Warm & Cozy.

22 Feb

Allow me to introduce you to my most recent Christmas present:

My KU Snuggie. Oh yes, boys and girls, I finally have one. Like the rest of you, I too scorned the ridiculous, cheesy infomercial starring the gay little family sitting on their living room couch wearing matching blankets with arms, acting jovial and watching television, but at the same time enjoying dexterity and having the freedom to use their hands to type on their laptops or eat popcorn or change the channel…..that’s when it started to sound really good. I couldn’t resist. If you haven’t already come around to wanting/buying one, don’t worry; you will. It’s only a matter of time. Companies didn’t waste time going copy-cat, either. Good lord, I’ve seen more versions of Snuggies than I have artificial sweeteners. Just today I saw the authentic Snuggie, the knock-off “Snuggle” (way to change one single letter, team), and the “Cozee.” I have to admit, the Cozee was actually a step up–it included a pouch on the front, much like a sweatshirt pocket where you could store things like snacks or remote controls. Did the maker of the Snuggie not know what a patent was? Bush league.

Slap a cone-shaped hat on me though and sign me up for the KKK; I do feel like a white supremacist when I wear it. Like if this Snuggie was white, people might take a double-take. Either that or it could go the exact opposite–I also resemble a sports-fanatical monk. Either way, I’m a cozy hater/friar.

The Snuggie has to be by far the most popular Christmas gift this holiday season. What person on earth does not want nor need one? If you’re the person who thinks they don’t want one, don’t worry–you do. What a simple invention though, really. A blanket with arms and holes. So easy. If I had to make improvements on this already splendid invention, however, I would make it out of micro-plush fabric. You know, that thick, super soft and cuddly blanket that feels like it’s made out of angel food cake and velvet? Someone get me a patent.

Why do I look like such a poor kid when I eat a Snack Pack? When I eat chocolate pudding, I don’t let ANY part of it go to waste. I start by savagely licking every bit off the foil top. After scooping the majority of the pudding out, I find myself really intensely scraping away at the bottom of the cup with my spoon like I’m an archaeologist uncovering a tiny fossil with only 15 seconds left to finish, getting every ounce of pudding left in every nook and cranny in that little plastic cup. Eventually I realize how much of a racket I’m making with my spoon, but by them it’s too late. I’ve drawn too much attention to myself. Still, Jell-o chocolate pudding is delicious. Er go, I am not embarrassed.

Thursday was our last day on the mountain. After my bone crushing knee injury on Day 1, I had avoided further painful wipe-outs successfully. That is until the very last run of the entire trip. Drew suggested I try a crazy little turn, so I attempted it. No sooner had I turned around on my board that my tailbone was in the back of my throat. I caught my back edge and SLAMMED my ass into the solid ground with the force of a freight train. After yelling in agony, I finally knew what it must be like to be in a maximum security prison. I laid on my stomach for a good three minutes, moaning in pain and making various ass-raping jokes until I finally felt stable enough to ride the rest of the way down. Needless to say, my body has felt better than it does.

Since we’re on the topic of discomfort, the dry, wintry Colorado air is doing a number on my skin. It is literally sucking the moisture out of every pore in my body. I have flaky face. No amount of moisturizer on the planet could quench my skin’s thirst. Even my eyeballs are dehydrated. My corneas are drier than Ben Stein’s sense of humor. I’ve gone through enough Visine to fill a kitchen sink, and they’re still not moisturized. Somebody help me; send a humidifier. Name your price.

Every town and city in this country has a Joe, and he makes pizza. No matter how small your town might be, it has a Joe’s Pizza. Mark my words. Why? Someone tell me why. Speaking of the restaurant world, let me state something for the world to hear; I have worked several jobs since I reached the ripe age of 14 some seven years ago. I worked at Taco John’s forEVER in the Mall of the Bluffs where the people are fat and the security guards are cross-eyed, then Cold Stone Creamery where my actual job was babysitting my boss’ infant son, Liam, and then denying customers jingles for tips, then I sold plasma for a good while in order to support my alcoholism, and for the past year and a half I’ve been selling knives and raking in dough by the tens of thousands which has rocked.

Let me just say this, however—the food industry and I will never, ever be an item again. I would rather sell both my body and my soul than snap another sticky lid on a 32 oz. cup of Diet Pepsi or wrap a waxy piece of paper around a burrito. Leaving work every day smelling like bleach, beef, and fried foods is the last thing I ever want to have to do for money on this planet. End.

Anyway, I’m off to wrap Christmas presents like a jolly Christmas elf. I simply love to wrap gifts. Like, sometimes I am more thrilled about the festivity and presentation of the gifts I receive than I am about what’s inside of them. I like to take my gift-dressing responsibilities very seriously. Time to go.

“Do you think if I stand in the singles’ line, I’ll meet somebody?”


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