Thursday, May 25, 2006

Demonic Weasel Assault and Takin it to the Street: this is all Your Fault, Stromboli.

Chef's assistant Sean and I were making stromboli last night when I burned myself, like a complete moron. I wasted the rest of the evening lounging about watching Mystery! (emphatically) and the finale of American Idol. I have seen the finale and only the finale of every season of American Idol and every viewing reinforces me with the belief that they pick people who blow. I would bet good money (or cupcakes, whatev) that every one of the back-up singers on that show has ten times the technical skill and natural talent than Taylor Hicks. Does he not know that Michael McDonald is not dead yet? Sorry, all full of Michael McDonalds at the mo, maybe try back in ten years, maybe grow a beard, change your name to Michael. And maybe also McDonald. Maybe nobody would notice the difference, we could just slip you in like the replacement for a dead pet on a sitcom.

Anyway, all night my hand was hurting like the dickens and just generally upsetting me. I watched a fair amount of Battlestar Galactica, I mean er... Masterpiece Theater with a bag of frozen corn on my hand before I could fall asleep. Finally, as I lay in bed, blissfully slumbering I dreamt that Sean and I were out hiking in a lush forrest and came upon a beautiful giant otter. He was floating on his back in a deep pond and gesturing to us, like Mr. Beaver in Narnia. We came closer to the edge of the water and he paddled to us, his lunch on his long, glossy, flat belly. He leaned forward and as I watched the shell slide off his belly and down through the clear cold water, he grabbed my outstretched hand and bit it. Little bastard.

This morning I came in and all the office ladies were horrified. So now I am safely swaddled in neosporin and gauze. Unfortunately, now that I look like an extra from the curse of the mummy everyone keeps asking what happened. And then I have to tell everyone that I'm a total idiot.

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