I think I have passed the entire movie set of Waterworld through my pores in sweat.
On the plus side of things, I can now fit into my medium stage of jeans, the same ones that were six inches apart last week. Apparently, the diet of bottled water and whole grain toast is a good one. Cate Blanchett would be proud. Oh, I don’t know why I’m picking on poor Cate. Maybe because she spells her name with a C. No. Mostly because I think she’s slightly disturbing looking, like possibly she should have been a man. It’s not really fair and I like her work as an actor very much. She reminds me of my friend Ms. Tschuss, who does not, incidentally, look like a man and is actually very lovely.
I’m back amongst the land of the living today. My TiVo is a little upset. He called me after Martha and was confused about what he was going to do with the rest of his day. I assuaged his fears and reassured him that I was going to spend my Martha time with him a little later today, that’s all.
It’s most impressive that I have the voice of Henry Kissinger though. And a death rattle that is scaring people, making them take alternate routes through our little cube farm so they don’t pass the quarantine area. I’ve had two people come up to me and tell me to go home and one person told me that I looked “absolutely horrible.” Gee. Thanks. Right back ‘atcha.
I got to watch Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood yesterday. The more I watch that show, the more puzzled I am by Lady Elaine Fairchild. I think she’s a raging alcoholic with possibly neurological problems. Probably from living in that spinning house. That can’t be good for your equilibrium. I’m just saying.
And would it be wrong if I said that I want to seriously hurt the 2002 graduating class of Old Dominion who balked at having Mr. Rogers as their commencement speaker. I mean…. hey, it’s Mr. Freaking Rogers. I’m betting that when they were little smidgens they absolutely creamed their jeans when it was time for Mr. Rogers and Trolley and such to come on. Ok, maybe not “creamed their jeans”, whatever the little kid version of that is. Possibly they have jam mystically ooze from the pores of their hands, giving them that whole Little Kid/Sticky Hands condition. I don’t know. But I’d be willing to bet that every day, they were sitting there in front of their television with their Mott’s Apple Juice box and eleven animal crackers, all set to go to the land of Make Believe and have him tell them how special they are. Dang. Not even the President of the United States does something that important every day for the children of our country.
I think I would do anything Mr. Rogers told me to do. He could talk me into stripping my curvy goodness in the middle of Times Square if he promised me a hug afterwards. And not the sleazy old school Times Square, either… the new, family friendly, Gap-sized, TRL Times Square. I’m serious. I may be a jaded Generation X smart ass, but don’t mess with Mr. Fred Rogers.
God, I don’t even like to call him Fred. It feels too personal. It’s almost obscene that he has a normal first name. It’s like thinking about his… you know. It’s just wrong.
I personally feel like kicking each and every ass in that graduating class. I’ll bet that I’d have a few volunteers, too. And probably more than a few angry puppets.
You just know that they probably wanted someone like Carson Daly.
GD Generation Y wankers.
