If Mel Brooks could do a feature-length parody of Star Wars called Spaceballs - and he not only could, but he did - then the Muppets (owned by Disney, which apparently has a relationship with the Indiana Jones franchise, judging by theme park attractions) most certainly could - dare I say "should? - create a film that hilariously lampoons Our Favorite Archeologist. And the good news is, I've already made the major casting decisions for them.
The first three are no-brainers, while the remainder may be open to debate. Here then, are my suggestions:
Indiana Jones = Kermit
Marion Ravenwood = Miss Piggy
Sallah = Fozzie
Dr. Rene' Belloq = Pepe (if only for the interesting accent)
Major Arnold Toht = Gonzo
Dr. Marcus Brody = Dr. Benson Honeydew
Satipo = Rizzo
Monkey Man (with Monkey) = Dr. Teeth (with Animal)
And no, there wasn't much to do at work today...how did you guess?
For the benefit of those with short-term memory loss issues, let me state that last Friday was Valentine's Day. As part of the culturally-mandated celebration of said day, Beloved posted a greeting on my FaceBook timeline.
THAT I don't need help to understand. The message was straightforward, simple, and - one is convinced - heartfelt. But what I DO need help with is the reaction to her post by a few of our FB Friends.
Now here's the thing...my understanding is that to "Like" something on FaceBook is to express agreement with it or appreciation for it...kind of like saying "Amen" in church or "I wish I'd said that" in a discussion. Sometimes, perhaps, it serves as a convenient way to acknowledge that you've read the comment in question but don't really have anything to say in response.
I get all that.
What I DON'T get is how I am to interpret the fact that Eric, Dale, and Stacey "like" this particular greeting. Does it mean they're happy that my wife wished me a happy valentine's day? Were they concerned about the solidity of our relationship? Does it mean they love me, too? Does it mean they're creeping around, spying on everything that transpires in my life and will soon be shoehorning their way into every conversational thread of which I am a part? Does it mean I should cancel my FaceBook account and start a newer, more private one?
Does it mean I should stop being such a worrywart and do something worthwhile with my time instead of sitting here in front of this keyboard?
Go ahead and amuse yourselves while I, like 87% of the male populace of these United States of America, frantically try to think of some kind of gift (beyond a chocolate rose purchased at the local gas station/convenience store) that will keep me from looking like the lame, thoughtless, self-absorbed 87% of the male populace of these United States of America of which I am a sorry, sorry example.
Seriously, has there ever in the history of the planet been devised a totally subjective observance more perfectly capable of sending 50% of the population directly to The Doghouse, do not pass go, do not collect hugs and kisses?
Of course, I'm only saying this because I'm so horrible at it. I once planned a beautiful, candlelit dinner at McDonald's...you know, something totally unexpected and original...somehow, it just wasn't received with any sense of joyful exuberance at all.
Go figger.
I've grown quite accustomed to posting book excerpts at my OTHER blog, Truth is... (http://www.DeweyTruth.blogspot.com), but around here, the corn is mostly home-brewed. Well, today is the exception that proves the rule, because Reader's Digest published an excerpt from Ellen Stimson's book, Mud Season, that had me grinning from here to eternity.
It seems the author had a less-than-flawless transition to rural life in Vermont, having moved there from St. Louis. The focal point of the excerpt was a one-day battle with a skunk who had decided their chicken shed was a take-out restaurant. It had killed two chickens before they were able to chase it off.
It was a rough morning that cost us two hens, but in the end, it could have been much worse. I know this because when the skunk came back that afternoon, it was much worse.
You might be thinking that skunk smell is unpleasant - we've all smelled it on the highway as we passed through an unpleasant spot or two - but I can tell you that a skunk attack, up close, is on a whole different scale. We seemed to be frying rotten eggs on a flaming old tire.
I was slack-jawed and stunned. My eyes watered. John puked.
What to do, we thought, as we stood on the screened porch watching the skunk tucking into the chicken formerly known as Edith.
Well, they got their son to dispatch the varmint with a single shotgun blast, but that didn't end their misery.
Our skunk travails were not over. We had inhaled far too much skunk bomb. You might ask, "How much is too much?" Turns out, you know it's too much when everyone in the house is throwing up. And as soon as we had the human vomiting under control, the dogs decided to join in.
When I was finally able to process the whole situation, I decided to take some table scraps out to the poor chickens. They had lost three of their sisters and deserved a treat. So out I went with potatoes and corn in hand.
A funny thing about chickens: When they are frightened, they will hide in the rafters.
Having diarrhea.
On my head.
I know, I know...this is only funny because it happened to someone else. I'm a baaaaaad boy.
