Monday, November 22, 2010

Elmo Must Die

I'm starting to form an opinion (with out ever watching an episode of Sesame Street, mind you) that Elmo is in fact the devil. And I'm not talking just some random demon, I think he's the head honcho, the actual devil himself. The girls got one of those talking Elmo dolls, along with a talking Cookie Monster doll for their birthday a few weeks back. Cookie Monster is relatively laid back, you have to click on a cow in his pocket to get him to say anything and it's mostly just "allo der moo-moo cow" and "Cookie Monster had a farm, e-i-e-i-o." Which ever girl ends up with the blue fur ball mostly snuggles with him. But that freakin' Elmo doll. ... everything on him is a sensor and every noise he makes is annoying to the point of insanity and worst of all, the girls absolutely LOOOOVVVEEE him. They've both figured out exactly how many times they have to squeeze his right hand to cycle through the sayings and get to the one where he sings "head, tummy, feet and nose" (of course he can't sing the correct version because he lacks the required equipment of shoulder, knees and toes which makes it all the more aggravating to listen too). So an average car ride (Elmo and C Monster have been banished from the house and exiled to the car) sounds a little like this "Find E-You fo-Give El-he he he-Fin-Hands, tummy feet and nose... Hands, tummy feet and nose... Hands and feet and a tummy and a nose, Hands, tummy, feet and nose - feet and nose!" We then cycle through the same routine another 279 times until we arrive at our destination with mommy and daddy ready to put a hit out on Elmo. And I don't get breaks from the red haired demon when I go to work either. Any phone call I get from Gina through out the day I am guaranteed to hear his voice in the back ground, same cycle, same aggravating emotions. Then I get to have him in the back of my mind, haunting me the rest of the day. As I type this I am actually humming the "hands, tummy, feet and nose" song desperately trying to purge it from my thoughts, to no avail. I know I can't take the doll away from the girls because they really do love him (and his third person references make it apparent he loves himself too!), so I'm anxiously awaiting the day the batteries finally die and I can stare at his mute carcass with overwhelming joy. Of course the toy company seems to have the same batteries they use for deep space travel and, by my guess, they'll finally run out sometime in June of 2045. By then one of us will surely be dead. ... and I have a feeling Elmo will be singing at my funeral. As they slowly lower my casket in to the hole, the bagpipes will swell with a soft, mournful note as his shrill voice breaks the cool morning silence "hands, tummy, feet and nose - feet and nose." The mournful widow will seek solace in the red haired bastards embrace and his plan will be complete. With me out of the way, Elmo will quickly take over control of the family. Wow. This vision took an interesting turn in to Soprano land.

1 comment:

  1. I agree completely on the toys with annoying songs.

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