“…If it didn’t ‘ave an ‘ole in it, it wouldn’t be a ‘oop, would it?” (That’ll separate the casual Monty Python gigglers from the true Monty Python geeks, that will.)
If it’s the second Monday of the month then this must be the crazed take-no-prisoners hoopy off-color burlesque love-fest that is Miss Saturn‘s Hulapalooza. It’s a giddy night, after a weekend that plunged off the rails for many — something in the air, or the aftermath of something in the news perhaps — and leave it to Miss Saturn to grab hold of abstracted distraction and turn it into a beautiful lunacy.
This ain’t the crispest show on the block, but it is the funnest. In among the widely appreciated costume malfunctions, the occasional hula hoop soars into the crowd. We whoop it back. Volunteers charge up for the Hoop Factor interludes, in which the goal is to keep the thing airborne for 30 seconds while still qualifying for a spanking from Miss Saturn. Because of course you must be punished for dropping the hoop, if you drop the hoop. So when in doubt, you drop the hoop. It’s a bit like letting the Wookie win. Some things you just can’t question. In any event, the evening titters on, and pandemonium rules.
“Work the pickup,” Miss Saturn advises one rapt contestant as she leans over to pick up an errant hoop. She’s bent over double, and she glances at the audience from between her legs. “Work … the … pickup.” She wiggles; we roar. “Hey!” she protests. “That wasn’t loud enough!” We oblige.
Pinkie Special makes her hooping debut to a fanfare of happy support, and Miss Saturn (no Hulapalooza Pepper entry is complete without a Miss Saturn picture) treats us all to chills, frills, and much much more. Groovehoops guy Malcolm the Spinning Ball of Light is mesmerizing, with and without hooping partner Bec; Malcolm is pictured above both because we normally only ever have pictures of girls and we might lose our massive Title IX Blogger Grants if we don’t give equal time, and also because, as Miss Saturn puts it: “Wow! What a package!”
(Bec is also mesmerizing with and without her hooping partner Malcolm, for those of you in the bleachers. But those pictures didn’t really come out except for the ones that came out too much, so.)
As midnight comes and goes, Miss Saturn grills a Hoop Factor volunteer from the audience. He’s some sort of Reverend, or perhaps the correct term is “ahem Reverend.” He’s vague on the details. “But wait,” she says, consternation clear on her face. “Does that mean you are celibate?” He explains that he is celibate, but not chaste. “So you just fool around,” she muses, even more puzzled. He explains that he goes all the way, but won’t get married, which is exactly what every single woman I know is busy complaining about without even dealing with religious vows.
“Ah,” says Miss Saturn, who is wise in this way. “Ah.” Reverend Mark, Reverend Mark, please come to the white courtesy dictionary.
