Let me preface this post by saying that I am NOT crazy. Well... I am not mentally deficient. Well... I function to the best of my abilities in the greater scheme of things. Marching. Beating. Own drum. Such and so...
Suffice it to say that I spend about 90% of my time with absolutely no human contact. So I live in my own world, with my own self-made entertainment. There is not, however, a volume control on said amusement. Nor is there a whole lot of awareness about the world around me. It would not be entirely uncommon to see the rabbit in full regalia - complete with cane - break out into an awkward Macarena in the middle of the produce department whilst perusing kumquats because "Calle Ocho" came on the overspeakers. It happens. Usually much to the chagrin of whomever is shopping with me. I tend to cause people to move away from me on the bus because I am sitting there singing (to myself and doing the dance) "Sitting on the Toilet." Now Flush!!! I really don't think about it. It's going on in my world, and I am oblivious to the real world around me. It's like Inappropriate Disney Tourette Syndrome with a Soundtrack or something. Sometimes you just gotta dance and sing.
The neighbors are no longer unaccustomed to hearing wailing renditions/parodies of things such as "Forever Flung" (to the tune of "Forever Young" with FEELING):
May your britches be not shitty
May you never smell like poo
May you always find a potty
When you have to go doo-doo
[...]
Haaangin' Chaaaaads... Forever flung
(About which you hear the neighbors comment, "What the hell is he singing about NOW???)
However, I think there is now some poor perfectly-coiffed Texas housewife named Muffy or Buffy or Tiffy that is at this very moment sitting in the dark with all the doors and windows locked munching Xannax like bon-bons and sucking the Scotch straight from the bottle. Poor thing. My friend had done a blog post here recently about scammers and spammers and had referenced the Monthy Python spam sketch. It was fresh in my little rabbity brain. I checked the PO box and was weeding through all the junk mail. "Spam. Spam. Spam. Spam. Spam." More junk mail. Exasperated I chunked it all in the garbage bin. "I don't like Spam!" And I heard this fluttering noise behind me. I turned around to see the aforementioned and hairsprayed Muff Buff Tiff crouched down in a huge mess of mail, staring at me like I was Hannibal Lecter in lingerie. I moved to help her, thinking perhaps she had fallen, and she jumped - startled - and fell on her butt. I was completely lost as to what the fuck her problem was. Was she ill? Was she mad? Had I had my tetnus shot in case she bit? Should I go for the eyes??? Panic on the streets of London here and shit. She scooped up all her mail to her chest, grabbed her Dooney from Target and stumbled out in her Manolo knocks-off as fast as her pulled and stretched, nipped and tucked, Yuppie Larva ass would carry her... I just stood there completely flummoxed.
And then I realized. I had said that out loud.
In the hushed silence of the empty post office I had all but shouted in a fully campy Cockney accent:
"I don't like SPAM!!!!"
Here I was thinking the poor woman was daft... Heavens know what she thought of me. She should just be glad I got my "Pants on the Ground" out of my system on my walk to the Post Office!!!
