23m 34s into the video…
Tate had cut out who we were discussing, but the topic was divorce.
“Divorces are like farts,” Sadie informed us, swaying in her seat. “I don’t get why people keep it so hushy or talk about it like it’s a scandal. Everyone farts, it happens. So, if you think of divorce like a fart, they happen, and you can either keep it a secret and leave it to hit people on the sly, or you can just say it and take the sting out of it. Like ‘oh, sorry, mate, I farted. Don’t be alarmed when it hits you.’ See, that’s not so bad,” she waved her hand and shrugged. “So why can’t people just go ‘yeah, I got a bleeding divorce. Don’t be alarmed when you hear it from someone else who’s got no business talking about my private affairs,’? What’s the big deal?”
“Um, farting is kind of offensive,” Beau pointed out.
“But sometimes they just happen. It’s worse if you don’t warn people that one just snuck out of your arsehole accidentally.”
“I’m not sure that’s true,” I hedged, looking at her with one eye closed.
“What, so you’re just going to pretend it wasn’t you? You can’t do that if we’re talking about farts, I mean divorces. There are two people in the marriage, how are you going to explain the fart then when it hits people?”
Beau and I looked at each other across the table, both of us looking as confused as the other.
And then I raised my hand in the air. “Ah, I know. My gramps farts and leaves the room before people smell it. Sometimes people get divorced and leave the area to move somewhere else before people find out. There you go,” I shouted, slamming my hand flat on the table with a crack.
It was a good thirty seconds later that I lifted my hand back up in the air again and screamed, “Ow!”Lifting the hand in question, I sighed when I realized now why it had been so sore today, deliberately not acknowledging all of the snickers and people watching me do it.46m 01s into the video
“We should go to a club,” I suggested, my hand in the slushy ice concoction in the blender.
“I know the best club,” Beau shot up out of her seat and started digging through her purse.
“Where? Let’s go!” I picked up the blender and started to walk toward the table, bouncing off a pillar and dragging a chair with me when it got in my way.
“New Orleans. It’s the shit, you guys! And there’s a really hot guy who works there.”
Lifting her head from the table, Sadie looked at both of us. “New Orleans? I’m game. Oh, can we go to Florida after it? I love the clubs in Miami and the hot, sweaty guys on the beaches, all covered in sand and muscles and…” she trailed off, obviously lost in a replay of hot, sweaty, sandy guys.
“Can you dance? Do British people dance?” Beau asked as she dug around in her purse.
Standing up with a huff, Sadie got on top of the table.
“Can I dance?” she scoffed. “I call this Pinky,”—she pointed at her left tit—“this one Perky,”—she pointed to the right one and then turned, so her ass was pointing unknowingly at the camera. “And this one’s Twerky!” she squealed and started twerking her heart out.“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Sadie whispered, her eyes glued to the screen. What followed was eighteen minutes of footage of her teaching the two of us to twerk like queens. It was horrific.1hr 22m 04s into the video
“So your cousin got kidnapped with her best mate, they escaped because of someone’s taint, her top got caught on a branch and ripped off her, and she found it funny because it was like a scene in a scary movie?” Sadie clarified, slurring it all horribly.
Nodding my head vigorously, I confirmed, “She did. The guys had guns and everything.”
“I’d have bounced up and down, hoping it’d distract the baddies,” Sadie said as she stood up and started bouncing, her boobs doing the same thing given her cup size. “See, they’re almost hypnotic,” she told us as she tried swinging them around.
“I dunno if I’d have laughed,” Beau slurred. “They got guns, man,” she slapped her hand on the table. “And your poor boobies…”
“Better than popping one on a branch,” Sadie pointed out, covering hers up. “Poor little dirty pillows.”
Wincing with her, I said sagely, “I’d rather flash my melons than my vagina.”
“Can you imagine?” Beau chuckled. “Running for your life and then waaaa—vagina in the face.”
“Like in Aliens with those little face-hugging things,” Sadie howled, putting her hand over her face, copying what they did in the movie.
“To twerking, face hugging vaginas,” I yelled, holding up a glass that was most likely meant to be a shot but wasn’t, seeing as how it was a proper glass that was half full.