Edna Sings

I dreamed of Dame Edna.

More precisely, I dreamed of a fucking bevy of Dame Ednas. It was the Dame Edna Memorial Choir. Truly. I was in the lobby of the Rialto, and there were 15 ancient, ragged drag queens dressed up like Dame Edna (but much more corpse-y) in fabulous floor length sparkling Golden Girls evening dresses, wigs and glasses and all. And they were singing.

They were singing the theme song of their social club. Which sounded like some sort of drag queen retirement community deal. They sang (I wish I were making this up, but I am not):

We are the gays of North Rutherford, New Jersey

...backgammon tournament once a year

...oranges

...fun frolics

...shuffleboard tournaments

...wall-to-wall carpeting

...occasional dinners out

...lobsters

It went on like this for quite some time. I think they were listing all the things their club had to offer. Like a gaggle of Dame Edna sirens, calling us to join them in their decrepit frivolities.

Oh, one must really use the extended vocabulary to describe a sordid dream such as this.