I have spent Christmas nursing some life-sucking virus that entered my body when an intellectually sub-par primate with a leaking face approached my cash register. He was the perfect poster child for the power of influenza–bloodshot eyes that oozed green globules of snot, a crimson clown-like nose, and so many cold sores around his mouth that he looked like he had been bobbing for apples with razor blades in them.
“Here, take this money out of my hand. It’s right between my used Kleenex and my half-sucked cough drop.”
What dragged this typhus-laden individual from the solitude of his eiderdown comforter out into the public oxygen space? Apparently, he was experiencing some sort of emergency that could only be solved by purchasing an…um…book. I didn’t see exactly what book he was buying as I was rather obsessively trying not to touch any part of said book that had come in contact with his sweat-drenched, bacteria-riddled hands.
And no, his snot rag was not nearly this pretty. And the green stuff was not hand-stitched writing.
Perhaps, his home was on fire and he wanted to read up on planning escape routes. I really don’t know. Hopefully, he did manage to go home and successfully escape the flames.
I’m pretty sure he didn’t buy this book.
Maybe, his illness had simply rendered him bored–in dire need of mental stimulation. Based on his apparent brain power, however, I am convinced that the tasks of putting on his pants and tying up his shoes should have proved mentally stimulating enough.
No caption required.
Thanks to this nitwit, I have forgone the fun that is Christmas. No Christmas Eve church service. No volunteering at the annual Christmas dinner for the lonely or destitute. And, damn it all, no trekking to Walmart to battle the masses for Boxing Day deals on cheap batteries, DVDs, and half-priced Lindt chocolates. I blame you Face Running Man. A pox upon your household.
One of the many fine titles that I am missing out on today.
But to everyone else, I wish you giggles, hugs, and good health!!
As you know, there are two things that I loathe. Clowns. And dolls. I don’t even want to consider the possible existence of a Clown Doll. Clowns are grown people who throw on hideous make-up, big shoes, and over-sized, polka dotted onesies in order to be around small children. Their squeaky noses and water-squirting flowers aren’t fooling this girl one bit. And dolls. Yikes. I’m sorry, but we humans aren’t that cute. For one thing, in order to be cute, something really does need fur. It’s true. Just look at the skinny pig or the Mexican Hairless. Ick. Factor in a plastic pallour, obvious hair plugs, and vacant eyes that seem to follow your every move and you’ve got a doll. Your very own Chucky.
I still remember getting a Baby Alive doll for Christmas. Great. A doll that craps its diapers. Just what every child wants. Maybe that’s why I never wanted kids. The thing just ate, cried, and crapped.
The secret lives of dolls.
Thanks to my part-time job at Amazon’s number one competitor in Canada, I have recently been introduced to the only thing that ranks beside a Clown Doll on my Top 10 Creepy Things list–the Elf on the Shelf. First of all, male or female, they are butt ugly. Sort of like Pinocchio without the long nose. And they all wear the exact same attire–like a militaristic regime of tiny snitches in red. Second, their sole purpose in life is to spy on small children in the privacy of their own homes. Even creepier, these mini Big Brothers are operating with parental consent. I’m afraid that if my mother had recruited an ugly little elf to “keep an eye on me” I would have been damaged for life. More than I already am. Seriously, look at this thing:
I’m hoping that the snowman stabbed it with his stick arm.
Not only do I have to get used to the fact that one of these hideous creatures lives in the store, watching my productivity, but I also have to convince other people to adopt one of their own. I have been forced to be complicit in unleashing an army of ugly, little, seemingly footless and thumbless creatures on to unsuspecting minors. Ugh, the guilt.
Oh, joy. Oh, bliss. Erwin undergoes a complete “organectomy” without anesthetic.
1) I suppose there are worse things to find on your shelf than an elf. How about a disemboweled doll, perhaps? I don’t like dolls, but anything that has to endure having its organs yanked out and pushed back in the wrong place on a daily basis does deserve my empathy. This pretty much sums up Erwin the Patient’s life.
Oops. Did I put your lower intestine in your esophagus? So sorry about that. Just let me rip it out and put it back where it belongs. Sort of.
And when his guts get just a little too…um…gooey, they can be machine washed. I’m sure that’ll make him feel much better.
You can purchase an Erwin for your future Jack the Ripper here: http://www.wildandwoolly.co.uk/epages/BT4261.sf/en_GB/?ObjectPath=/Shops/BT4261/Products/37599.
2) Yes. It is a pair of dancing lederhosen. Ants in the pants without the ants. I’m not quite certain as to why your child would want to play with an empty pair of rubber pants. I’m even less sure as to why an adult felt a need to create it. The only thing that I am sure about is that the remote control looks like an orange penis. Play with the penis and the pants dance. Sounds about right to me.
You can get your very own “knockwurst” (ya, right) remote-controlled, dancing pants at McPhee.com for $19.95.
Who wouldn’t want to hug a slab of bacon?
3) It happens to me all the time. I’m in the middle of frying up a few slices of bacon and I suddenly become overwhelmed by the urge to hug one. Obviously, my childhood was seriously lacking something. Stuffed animals obviously weren’t enough. I needed the affection of a stuffed animal by-product.
With a catchy slogan like “You’ve Got a Friend In Meat,” this cuddly lump of saturated fat is sure to nurture your children’s love for pork. And it talks. Every time your child hugs his “My First Bacon” friend, it will reward him with a little self-promotion stating, “I Am Bacon.” No subtle subliminals here.
Yes, it would appear that there are worse things than an Elf on the Shelf. But I still think the damn thing is creepy.
And, in light of my most recent project–to have Storage Wars‘ Barry Weiss find my blog–I will share a clip of him going through a locker of Canadian memorabilia with This Hour Has 22 Minutes‘ Mark Critch. It’s funny and it just happens to feature some butt ugly “toys” from my typical Canadian childhood. I must warn you that you will need to let it fully upload first…Not sure why. And you may have to sit through the commercial TWICE. Again, not sure why. CBC gets enough public money that it should have a better system. We’re Canadian. I guess we’re not supposed to sweat the small things. But it’s worth the wait.