On Friday night 'Stina and I arranged to meet with Doctor Bubastis under cover of night, near to the witching hour. The location agreed upon was a known and well-lit pub, but when we met with him at the appointed hour he swept us up into his carriage before we could protest. "I require more privacy!" He declared.
He drove his carriage on violently, cackling as the wind whipped our manes into a frenzy. As he drove, he vexed us with unanswerable questions. "Who should win Project Runway this season?" "What is your favorite Spencer Krug song?" "How many drinks did you have the night you saw Xiu Xiu?" I reached for my smelling salts a moment too late. I fainted dead away.
I awoke in a parlor that looked a lot like this Beirut video, minus the video honeys.
We had wine and cake. The Good Doctor apologized for his uncouth behavior and we got down to some serious ponygirl business, as after all, Stina and I were decked out in our best business hoodies.
With business taken care of, we fell to chatting and an impromptu autoharp, ukulele and keytar jam. "So," the Doctor said, "what are you ponies doing the rest of the weekend?"
"Not too much, just getting sick and going to work anyway."
"But what about after the weekend?"
"Oh, you mean...."
"DIRTY MONDAY!" We cried, our hearts filled with glee and sparkles of joy dancing in our eyes.
"Why haven't you posted the new video yet? You're in it a couple times."
"Well, we've been feeling a bit under the weather, kinda busy..."
"FEEBLE EXCUSES ARE THE REFUGE OF THE WEAK!" He raged, his countenance threatening violence.
We will be at the Saloon tomorrow evening, faithful as ever, coughing daintily in our hankies.