Garbage Juice

Mister Fixit and I hardly ever go on dates at the moment, but we did manage to get out during April to see a Comedy Festival show: Lover, Fighter, Dancer by Sarah D.

Nell was Le Babysitter (her rates are VERY reasonable) and Fixit and I took a tram into the city on a Saturday night, and saw the show at the Eurotrash Bar. It was a good laugh, and made me think that someone ought to give her her own television show, only our tiny television industry doesn't really work like that. Then we ate a pretty average meal in Chinatown (it was a Japanese meal, maybe that was the problem? Actually, I don't think I've ever eaten well in Chinatown, someone needs to tell me where to go next time), before tramming it home again. All in all, a good night out, even if we were home by 10.45pm. I can sit up at the computer till midnight, but drag me out on the town and my face is splitting with yawns by 10pm. Sad.

The reason we did actually haul our arses out was because we knew the girl doing the show, and because our children were in it. Well, when I say in it, what I mean is: it was a skit-based show, so in between skits when the performers were madly doing costume changes, she screened pre-recorded comedy advertisements, mostly crazy info-mercials.

Our kids were in the ad for Garbage Juice. It was pretty funny, and fairly disgusting. The version shown here is the family friendly one, the proper show-version featured some rather less savoury items in the garbage (hint, think iron and protein but I'll leave that to your imaginations.)

I of course thought the boys were completely adorable in it, and nearly burst with pride when we saw it. I only just restrained myself from digging nearby audience members in the ribs to tell them they'd just watched my progeny. Hey, I'd had a few wines by then. But this afternoon when I screened a copy of it for the kids to see, Cherub covered his face in embarrassment and then burst into tears. Climber liked it though.