Weeping Sir Bob
We arrived just after sunset at S_______, located in the toniest section of L__ A_______.*
"I didn't know Disney now had a 'Caribbean Shantytown' pavilion," said Evangelina as we gazed at the faux-ramshackle compound. "This is where we're going to find Triumph?" she added, raising an eyebrow.
"Wait and see who else comes here," I winked as I pulled up behind a Lexus in line for the valet parking stand.
"Sorry, uh, sir - this establishment does not serve cats," the attendant informed us.
"What about me? I'm human," asked Evangelina, coquettishly tilting her head.
"This establishment does not serve mixed couples, either," we were informed.
I drove a few blocks away to a slightly-lower-rent district and stowed the car behind a tourist T-shirt and souvenir bong shop, where we bought expensive, surfer-Rasta-wannabe disguises. Our first undercover action: We joked to the proprietor that we were too stoned to drive, and he offered a card for his cousin's limo service, which we used to make an ostentatious return to S_______.
Once inside I quickly spotted a large table at the rear. A small army of child-extras clad in picturesque rags fanned the party with palm fronds as bikini'ed waitresses brought platters of food and drink.
"... poop, poop, poop," Triumph was sniggering, as Sir Bob Geldof, Bono, Paris Hilton and other assorted hangers-on chortled in unison. The façade of their merriment showed a crack when an awkward silence followed Triumph's tired turd-verse.
Bono pursed his lips. Sir Bob quietly sang, "We are the world ... don't they know it's Christmas ... I don't like Mondays ..." and a tear fell into his daiquiri.
I marched up to the table without further ado.
"You, who call yourself Triumph!" I intoned, puffing up my tail and gesturing with my paw. "What's this you say about wanting to classify cats as second-class citizens?"
*Due to pending litigation, we cannot be any more specific.
to be continued ...