I Am the Coolest Man on Earth Pt 6

Someone officially enters us into the competition. I’m even more nervous and want even more beer. Priscilla just wants that rug. DJ Ann Magnuson is spinning Elvis records at 33…and my stomach spins at 45, ebbing ever closer to 78. Elvis songs continue to play as the entrants start to make their way to the stage. One at a time they strut their stuff. Most seem to do the standard sort of hip swaying, lip curling moves, but then there was John Sex. John lived up to his name. His hips swirled a little wider than the others and his lips curled a little steeper than the others. He also whipped out a secret weapon: Little John. It wasn’t so little actually. He whipped it to and fro. John seemed to love showing his namesake and the crowd ate it up…so to say. John Sex: Snake handler.

Priscilla and I are now summoned to the stage. She all but drags me with her. I see halos of light and blurry, shrieking faces in the crowd. Our friends are shrieking loudest. First advantage: we were the only couple. Second advantage: Priscilla took no prisoners. She gave the crowd a death stare of disdain as only an East Villager could. True, she was from Jersey, but her penchant for the occasional shot of narcotics practically made her an East Villager. In an act of unrehearsed symbiosis, I too chose to stare. Except my stare was similar to that of a deer caught in the headlights. I summoned up my inner Elvisness and turned the stare into a sneer. No swayed hips or curled lips from us. Just the stare and the sneer. The crowd shrieked. Was it because we looked so great or were they laughing at us? We didn’t care nor will we ever know. But we never flinched. We sold it.

We left the stage to more applause. All entrants have displayed their inner Elvi and it’s now time for the winner to be announced. Priscilla still wants her rug. I still want the vinyl.

© Curt Weiss 2014