Every day I’m in contact with the weird. Not just at work, mind you. Everywhere.
Sometimes I’m related to or am friends with the weird. Sometimes it’s me. Okay, a LOT of the time it’s me.
I have this strange power of walking by someone at the exact moment that that person says something that is so odd and funny to me that I’ve been known to run into walls or trip over my feet. Which is entertainment for everyone. I do what I can.
Pretty much everyone who knows me knows my love of weird names (real ones for people and prospective ones for bands/albums, drawn from strange turns of phrase I come across) … who can forget names like Shafungus or Appliance, and who wouldn’t want to own an album called Terror, fear and donkeys?
Fewer know how much odd sentences warm the cockles of my heart. I have files squirreled away with tons of these apropos-of-nothing conglomerations, as well as assorted post-its, which would give the uninformed the jeebs if they came across them without knowing that little factoid. A few of them:
“Chuck Norris wasn’t the right size.”
“Spanier’s package will get the attention.”
“Drunk mayor is pretty good, but I love Satan sandwich.” (a great band name, btw.)
“A fisherman in Belarus was bitten to death by a beaver, and all he was doing was trying to take its picture.”
“It all got lost in the…in the…in the big washing machine of communication.”
And then there’s this … and it’s just weird no matter how you cut it. Are Tony Orlando and Yakov Smirnoff credible political bellwethers? If so, the world is in a lot of trouble …