I was not really familiar with the Swedish Chef from the Muppets until last night, when Christian showed me a bunch of videos on youtube.
I laughed so hard I cried. My favourite is Doughnuts, although the one where he thwacks a chocolate cake with a bat is up there too. Oh, and how about the one where he plays tennis using meatballs with the cantankerous senior citizen in the balcony?
The Swedish Chef has his own youtube channel (you know where I’ll be this weekend!). And I am going to start throwing my utensils around when I’m in the kitchen from this point forward.
Fry: So I really am important? How I feel when I’m drunk is correct?
Nibbler: Yes. Except the Dave Matthews Band does not rock.
From my favourite episode of Futurama, that I have already gone on about. And the title is meant to be a pun – it’s taken from the only Dave Matthews Band song I know (vaguely) off. So I can’t actually confirm whether or not they rock. But I do laugh (and slightly snort) at that line anyway every time I watch the episode.
Some things etch themselves into your memory when you’re 6 years old. Like an ad with sugar cubes as far as the eye can see.
Chapi Chapo are cheeky little children living in a magical world of colourful shapes, getting up to various cute-as-pie giggly adventures.
They always feel like busting a move at the end of each episode, a mixture of leg-shaking ballet and tap (did I say cute-as-pie?).
I personally hold Chapi responsible for making me want long flowey blond hair as a child – and for my appreciation of large brimmed hats.
More Chapi Chapo adventures here.
If I got a dollar every time someone asked me to say ‘Non monsieur, I deed not no zat Petit Miam ‘as a lot more calceeum zan meelk’, well, I would be rich.
It starts like this: ‘Scoot!’ – then ‘Scooty Puff!’, then ‘Scooty Puff Junior!’ as we try to nudge her to one side.
If we have really gotten into it by that point, we might add ‘Scooty Puff Junior suuuuucks!’ (which is why the Nibblonians upgraded Fry to Scooty Puff Senior – ‘the Doom Bringer’ – since Scooty Puff Junior fell apart).
I’m pretty sure I’ve lost most of you by this point.
Just watch ‘The Why of Fry‘ (season 4) and all will be explained.
PS: When you type ‘Scooty Puff’ into the Google search bar, it auto fills! We’re not the only ones with a slight obsession.
PPS: Same episode contains another great line: ‘Detecting trace amounts of mental activity!’. Oh, and also ‘Sometimes I fear we are cute’. Gold.
I am a tired, disgruntled, blog-neglecting medical mystery. I am also having bizarre random thoughts (I can’t get enough of Jon Stewart saying ‘Boom!’*), and eating a lot of walnuts and dates.
Maybe I should try and sell my story to the writers of ‘House‘. But then again, I don’t have any sexy festering wounds so it may not interest them all that much.
(Image is from here)
*Also in same league: David Letterman saying ‘What!’.
I am grateful for modern medicine. In my family we’ve needed surgery on occasion – for some of us life or death, and for others a bit less serious. I belong to the less serious – even though the 15cm + scar on my right knee looks fairly bad ass (in my moments of self-pity I feel like my right leg is disfigured; in moments of grrrrr I’m proud it looks kind of mean).
The other night despite my best judgement I decided I needed to feel more grateful. So I turned to ‘The History of Surgery’ on BBC Knowledge. Now knee surgery is messy and quite gross. But it was my own grossness so I dealt*.
‘The History of Surgery’ showed me things only a surgeon normally sees. Along with narration on how tricky it is to sew some human bits together.
I’m grateful – I really am. But I don’t need to see inside another person’s body to feel even more so. All I achieved was the old ‘my dinner might be coming back up’ trick as well as a narrowly averted punch in the face when I threw my hands in front of my eyes to hide behind them and I miscalculated a bit.
Even the most talented of surgeons could not help me with my clumsy. But I’m still grateful.
*My sister and mother also deserve mass acknowledgement for how they dealt with the grossness. Big time.
(Image from here – Sophie, ma chérie, don’t click!)
You can join the Coco movement on Facebook, and too many other places to list. Some days I really love the internet :)
Last Sunday Christian reported Lisa Simpson had fallen out the window. My plastic Kinder Egg Lisa Simpson, that I kept on top of my computer screen as a mascot (with the help of some white tack). I just love her: she is such an outspoken pain in the ass source of inspiration to me. So what if she’s a fictional cartoon character (fictional eh?).
Anyway, Lisa landed on a balcony a few floors below. And she’s still there. I check everyday. And everyday I grapple with the following dilemma.
Do I attempt to get her back? This is embarrassing on a few levels: I have to involve the building manager because I don’t know the number of the apartment she tumbled to. Since I intend to live in my apartment for a while longer, I’m not keen on suffering any plastic mascot history between me and building staff.
Do I write a little note and fabricate a harness with weights attached, and drop the note out my window to the same balcony, beckoning the occupant to drop Lisa Simpson in my mailbox? But the note could be whisked by a sudden gust of wind and end up on someone else’s balcony, where Lisa Simpson did not fall. Then he/she who read the note would think me a nut.
Or do I let it go and accept she will bring happiness to whoever lives on the seventh floor and has that giant balcony? Or be tossed in the bin (that’s a heartless option, but it could happen).
In the meantime, Christian promised he would replace her. He’d better start hitting the supermarket for those Kinder Eggs I say.
(Image is from here).