I am a pariah. I know this, though the usual response from my friends to this proclamation is a dismissive, “No you’re not…you’re just rare and wonderful.” Like a good steak. So I’m only good for a food source.
One of my biggest fears is that I’m going to die alone in my home, and my cats will eat me because I am too dead to open their food cans. I have three (cats, not food cans…this is The Crazy Cat Lady Starter Kit). I might have a chance to avoid that fate, because one of my cats, Monkey, happens to be polydactyl–she has 22 fingers–to include thumbs. As in Opposable Thumbs. A higher life form. Who can, perhaps, manipulate things like can openers.
If I am lucky enough to avoid the death-by-cat-consumption, it’s a distinct possibility that I might be ostracized by my community…I keep waiting for a bunch of torch-carrying village people to come get me…I don’t mean VILLAGE PEOPLE…like [singing] Yyyyyyy–M–C–Aaaaaa. I don’t know what those guys might carry. KY, perhaps [singing: Kaaaaaay---yyy-------] okay, not enough letters for that to fit the timing of the song…. Anyway, no, Not Village People, Villagers. Torch-carrying Villagers. Hillary Clinton said it takes a village. But nothing is said of the Villagers themselves. Do they all carry torches? Or just the ones who are intolerant pyromaniacs?
I have been guilty of intolerance myself, when it’s warranted. But I don’t pursue pariahs with a burning torch in my hand. I can live vicariously through books and movies. Though, perhaps my reticence to be part of the torching mob is because I don’t much like horror movies. Like, Nightmare on the Village People Street. Must be about hate crimes, not sure.
I just finished reviewing that horror flick, The Descent, and I liked it in spite of its horribleness, though I didn’t envy those women who had to defend themselves against subterranean carnivorous humanoids. I usually enjoy tamer fare. Like Sleepless in Seattle, or You’ve Got Mail.
Speaking of which, I just got some mail that made my day. It was a gadget called the Eroscillator. I’ve asked it to marry me. I told my best friend about it, but she wasn’t quite clear what eroscillating might be. She said, “Is it like an oscillating heater?”
Oscillating Peter sounds like a Sundance film. ‘Oscillating Peter…coming to a theater near you.’
I don’t think I want an Oscillating Peter in a theater near me.