Good evening.
I think I've coughed a scant 50 or 60 times today, thus making it the best day of the year so far, healthwise.
I have also just returned from the Aeros hockey game, and I have a burning question for you.
What is it with you people and "bobblehead" dolls?
This has to be an American thing.
Or I really want to believe that it's an American thing...that way they're centralized in one geographic locale and can be easily destroyed in one fell nuclear swoop.
I just can't imagine the British creating Prince Charles bobbleheads.
Do the Germans make Hasslehoff ones?
French Jerry Lewis B-heads?
Nelson Mandela?
Butros-Butros Bobble-Bobbles?
Perhaps I'm the only one who finds them slightly horrifying. But I certainly shouldn't be.
I mean, it's a little effigy of someone, with a mutated, bulbous head that wobbles inhumanly on a shrunken motionless little body. And typically wearing an expression of either utter Zen calm, or blank medicated happiness.
That's scary shit man.
I honestly think I'd lose it If I saw my own head, DigDug pumped to the event horizon of explosion, bearing a wide-eyed, glazed countenance of a Shoney's Big Boy on Thorazine, and spring-loaded onto a tiny body.
And can you imagine the kind of sick fuck that collects these things?
No doubt there would have to be a huge case for them all, perhaps a whole room of 'em.
Equidistant in their little glass cases.
Staring.
Smiling.
Waiting.
Waiting for...
An earthquake.
Upon which all of their little heads will bob as one...
And Jeremiah shall soil himself and run into the woods to declare the wilderness a Bobble-Free Zone, thus according to Bobble prophecy. And the Bobble Battle shall begin.
**shiver**
Horrible.
::topic blue shift::
I have also come to a hypothesis about my upstairs neighbors.
They are caveme...cavepers...they are a cavecouple.
Let's examine the data.
First, anyone with a footfall that heavy cannot possibly have a fully erect spine.
I mean, when they walk across the room the glaze on my ceiling falls on me.
(I'm not kidding.)
Second, I hear lots of things banging against other things.
Now sometimes it sounds like pots and pans, and other times it's a hammer (or some other rudimentary instrument, a bone perhaps.), and sometimes it can only be categorized as someone throwing themselves against an immovable object, such as a wall or the floor.
I've seen 2001, I know what's going on.
Third, I never hear actual words coming from up there. Just gutteral grunting from the male (which I assume is some kind of haunting cro-magnon mating call), and odd high pitched squeaking sounds from the female (on which I have absolutely no theory.)
And I'm not even going to go into the bizarre sex noises that cascade down upon me at exactly 6 am, EVERY morning, without fail. Suffice to say that it must be some kind of neolithic sunrise fertility ritual.
So, if all the above are true, then the assumption must be that I have Mr. and Mrs. Piltdown living above me.
Easy.
Okay, it's late and I think I'm going to call it a night and get yet another night of decent rest. We're shooting for less than 40 coughs tomorrow...
G'night.
j.s.
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