Over the weekend I published a blog post called It’s Just a Blog. (Have you read it? If you haven’t, you should. It was Fucking Awesome. Everyone said so.)
It got a LOT of traffic — maybe not as much as Dooce gets on a daily basis but certainly WAAAAY more than my modest little blog has ever seen. It apparently hit several exposed nerves in the Land of the Blogosphere, because I had more than 60 comments as of this morning, and still counting. For me, that is a ginormous number. I even had a comment from my own personal Jake Ryan, Backpacking Dad, and another one from The Bloggess, whose big boobs I admire in the shower in my head. (That was a Sixteen Candles reference for those of you who don’t know and just read that and thought I was a total perv. The Bloggess DOES have big boobs, so I can see how you might make that mistake.)
Black Hockey Jesus (the ill-intentioned, feather-haired Steff in my imaginary John Hughes film world), in a deranged attempt to bring me down his infinite wisdom, posted comment number 51: “Now how do you follow this up? Yeah, I know. See? There’s no happiness here. It’s crazy.”
And I really want to tell him fuck you thank him for the reality check, because it’s true – that’s a lot to live up to.
I had this really great post about the art of People Watching already written, and it really is Entertaining, Insightful and Brilliant, and I was planning to put it up this week. But now I’m all scared-bunny to publish it, because I somehow stumbled upon something that really resonated with people with my whole “Fuck BlogHer AND those In-Crowd Motherfuckers (Black Hockey Jesus this means you)” thing and now they all want me to reach back into their souls and find some other nugget of repressed angst that I can tear apart and feed to wild dogs.
That is a lot of pressure, yo!
(Note to self: Don’t use the word “yo” in a sentence ever again.)
So here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna put the Entertaining, Insightful and Brilliant post about People Watching aside for now, and instead I’m going to totally alienate you with a random tirade against a much-beloved character, and you’re gonna read it and you’re gonna go, “What the fuck?” and then you’ll realize that I’m really just a one-trick pony and you’ll decide to never visit this Vagina Momablog again.
Except… in the back of your mind you’ll keep thinking about that crazy-cool People Watching post, so even though THIS post blew chunks, you’ll keep coming back to see if the People Watching post is up yet, and if it’s really as Entertaining, Insightful and Brilliant as I say it is.
(Yes, I realize this entirely negates my newfound “Screw-You-In-Crowd-I-Don’t-Care-What-You-Think-Of-Me” attitude, but what can I say – I’m a work in progress.)
So here it is, for your WTF moment reading pleasure. The Latest Thing That Is Pissing Me Off…
I just have to go on record while I have everyone’s attention and say FUCK YOU, ELMO. You and your high-pitched, whiny voice that makes me want to rip my hair out (except then, you win), and your creepy friend Mr. Noodle, who apparently lives just outside your window only to serve at your whim (does this situation remind anyone else of The Gimp from Pulp Fiction?), and especially that whole referring-to-yourself-in-third-person thing, which is (1) teaching my kid bad speech habits and (2) totally narcissistic, you dick.
What ever happened to the good old days on Sesame Street, before Kermit moved on to bigger and better things, when Big Bird, with his cloying, nasal voice and constant complaining, was as bad as it got?
(Note: Some might argue that Grover was more annoying than Big Bird, but to those people I say EAT ME. Grover is Awesome because Grover knows who he is and he owns it. He refuses to use contractions even though it might make him look cooler, which I think we all know is a personal issue of mine. AND he was The Monster at the End of this Book, which alone is enough to qualify him for Best Muppet Ever. With Miss Piggy as a close second, but that’s a whole other post.)
Sadly, the good old days are now gone, overcome by Elmo and his lame friends Baby Bear and Telly and Rosita (who also suck balls).
Because of Elmo’s invasion and subsequent occupation of Sesame Street, my boy Grover has been relegated to only an occasional appearance here and there, during which he’s treated like a total joke. They dress him up like a wannabe superhero and humiliate him with skits about clumsily trying to help his friends (like YOU, Elmo — you ungrateful shit) only to get shoved into a closet or beaten out for the title of Best Muppet Superhero by some random chicken.
Basically, I equate Grover with an old, debonair movie star, who was the Toast of the Town in his heyday but then committed the cardinal sin of passing the age of 40 and consequently found himself replaced by a newer, younger version… and later wound up playing Willy Loman in some nameless dinner theatre, or the “crusty old grandpa” on some ridiculous sitcom, with an exaggerated beer belly, making potty jokes for cheap laughs from an audience that really doesn’t care anymore. (Not that there’s anything wrong with potty jokes.)
Think All About Eve for the Muppet set.
But I digress.
Most of Grover’s quality airtime has been replaced by an obnoxious segment called Elmo’s World, complete with a super-annoying theme song that sticks in your head like one of those irritatingly catchy Ace of Base songs song from the early 90s.
(Shit, now I’m singing that one, “I saw the sign, and it opened up my mind and I am happynowlivingwithout you…” I won’t be able to shake that goddamned song for the rest of the day. And you probably won’t either. You’re welcome.)
Elmo’s “World” is basically an imaginary room with a cartoon background and a stupid goldfish asking stupid questions and a computer that bounces around and says “You’ve Got Mail” like we’re back in 1995 when AOL was still The Shit. And every now and then the cartoon shade pops up and they trot out this freaky Gimp-like character Mr. Noodle, who is played by a real guy (what hellish sin did that guy commit to deserve such a lame-ass gig?) with an unruly 1970s porn mustache and whose only purpose is apparently to annoy the shit out of me.
I HATE Elmo. Hate. Him. I want to kill him. Dead.
And this is where karma comes in, and punches me in the balls. (I do have them. Even my therapist says so.)
My kid, the Bean, LUUURRVS Elmo. Loves. Him.
As soon as Elmo comes on TV, the Bean STOPS what he’s doing and stares, slack-jawed, at the TV screen. He inches slowly to the television, mesmerized, until he’s as close as he can get without actually being INSIDE Elmo’s World. A little smile begins to form, leading into a little laugh. If Elmo dances, the Bean dances. If Elmo screams, the Bean screams. If Elmo were to say “Jump,” and if the Bean could actually talk, I am sure he would ask, “How high, Oh God Who Lords Over My Life? For I will gladly do your bidding, whatever you may require of me.”
(Okay, that last part was a little Dungeons and Dragons. Sorry.)
(For the record, I have never played Dungeons and Dragons and don’t even know if that reference was appropriate. No, really.)
My point is (yes, there is one), the Bean is enamored of this awful creature, this creature that I hate with a mad, blinding passion. And because I’m the dumbass who got him hooked on it in the first place, I’m helpless to do anything about it.
The Big Bean tells me there are worse things for the Bean to be hooked on – drugs, booze, gambling, hookers, phonics. And I know he’s right. But still, did it HAVE to be ELMO? Baby Bear, I could have lived with, even if he does have the lisp from hell and can’t pronounce his r’s. Telly? Okay, the triangle fetish is a little weird, but I could cope. Even that jealous bitch Rosita would have been tolerable. But ELMO? Really?
And honestly, I just DON’T GET the whole third-person thing. What fuckwad puppetmaker had the genius idea to create a new Muppet who would refer to himself only in the third person? Was this dude on acid? A rabid fan of Seinfeld in its “Jimmy” days? Evil? All of the above?
Anyway, what I’m trying to say is FUCK YOU, Elmo. Get a real world. The first time my kid refers to himself in the third-person I’m hunting your red ass down.
See you next post? No? Okay. Sorry. They can’t all be gems, you know.
(Number of times the “f” word is used in this post: 10)
(Number of times the “f” word was used before I went back and reviewed and realized that (a) I was much more angry with a fictional puppet than anyone has any right to be and (b) I really say “fuck” a lot when I’m on a roll: 17)Stumble it!