2003-05-15

The ol� Gadfly is in tip-top form today. Go read him. Anyone who manages to seamlessly work feces-flinging monkeys, Parker Posey and scratch �n sniff stickers into a single entry deserves some sort of congratulatory baked goods, in my opinion. And I deserve at least a smallish cupcake for the kickass alliteration in that last sentence.

And since I�ve just selflessly plugged someone else, I shall now return the gravitational pull of adulation to its proper centre � me � by pointing out the fab-tastic job I did designing Towelphaser�s new template. Shazam!

Last night on the bus I saw an Emmy-worthy example of Too Much Information, schizophrenic-style. A fire truck passed the bus, siren blaring, and the woman across from me looked over at her neighbor and said casually, �I always say a prayer when I see a fire truck go by.�

Her confidante assumed a mildly frightened look of polite interest.

�When I was a child I lost my sister in a fire. She was only six years old. She had second and third-degree burns over fifty percent of her body. So I always say a prayer. Tragic. Tragic.�

The poor woman she was inflicting this confessional deluge upon nodded understandingly, looking completely panic-stricken as her newfound friend continued, �Although maybe it�s just an asthma attack. If someone has a bad asthma attack, sometimes they call the fire station, because they have the...you know, the masks.� She gestured towards her face. �I�ve had a few asthma attacks myself, which is why I know. But I say a prayer. I say a prayer.�

Even with her lower lip quivering like a Jello dessert in an earthquake, Sally Field herself could not summon such masterful pathos! To have tragically lost a sister, and then to be further reminded of this devastating incident by having firemen repeatedly hold you down and strap an oxygen mask over your wheezing face! It�s enough to bring a tear to the eye of the most hardened cynic.

�Or in my case, an evil smirk to my lips as I observed the squirming discomfort of the nut job�s seatmate. The poor woman looked like she was ready to pop the emergency hatch and fling herself headlong into oncoming traffic. Dead sister � very sad, of course (assuming said sister is not imagined, hallucinated or otherwise fictitious). But far be it from me not to seize an opportunity to revel in mirth in the face of death. Carpe diem!