It was earlier this year in Las Vegas, Nevada (as opposed to all the other Las Vegi that are out there) at a convention held on the behalf of those of my profession (this can all be verified; fellow Practicioner and FreeOnes member DrDeath himself delivered (the man just loves to "de-liver" things) the keynote speech at the opening ceremonies—I delivered the hors d'oeuvres to my co-conventioneers (which in itself, I am proud to remark, was a drastic improvement from the previous year when I had to "deliver" the various automobiles from the main entrance of the venue and over to the parking lot that struck me as being more so in Arizona than anywhere else and had to walk back each time)—and following the tedious formalities that are seemingly endemic to these get-togethers, it was time for some live entertainment, Las Vegas, Michigan* -style!
And being that we are members of the most esteemed profession of all, and being that decidedly we are not cheap, nothing is too good for us, anyone would agree, and as it were, we were entertained by a most unusual and reportedly world-renown spectacle, where each of the trio of performers, of whom were attired in the same non-descript, dark cape-like outfits and were adorned with a gruesome, and icky slathering of make-up that rendered them virtually identical to each other, spoke not a word to the audience and all the while with each of them beating these white plastic pipes together in time (presumably) to the noxious, mind-numbing drone of some industrial/ techno-pop cacaphonous rubbish!
And then upon examining the countenances and over-all appearance of the perpetrators of this racket being executed, and, yes, I do mean executed, just like you think I mean it, that purportedly was being executed for our benefit, at that, and at great expense, as well, I should add, up on the stage, I was suddenly thunder-struck with the thought —"nooooooooooooooooo, it couldn't be," I cried out in mortal anguish as I collapsed to the floor, thereby upsetting the tray held in my hand and subsequently became bombarded by a hail of cocktail sauce-filled ramekins that created some woeful temporary personal disfigurement and terminally soiled my leased burgundy vest with the useless, but obligitory, as a matter of fashion none the less, kerchief in the breast pocket that was then (during my state of unconsciousness, I later surmised) looted for any tips or articles of jewelry haphazardly left lying about that I may have accured that evening (for tax purposes, I'm not saying for certain).
