It's Not Over 'Till the Fat Guy Wakes Up

Where do party animals such as the P-dog and myself go of a Saturday night?

Why, to the symphony, of course.

We saw a magnificent performance of Mahler's Second, The Resurrection, this past weekend.

I was especially riveted by the two sopranos who chimed in to accompany the orchestra at one point, though I must admit to seething a little in my plush concert hall chair, just thinking about how the fulfillment of my greatest wish would be nothing less than to stand up on that stage and belt out an aria or two myself.

Although convinced that I could have easily one-upped the mezzo who subscribed to the Miss Piggy school of operatic theatrics, I remained a model patron of the arts, sitting with head tilted and nylon-clad legs crossed, a thoughtful smile playing upon my lips as I immersed myself in the music.

Until my hyper-vigilant sense of hearing began to pick up the unmistakable, rhythmic, and utterly intolerable sound of snoring.

Dude behind me was out like a light.

As you might imagine, it took every ounce of self-restraint I had not to swivel around and fix the offender with my patented Stare of Damnation, but even I recognized the futility of this measure, considering the fact that he was asleep.

I briefly contemplated whipping out the Snickers bar the P-dog always makes sure I have stashed in my purse in case of a hunger induced freakout scenario and loudly crackling the wrapper directly in front of the snorer's face.

Oh, who am I kidding? I wanted to use that Snicker's bar as a projectile weapon.

But I decided against it, concluding that the action might only serve to draw more attention to me than to the crisis at hand.

There was a lady in the row in front of me who did turn completely around in her seat and scowled mightily at my neighbor for a very commendable minute or two. This was, of course, to no avail.

I gave her the look of solidarity that is recognizable to all PAPSSS (People Against Public Snoring, Snorting and Snuffling).

The snoring was nearly drowned out during the louder parts of the performance, but irritatingly consistent in rhythm and meter during the more subdued portions. And, of course, the occasional Holy frijoles, was I asleep? snort that would only briefly jolt my enemy from slumber practically sent me through the roof every single time it occurred.

I did manage to enjoy the concert when I wasn't busy counting to ten in my head, biting my tongue, and jamming the stiletto heel of my right shoe into the tender flesh of the top of my left foot, a measure I often take to prevent myself from speaking out of turn or generally going berserk.

As soon as the finale concluded, the audience rose in one great wave for a standing ovation.

Guess who was practically falling over with the zealousness of his applause? Repeatedly shouting BRAVO! until he turned blue in the face, and generally acting like the exact opposite of a person who just spent the last hour and a half drooling on his own collar?

Mr. Sleepypants himself.

Even the P-dog noted, "What is that guy so excited about? He was asleep for the whole damn show."

I gave him the Death Stare on my way out, but he was quite unaffected.

Cripes.