciful because that way they may have thought they were sitting at a table with someone so important that she snubbed them entirely. Those people like that sort of thing.
At some point I noticed the king of the VIP section slowly making his way in our direction. ‘Good God,’ I thought, ‘He’s on the pussy prowl…and with his wife in tow.’ Sure enough he made it over to our table and introduced himself, announcing his intentions to sit and eat with us.
His wife, (I forget her name but I’ll call her Lean Mean Jeannie), I could tell she was mean. I don’t know if that was a part of her nature or she’d become mean from a life of nothing but too much exercise, too little food and too much worrying about her pussy huntin’ husband. She may have even been a second wife…a once piece of hunted pussy that was from the ‘right’ family, so he married her. Now she was just a getting older wife trying to hang on to meaning by focusing on toning her arms.
When I met that king of the VIP lounge I could see that I had scared him off those ideas fairly quickly. I don’t know if it was my broken nose, chilly, (but polite), demeanour or just that strange presence I have about me, but he was too afraid to sit near. Instead, he sat beside the three women who fawned and flicked their hair. This was an important man, and they were delighted. Those women would have been on their knees to that man behind the food tent if he told them to.
Lean Mean Jeannie sat beside me, and I was sure she was thinking this table is not good enough for us. There are better people to sit with. And I’m also sure she was not too happy about her husband talking to those three flicking, fawning harpies.
Luckily, a few tables over, some privileged man who knew the king and his wife called them over to join him. Maybe he thought our table was not good enough for the king or maybe he wanted to save Lean Mean Jeannie from having to watch her husband flirt with the three social climbers, but regardless, they left. I was relieved, but I think the harpies were heart-broken. Oh well!
One of the features of the event was the presence of a member of ‘royalty.’ (I’ll not mention the country to protect the nice man who gave us the tickets.) I assume it is meant to give an air of importance to such events…spending all that charity money on hiring those kind of people to show up. So anyway, I was introduced to Mr. Royal. From behind my sunglasses, I looked into his eyes, and shook his hand. ZOMBIE! No kidding! There was nothing to this man. Desolate, stark, vacant, void, empty. Later, I thought this is ‘royalty’… simply a long chain of hollow people, ordering up death and destruction, mating with and/or murdering their own kin, dehumanizing the world, cracking open a hard boiled egg every morning. They are the walking dead. I politely smiled, then turned away.
Later I noticed Mr. Royal’s son running around. He was spoiled, (that was obvious), but lots of children are. What was so disturbing was his butler-nanny. To see a full grown man subservient to a small boy was so incredibly perverse…so unnatural! Then to add to the perversity, I saw this creepy butler-nanny trying to encourage this boy of about 8 or 9 to flirt with full grown women. Was this part of the duty of a butler-nanny? Royalty ewww!
So if you ever wondered what goes on in the VIP section, now you know. For me, it was an experience like any other, but if I was to say one nice thing about it, the open space was very nice.