Someone's memory lane...

I went down memory lane last night, although I'm not exactly sure whose lane it was.
I stepped on the elevator, and stood beside the woman with the bright pink dress.
Her name tag clearly read "Pauline", but her pet gecko introduced her as Imelda.
The ride to the penthouse on the 41st floor was otherwise uneventful.
As I disembarked, I was offered a glass of champagne flavored oatmeal, which I gladly accepted.
No one seemed to have trouble consuming it, so I tipped the glass and let the gelatenous mass slide down my throat.
The host, a squat little man with a bad toupee, and an ill fitting cowboy outfit, began a speech about how glad he was that everyone could be there. He then proceeded to pull out a small cannon from his chaps, and took aim at the elevator doors.
I didn't really want to see what was going to happen next, so I made my way discreetly to the bathroom, and leaped out of the window. I was prepared to have to flap my arms at a feverish pace, but was surprised at how close ground level actually was.
The party behind me, I suddenly had an overwhelming craving for sushi pita pockets.
I was fortunate, as I soon saw a sign for just such an indulgence flashing in the fog soaked distance.
The crowd in the restaurant seemed unusually large for this time of night, but since I'd never been to a sushi pita pocket bar at 2 a.m., I really had no frame of reference.
The cashier/order taker had a tuna costume on, and spoke with an accent I hadn't heard before.
He sounded like a cross between Selma Diamond from Night court, and Harvey Fierstein,
(or were they the same person in real life?) It was obvious to me that I was going to have too much trouble deciding what to order on my own, so I asked the person next in line to order for me. His name was Plotkin. A rather tall man with a beak like nose and hair protruding from his ears.
Once he'd ordered for the both of us, he indicated that the restaurant was far too crowded, and would I like to join he and his wife in his loft for a more peaceful first time sushi pita pocket experience.
I gladly accepted, as he seemed a trustworthy type.
His wife was an exceptionally beautiful woman, save for the unibrow she was sporting.
The meal was eaten in almost complete silence, and it wasn't until later that I discovered that the couple had not spoken to each other in over 42 years. Some argument about facial and orifice hair. I bid them thanks, and decided to make my way home and call it a night, after all, I did have tantric massage lessons in the morning. I was about to enter the complex that housed my humble 5 room flat, when the gecko pulled me aside and asked me for some help with his mistress. It seems that they, too, had escaped the clearly insane short cowboy host's plot to dampen an otherwise lovely evening with errant cannon fodder.
As I knelt beside her, she spoke softly and told me a wonderous story of her homeland, where she had been the daughter of a shoe manufacturer. She drew a vivid picture of excess and pampering at the hands of a loving and doting father, until a hostile take-over destroyed their fortune forever. She even told me of her long lost collection of exotic shoes that were made to fit, and just for her. As I helped her to her feet, the name tag slipped from the pink sequins that made up her department store designer frock. It was abundantly clear at that point that the label she wore didn't match the person inside, she was indeed not a Pauline.♠
Labels then, are not always a good indicator of who you're really dealing with.
That's what I think, anyway.