It’s a horrid, horrid song. It is quite disgraceful, really, and speaks to the darkest elements in all of us: envy, lust, conceit . . . And sometimes it gets stuck in my head, and I can’t stop singing it.
Jif is at the computer, doing something totally
boring productive, while I wait impatiently until I can return to the computer and waste ungodly amounts of time do a little blog-surfing.
I start to sing,
“Doncha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?
Doncha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?
And yes, of course I’m doing the dance. How can you sing the song without doing the dance? I mean, I am snuggled in a recliner, under a blanket, but yea, I’m doing it.
Jif looks mildly amused, but does not respond.
“Doncha wish your girlfriend was HOT like me?
Doncha wish your girlfriend was a FREAK like me?
Jif pauses from his keyboarding, glances at me, then goes back to work.
“Ahem. I SAID,
‘DONCHA WISH YOUR GIRLFRIEND WAS HOT LIKE ME?
DONCHA WISH YOUR GIRLFRIEND WAS A FREAK LIKE ME?
Pause. I must know . . .
“Yes!” He exclaims, suddenly turning toward me. “Yes, I do wish she was hot like you! Yes, I do wish she was a freak like you!”
Yes! “Well, alrighty then. That’s what I’m talkin’ about . . .”
Hey . . . .wait a minute . . .