My blog yesterday mentioned weird people who attach themselves
to me as if I really care what they have to say. I was horrified to discover that some of my
original blog pals thought I meant them.
Holy palm-smack to the
forehead, Batman. Nothing, and I do
mean NOTHING could be further from the truth.
To my CBS pals, you're stuck with me whether you like it or
not. You stood by me through Dark Shadows parodies, the Drapery
Smackdown, and the Senor Ed fiasco. We
share the same brain; we are the Collective Consciousness. To insult you would be to belittle my own
inner cranium. We are like the Stooges
-- We are the Barons of Gray Matter.
To my WBZ pals, with whom I survived the implosion of
Conversation Nation, the exclusion of the Sandbox (and the ultimate conquering
of it when all the email filters went down), and the attempted coup by the Psycho
Sandbox Outcasts: You know you're not
going to outrun me, especially Helga Jean and Ron because they have bum knees.
To my other pals - you know who you are, so naming you would
just tip off the FBI and Homeland Security (like they have a great track record
recently), I didn't mean any of you, either.
With whom would I go into Boston to see Corpse flowers, take crazy car
trips, collect beach rocks for no good reason, drink Margaritas in the shallow
end of the pool, sit outside at Cat TV, randomly attend cliff diving
competitions (as spectators, people, as spectators), go to bridal fittings with
ripped pants that expose ass cheeks, etc., etc, etc.?
The weirdos I'm referring to are the ones that people
usually post on the website peopleofwalmart.com. They're the strange people who wander around
Home Depot and ask me if I work there. They're
the people who ask me for directions then tell me about their inflamed hemorrhoids.
They're the people who come into a
near-empty movie theater and sit in my row right next to me even though there
are 499 vacated seats elsewhere. They're
the people who walk down the street and accidentally sneeze in my personal
space right as I pass by.
Those people.
I'm a reasonably patient gal, but cut me some slack. If there's a bizarre person anywhere on the
horizon, he will zero in on me like a homing pigeon coming to roost. I should just hang a sign on myself, paint a
target on my back, or tattoo onto my forehead in giant, neon letters: SUCKER.
But my blog pals? My
human flesh-and-bones pals? No way. You are NOT the weirdos I am searching for. But I might want to slip you a bit of advice
-- I may well be that weirdo you are
trying to avoid. I'm just putting it out
there. I'm nothing if not truthful.
I am the strange one.
Consider yourself warned.
