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Sally Forth and get funky. Rex Morgan M.D. funky.

Toot Toot. Open wide. The Update Train is a-coming!

Marshmallows, Pixies, and Jug Bands all a-mingling together.

To The Hip-Hip-Hippity-Hop!


2003-07-18 - 1:21 p.m.

To The Hip-Hip-Hippity-Hop!

Ahhhh, the hippity-hop, keeper of childhood memories.

Nothing says Playtime Fun like a giant bouncing ball and a mouse head! I mean nothing! Boo-hiss play-do! Screw your little rolled-out snakes! Poop on your pseudo salty snackness! I've got places to go and things to hop on!

So outta my way! Me and Mickey, we're a-playin'!

Hippity-Hop Story #1:

When I was five we had a cocker spaniel named Scruffy*. Scruffy, in the epitome of cocker spaniel-ness, liked to hide under the kitchen sink, pee, and bite anyone that tried to move her. But she wasn't a one-trick dog, oh no! Scruffy also liked to eat shit! (I recall this penchant of hers with the mixture of awe and respect that only a five year-old can feel upon watching an animal actually OH MY GOD EAT THE SHIT of another animal.) So one day Scruffy the poop-eater decided that my Mickey Mouse hippity-hop was a threat to her very survival. (Perhaps she projected her internal demons onto the hippity-hop, so that the sing-songy taunts of Na-sty Shi-it Eat-er confronted her with every bounce? Perhaps it was the sheer size of the ball itself that mocked her, the realization that every ball she had ever chased had united and come back to haunt her? Or perhaps my hippity hop really was infected with the evil spirit of Walt Disney, and he tormented her with endless Lady and the Tramp comparisons?) Regardless, the hippity-hop was not to be trusted. So there I was, fresh with life, a sweet red-headed girl of five, hopping about on her Mickey Ball, oblivious to the fact that around the side of the house, Scruffy was a-coming. And the next thing I knew it was all foam and nippiness and me falling onto the sidewalk and skinning my knee and a great loud POP and Mickey was dead. Scruffy had killed Mickey.

After that I was left with the BO-BO blue Donald Duck hippity-hop (complete with his stupid sailor-slash-graduation cap that he always wore). A life-changing event that I believe set the stage for my accustomed unpopularity in later years. I lost my consumer cool on that long-ago day, and I have yet to regain it, all because of the demons of an inbred cocker spaniel that liked to eat poop.


*I think her name had something to do with it.

Hippity-Hop Story #2:

What, you think I'm some sort of hippity-hop story fountain? Sheesh.

O-kay. I must go get ready for work now. I fully planned on explaining my month-long absence and segueing from hippity-hops into hospitals, but I will hold the more personal details for later.

Until next time.

The Fanged Faerie wants a Michael Jackson hippity-hop. Shamone!

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