This weekend, yet another nook of the haunted house that is my psyche was revealed. The lady and I were invited to a housewarming party with a 1950's housewife theme. In short, I had to get dressed up and quite frankly, I felt a little silly about the whole thing. I grumbled about it like the little bitchbag I am, but in the end I'm nothing if not a sport. So I squeezed into my most uncomfortable 1950's-style three-piece suit and headed over to the party.

After socializing for about an hour or so, it hit me like a bolt of greased lightning: this was a 1950's party.

I could be the Fonz.

Upon stumbling on this revelation, any normal person would have probably said, "Oh well, I had the idea too late. Now it's time to enjoy the party." But in case you haven't been paying attention for the last 400+ non-consecutive days, your buddy Brendo ain't no normal cat. For about five minutes, I became absolutely obsessed with the idea of being the Fonz until I just couldn't take it anymore. I was bursting with a burning case of Fonzitude.

I snuck out of the party and literally ran home to put a pound and a half of pomade in my air, pop in the contacts and don the Fonz's signature jeans, white t-shirt and leather jacket ensemble. That's right - in a span of about an hour, I went from whining about dressing up to making a dramatic costume change. In short, I'm an idiot.

Later in the night, a rousing game of "Celebrity" broke out. I took the opportunity to put "The Fonz" in the bowl about 55 times. On average, people had to give the clue about thrice per round. Every time it came up, I threw up my thumbs and said, "Aaaaaaaayyyyy!" All. Night. Long.

I honestly have no idea how you people put up with me.