Dear MF Diary, we had another busy weekend that went by faster than you can say “a dingo stole my baby.” On Saturday, we went with my mother to the annual Greek Festival at a large church here in town. Strudel had her first taste of some of my favorite comfort food, avgolemono soup, and she really liked it.

My mom was feeling bad about Strudel while we sat and gorged ourselves on spanikopita, lamb sandwiches shaved off a giant lamb a few feet away from the booth, and retsina. Strudel has reached the age where she watches every bite go into your mouth like a small ignored terrier. But we can’t give her half the stuff we eat, so I don’t feel too bad. She was content with being boobranched and then gaffling the rest of my soup.

Then, on Saturday night, my mom took me out to see The King and I downtown. It was starring Stefanie Powers, who must be four million years old for chissake, singing in a poncy British accent and flouncing around in a giant toilet paper-cozy dress. At the end of act one, the good Siamese people were all gathered around a huge golden Buddha, praying for his protection and help. Okay, so I missed the comparative religion seminar in college, but I don’t think it works like that. I have never heard anyone say, “Dude, I swear to Buddha,” except for stoned twits I have met at bad parties and have wanted to punch out. I have never seen pictures of protesters with the “Buddha hates fags” signs. I just don’t think he’s an interactive god like that.

So we left at intermission and went and had cake. Thank Buddha for chocolate buttercream frosting, anyway.

But, I did not tell you what happened at dinner! We started at a teppanyaki place which, we discovered to our horror, was totally overrun by twits on their way to homecoming. There were more ill-fitting glamazon dresses in that place than can be found between the pages of a month of US Weeklys. There were at least a hundred Paris Hilton clones in there, cleavage spilling over strapless tops that needed to be yanked on in an unflattering manner repeatedly, all squired by boys who had three chest hairs between them. The boys were occupied with their cell phones. I saw one fellow, whose date had absconded to the can with her ladies in tow (stepping on each other’s trains all the way, TRAINS people, TRAINS. Liechtenstein could have been clothed in all that extra fabric. Of course, we are assuming that Liechtensteiniacs aren’t averse to sequins and taffeta.)

Trains.

Where was I? Yes! All the boys were on cell phones, and I even saw one fellow talking on a phone while reading the display of another phone. Presumably someone was texting him. They were all shouting across the room at each other, “Ooooh, Madison, I LOOOVE your dress!!!” Another thing that I noticed was that there was no VPL to be seen, anywhere in the room. They were all going commando, or, what is more likely, they were all wearing thongs. When I was in high school, thongs were, like, porno garb. They say that the age of modesty is returning, in the guise of high-waisted pants, but no, the new mom-pants actually look like this. So pray to [insert deity here] that your lady parts aren’t too big to cram into these fuckers. Good news, though: waxing your hoo-hoo will soon be optional! And perhaps we will trade muffin tops for camel toe for the time being. Rejoice!

As my mother and I hustled out of there to catch our show, we came face-to-face with one group’s sweet ride parked at the curb, which was, of course, a stretch Hummer limo. Ashley, Courtney, and Lindsay were arguing about who was going to get the “best seat,” screeching at each other, their perfectly seamless rumps waggling as they teetered in their stilettos and hitched up the front of their dresses. Klassy, girls, KLASSAY!

As I say, if you can’t poke them with pointy sticks for their insolence, mock them.