Def Leppard is the Motherfuckin’ Shit

My husband and I have a beautiful and shameful ritual of getting really drunk every Friday night and listening to the 80s music we loved growing up.  And fortunately for us, YouTube has every music video ever made, no matter how old or obscure.  Chugging rum and Coke while watching a bunch of guys in spandex shake their hair sweat all over the stage is weirdly therapeutic after a week of dealing with assholes and morons in equal share.  Come by our apartment at any given moment on a Friday between 8:00 PM and 5:00 AM, and you’ll find us drunkenly belting out the lyrics to Rock of Ages and our frustrations along with it.  You’ll also find my husband playing air guitar in a wonderfully obscene way that looks like he’s having the greatest upright sex in history.   I’m jealous of that air guitar.  Then my hubby gets really sweet.  He makes me dance to Rod Stewart and Barry Manilow and Bruce Springsteen while he softly sings in my ear and holds me against his solid chest.  This ritual is the highlight of my week.  I’m a supervisor at a fine-dining establishment.  By the time Friday afternoon rolls around, I  am so sick of dealing with an ungrateful and entitled general public,  and wound so incredibly tight from the stress of running the joint, that I feel like a rubber band that’s on the verge of snapping.  I firmly believe I have found the perfect formula for releasing that stress in a way that doesn’t lead to me being arrested for going on a murderous rampage or streaking naked through the grocery store while shrieking hysterically and flinging poo at everyone I see.  (Though if I do ever get arrested, I want it to be for that.  Part of me really wants the phrase “crap-flinger” on my permanent record.)


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