In Which We Touch On Strange Conversations, Among Other Things

Luke: Do I think, or do I. . .not think?
Kat: You do not think.
Luke: (Runs off doing Native American chant)

Well, yes. What more can I say. I have the most concentratedly strange conversations, oh indeed. Oh yes, there can be no doubt. Luke is pretty bad, but then you get to Max and Ben. And dear God, are those conversations an auditory input for ears sore from hearing Gerard Butler trying to hit the note "soar" in Music of the Night, especially for a strange little amateur Phantom. Read on, as Dear Abby says:

Kat: You see, the question is, if I am Jiminy Cricket, and Max is Pinocchio, who is Ben?
Ben: The Blue Fairy.
Max: Ah.

Frankly, there's enough said there, no? Enough for you too to be seriously questioning my mental stability. Join the club. But then, when I've got two split personalities, as I admitted to you two posts ago, and so you really ought to have been questioning it two posts ago. Everyone else was, you know. You are utterly out of the loop.

And here is something truly disturbing. I, Kat Beat (the Omnipotent Queen of Rolzag) have developed Valley Girl Tendencies. (VGT) This fills me with utterly irrational terror. Symtoms of VGT involve hair flipping, limp wristing, and excessive use of the word like.

And now for some true madness. I was just watching CNN, and I swear to you by Micheal Crawford that one of the reporters electric shocked himself with a tazer in order to demonstrate the usage of stun gun technology by the police. His professional determination: It hurts. Really, Bob. It does? If I may make a terribly corny pun, shocking. You just shot your self full of 50000 volts of electriciy in order to provide us with the diagnosis that it hurts. That isn't to mention the highly amusing fact that on the Daily Show they slowed down the clip and the reporter sounded like Chewbacca, but what I'm talking about is not that. It is the pure absurdity of this world. Speaking of absurdities, how about the porcelain bowl of shamrocks given to Pres. Bush by the leader of Ireland. You know, as a Phantom, I'm usually supposed to have something clever to say, but this time all I have to say is wow. Just. Wow. A porcelain bowl. Of shamrocks. To do what with? Eat? "Oh, thank you Mr. Prime Minister, I've been needing this to feed my pet bunny Gandalf, and his friends Frodo, Sam, and Legolas?" Now this, my friends, is one of the few great questions of life that cannot merely be answered by saying, 42.

And just when I thought I'd exhausted my capacity of idiotic random news reports. Here I am, watching the Tivo of Good Morning America, and here is something just so purely odd that I have to write about it. They found a finger in Wendy's chili. A finger. As in a, a digit found on the human hand. As in, something you are not supposed to point, because it is rude. As in, the extremities Peter Karrie uses to such wonderful effect in his rendition of Music of the Night. A finger. I am now repeating to myself a mantra. "I will never eat at Wendy's again. I will never eat at Wendy's again. Never ever ever ever." But I know next time I'm starving to death and there's no home in sight. . .Now, this makes me debate upon why oh why there was a finger in Wendy's chili. Here's my list of possibilities.

1) Raoul and Erik went to Wendy's. Christine remarked on how sexy Erik's hands were. We're presuming this would be the Susan Kay incarnation of Erik, then. Raoul, of course, acted accordingly, and Erik is now minus a finger. Why they were back in the kitchen I haven't figured out yet.
2) I finally snapped on Max and that idiotic gavel, causing me to remove one of his digits and then get amnesia. Anything is possible where the Phantom of the Junior High is concerned. Why I was in Wendy's kitchen is undetermined. Ask Erika, I think, would be the best answer.
3) Someone, anyone, just blew up at Kevin Federline. Did I mention he's another one of the Raoul types I'd like to kill?

The point of this post is undetermined. Perhaps I simply have too much time on my hands.

I remain, gentleman, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.