Kazoo
Can you kazoo?
Kazoo? Can do!
I kazoo with the best of kazooers
Kazoo with flappers and chewers
of cocoa leaves...
No, wait, that's all wrong. Wait a tit...
Kazoo
Can you Kazoo?
Kazoo? Me do!
Kazoo with floozies and jews...
Cut!
Ever have one of those days where nothing goes right? The sort of day where you start your car in the morning only to discover that some thug nitwit has mistaken your auto for that of the mob boss up the street, and--noticing the grinding engine and the oddly blinking digital dashboard clock--you get out just before it explodes in a cotton-ball puff of gasoline-dynamite flame and blackened Detroit steel? The sort of day where you brush yourself off and miss the next bus but catch the second, which is then commandeered by a cyborg robot from the future who takes all 65 passengers on a raging Bruckherimer-fest through downtown, finally running the bus off of a pier into the bay, where it sinks and then explodes, just after you struggle to the surface? The kind of day where you stagger onto the beach in shredded business-wear and catch a cab on the boardwalk, only to have the cabbie turn out to be a blackglass-eyed Rastafarian from the Nth-dimension who takes you a zany sparkling interstellar ride through universes full of jelly lifeforms and giant amoebas before dropping you off in London, an ocean away from where you started? The kind of day where you barely manage to catch the Conorde to back to LA to make your meeting only to have the supersonic 60s jet plunge flaming into a Paris vegetable market, leaving you oddly unscathed but quite shaken and very, very late? The kind of day where at that very moment aliens descend upon the Earth and pry back its tectonic plates to get at the juicy magma center, leaving you stranded eight miles up on a looming mountain that used to be France? The kind of day where Sherpas parachute from the sky and lead you back down using faster-than-light yaks but leave you stranded on the yurt-spotted plains of Outer Mongolia? The kind of day where you get taken in by slant-eyed herdsman but all they've got to eat is goat-jerky and comise (the famous alcoholic beverage made from fermented goat's milk)?
No?
Oh. Never mind then.
I personally have the kinds of days where giant tarantulas decide that my face is the perfect stage for a Scottish dancing party, and then I struggle (hairy-faced) to the pier to wash them off in the river and find out that what I'd taken for a lemonade stand on the boardwalk is actually a lifeboat full of angry gorillas just freshly captured from the Congo and what I'd thought were pleasant halves of lemons to flavor the sugar-water are actually giant yellow globs of babblefruit which they're lobbing at me. But I think Lance Armstrong might be having just the sort of day you're describing instead.
Posted by: Valencia | July 19, 2003 06:31 PM
...*declines politely the Mongolian yogurt beer, as it's effects seem mighty damn scary*
Great post by the way. Dig the new commenting font.
Posted by: Deb | July 21, 2003 03:37 PM
Heh. I learned about that stuff from an Ancient Greek Civ. professor...he likened it to a measure of vodka mixed into an equal measure of yogurt...and had an amusing story about some students of his who bravely undertook an experiment in ancient culture. The phrase "too drunk to vomit" springs to mind.
Posted by: --iaw | July 21, 2003 03:49 PM