Santa Claus Parade of Perversion

Posted: November 17th, 2003 | Author: | Filed under: Wishful Thinking | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | No Comments »

So I went to the Santa Claus Parade on Sunday. And I have to say, for a ‘wholesome’ event, attended by thousands of innocent babes and their rosy-cheeked parents, it was rather… disturbing. Maybe my eyes have been clouded by looking through the tough, gritty lens of city life for too long, but here is what I saw:

First, the glowing faces of young adults and happy children.

Immediately followed by what can only be called a whole lot of cock.

Ever since that CSI episode about furries, my vision of people dressed up in full-body animal suits will never be the same. Given that disturbing perspective on the situation, you’ll understand why I was perturbed by the vast number of participants frolicking about, dressed head to toe as dogs, cats, penguins, lobsters, and yes, polar bears.

You already know how I feel about bunnies. There were hundreds of them. HUNDREDS! Blue ones, grey ones, white ones. All fluffy. All frightening.

The most terrifying part of the whole parade… the sleep-deprived walruses.

These monkeys look like they bathed in tartrazine before the show. Even speaking as a lover of Kraft Dinner, and wearer of orange mittens and hat, I find these vibrant orange freaks of nature terrifying.

And the truth comes out. Notice how skunk and owl are ‘fraternizing’? See the subtle exchange of phone numbers. They’ll be ‘grooming’ one another after the parade, you bet. Repulsive.

Santa, you lawbreaking lowlife. What are you teaching the children, running a red light like that? A whole generation of reckless drivers is going to grow up thinking that as long as they’re operating a sleigh pulled by eight reindeer, they are completely above the rules of the road. Newsflash, Mr. Claus: you’re not driving through the arctic tundra of the north pole anymore. Pick up the reins, put away your bottle of Aquavit, and start paying attention to the intersection you’re barreling through. Jerk.

I doubt I’ll ever be able to see another Santa Claus Parade, after this scarring experience. Or rather, that after posting this disturbing entry, that anyone will want to take me there ever again.

Employed X2: Mutants United

Posted: November 14th, 2003 | Author: | Filed under: Wishful Thinking | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | No Comments »

“I heard I got the job,
I heard I’m the new girl at the comic shop
- Shah nah na nah na nah na nah.
Brother what a night it really was!
Brother what a fight it really was! Glory be!”

Woot! *victory dance*
(lyrics for my victory dance provided courtesy of ‘Night Chicago Died’ by Paper Lace, sung in the echoing hallways of my mind by Jack Black)

I start my jedi training this weekend.

That would be the same weekend where I’ve absurdly overbooked myself to celebrate Aly’s birthday very belatedly, hang out and consume curry with the old UC residence crew, attend the Santa Claus parade with a hyper four-year-old, and meet up with Chrissy’s lovemuffin from abroad.

And, if I can just push past my mental block about it, call my parents. I’m just so worried that when I call, I’ll get bad news, and I know that putting it off isn’t helping any, but every day that passes is like a little breath of air into this balloon of anxiety in my stomach. Its like my parental anxiety appendix, throbbing and huge and waiting to burst and kill me. How did I achieve such a high level of drama with this situation?

First thing on the schedule: meet philipisPDR.

What the heck does ‘PDR’ stand for, anyway? Is it something so utterly horrific that it cannot be expressed openly in words, so must be referred to only with an acronym? Should I be braced to meet someone who is Pretty Damned Randy? Who has Pathetically Damaged Retinas? A Potentially Devastating Ruffian? Pustulent, Dank, Repulsive? Programmed Destructo Robot? Poorly Defined Rump? Pink Dermatitis Rash? Pectorally Dominant Rambo? Psychotic Duplicating Raelian? Pedantic Defunct Relic? Pedophilic Deranged Rogerer?

No, no, wait. This is terrible. I’m overreacting: given Chrissy’s glowing Mona-Lisa-esque smile when she talks about him, he must be an incredibly sweet and wonderful individual. He’s probably too shy to mention what a gem he is, and has cut the appropriately lavish self-description to three letters to avoid embarrassment. He could be a Positively Delightful Rabelasian. Pedagogic Diplomatic Rhodesscholar. Particularly Droll Raconteur. Politically Democratic Radical. Pleasing Dashing Rascal. Person Delivering Rapture.

The man could be any darned thing, and I’ll just have to wait until tomorrow to find out. I hate mysteries. And waiting.

It occurs to me that this is entirely the wrong forum for such speculation. Too bad I Personally Detest Restrictions and Promote Diary Relations.