Excuse me Mr. Mouse . . . Have you seen my hairbrush lately?

I must begin today with a bit of a confession. Just this morning, in a whole Jerry Lewis telethon worth of sight gags, trick falls and a variety of other fairly exaggerated flailing maneuvers, I managed to clear nearly all of the products lining our bathroom shelves from their original resting place. The most notable of which happened to be my wife’s favorite “at home” hairbrush which found its way into the gape mouthed clutch of our toilet. A toilet, mind you, that was in fresh repose from my usual morning assault on the three S’s. Fortunately, we are talking post flush, but enlivened nonetheless. In the event you are the type that needs things spelled out for you, the last two S’s stand for Shower and Shave. Now, I have to say that this turn of events put a harsh on my usually convivial bathroom experience. So that some of you don’t have to look it up, “convivial” (according to my word of the day toilet paper that hit the water just moments before my wife’s hairbrush) means “merry or festive” in this context. Really kind of glad I could work it in here. Anyhow, given the fact that I am a bit follicly challenged I am somewhat worried that I am underestimating the importance of this morning’s events. She has had this particular hairbrush for as long as I can remember and at first blush I figured I was doing her a favor by providing her a good reason to purchase a replacement. But then, why does one hang onto a hairbrush for so long? I have always found it strange that she leaves it at home when she travels, and then it dawned on me that one only acts in such a frugal manner when a more suitable replacement simply CANNOT be obtained. If a better, and newer, brush that worked as well could be purchases it surely would have been by now, and the possible abandonment during business travel would not be something to guard against. Therefore, I deduce with my Holmsian logic that I may have screwed up in a major way here.

So, here is what I am going to do. I am thowing out an APB to those of you in the U.S. I am calling all cars here baby! I need to locate and purchase a, what appears to be a fairly non-descript, black ventbrush that has a wideish head and a tapered rubber handle. I would like this item to be at least relatively clear of fecal chloroform or, really, what is the point in replacing it? I suppose my other option would have been to try and cover up this whole incident, but I can’t live a life where every time my spouse goes to brush her hair I have to leave the room in shame. This whole incident has really colored my attitude on the day a rather ugly shade of . . . *ahem* . . . brown. My spirits have only been slightly bolstered by the recent traffic to this little project. Having thoroughly pimped myself out to the public at large, my little site is starting to get hit on more than a high school prom queen. I suppose that this is a good thing and that I should be celebrating the additional attention, but all I seem to feel is a fair amount of pressure to be something more than my usual mediocre. All this pressure is starting to fragment the thoughts in my head and I am now having trouble weaving the thread that usually makes this whole thing worth reading. If I have a literary talent, it is my ability to tie two unrelated life events into some coherent story line. Right now, I am staring at a blank page and to be honest, I got nothin.

Rright now, it would seem the entirety of my brain is focused not on this project but on the little fella next door who is at present 3 episodes deep into a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse marathon. All I can here is occasional giggling and a stray “well whata ya know”, but it seems just enough to drive me to distraction. Don’t get me wrong, I feel that there is at least a little educational value here, especially where mathematics are concerned since my youngest knows his numbers and the like much better in French than in English. That being said, after plodding through an episode or two, I am beginning to wonder about the sanity of it all. Now, Mickey Mouse and his pals have been comic fodder for years and I certainly don’t want to portray myself as just some hack that stole somebody else’s material, but I do have a few fresh observations to make, so I hope you will forgive me for treading into well-trodden territory. First off, who are we talking about here? Two mice, two ducks and what I believe are two dogs, though the jury is still out as to what brand of creature “Goofy” might actually be. If in fact he is a dog like “Pluto”, then what is with the bipedalism and hillbilly accent? Moreover, why is it that Mickey, Minnie and Goofy all wear white gloves? It makes me feel like they are up to something they shouldn’t be. Donald and Daisy don’t wear white gloves, but then again they don’t wear pants either. Mickey has a lovely pair of red trousers but runs around bare chested even in the harshest weather. Something just doesn’t add up. Goofy, the simpleton of the group, for all his eccentricities seems to be the only one that can properly dress himself in the morning. Everyone seems to wear shoes except for Donald, but footwear is really the least of his problems given his notable speech impediment. Why the hell does he sound like that anyway? Daisy doesn’t sound like that. Maybe it is a result of not wearing any shoes and dressing like one of the Village People.

Perhaps the most confusing bit is that Mickey owns Pluto. Doesn’t that fly in the face of the traditional food chain? I mean really, what kind of lack of self-respect can Pluto have to subjugate himself to a freaking mouse? I don’t care how freakishly large the mouse might be, Pluto clearly has the upper hand. I guess it’s not all that different from the throngs of hapless retards out there that think it is a good idea to own a pitbull, then wonder why their kids got mauled. Mikey’s time is coming, believe me. One of these days he is going to push Pluto too far and then WHAM . . . Lights out Mick. It is simply the law of probability, every dog has one bite. More disturbing still are the plot twists that this merry band of misfits find themselves in nearly every episode. They have a bag full of tools which they use along the way to solve problems in route to their ultimate goal (whatever that happens to be). The tools are never right for the job in my opinion. For instance, on the episode I watched, Goofy’s surfboard broke and the Mouse-ka-Tool they used to remedy the issue was a REALLY big roll of tape. Never mind the improbability of a dog with Goofy’s lanky frame being able to actually “Hang 10”, though I have seen videos of dogs surfing, skiing and skateboarding. Seems maybe dogs are suited to board sports. Anyway, presuming that Goofy has mad surfing skills, there is absolutely no way that the tape is going to hold together under his weight. So, now I have to worry about my youngest going through life taping shit back together in hopes that what worked for Goofy will work for him. I am starting to understand why Goofy talks and acts like a simpleton. He fell off of taped conveyances one too many times and shook a screw loose or something. I don’t want the same fate for my youngest, so I have hidden our tape. What’s worse is that I might have even bought the whole thing if they had used duct tape, but it looked to me like a big ole roll of Scotch. “No way that’s holding together” I thought to myself and said a soft prayer for Goofy’s quick recovery from the intensive care unit.

I know what you’re thinking . . . kid’s don’t notice stuff like that, right? They don’t notice that these characters wear the same clothes everyday and never bathe. They don’t notice that at least two of the characters never wear pants in public. They don’t even notice that Scotch tape is used to fix everything. Then explain this to me . . . why is it in the past week I have witness a smelly man waiting at the same bus stop in the same clothes three days running (not homeless), a woman who was walking down the sidewalk with her toddler who was wearing nothing but a t-shirt (naked as the day they were born from the waist down) and a car whose rear bumper was being held on with nothing more than a liberal application of tape? Oh they notice alright, and then they grow up and burden the rest of us with this insanity day in and day out. Well it ends today my friends. Who’s with me? Anyone . . . ANYONE? No? Fine, I’ll go it alone, but you all will rue the day . . . you’ll rue it I tell you! R.