The play's the thing

"I hope every penis you touch turns into a serpent and bites your face off!" said the lacrosse player in drag.

That was our evening: watching a very bawdy adaptation of Aristophanes' The Sexual Congress, featuring men in drag, women in skimpy dresses, and an off-color musical parody of Stacy's Mom. It was presented by the Greek comedy class of adfamiliares's colleague Dan, who himself wore a bubblegum-pink wig and falsies. (He got tenure two days ago—just in time, since no accredited university would touch him after this.) The adaptation was updated for Skidmore: the female students longed to return to the halcyon days when the college was an all-girls' school, and instituted a regimen of electrically wired chastity belts to keep the men in line. This led to the immortal line (to the tune of Time of Your Life by Green Day):

So we won't slap your butts while passing in the halls
If you'll agree not to electrocute our balls.

[Edit: Okay, not that immortal, since I forgot it almost immediately—adfamiliares tells me it's more like "We promise not to stare or pat you on the butts / If you'll agree not to electrocute our nuts."] I think the kids did a great, and occasionally alarming, job; it certainly lifted me out of my persistent blue funk for an hour or so.

adfamiliares and I later procured pizza (since we only managed to grab one thin sliver apiece at the play), then watched last night's Battlestar Galactica and Dr. Who. I continue to have a crush on Shirley Henderson (Moaning Myrtle from the Harry Potter movies), and can't quite believe she's seven years older than me. What a voice! (It's okay—adfamiliares has a crush on her Whovian co-star, Hustle's Marc Warren.)