|"You say 'bake sale'?. . .Yes, ve vill be zere."|
It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything here. I was busy starring in a horror movie called “The Graduate Degree that Ate My Life”. That film has wrapped, and I now have a starring role in the sequel, which is (if you can believe it) already in production. It’s called “The Licensing Exam that Swallowed My Summer”. I’m still very busy but, when crisis hits, where else can a gal turn but the blogosphere?
I have a problem. There’s an infestation in my neighborhood. Those who know me will say, “Enough about the groundhogs, already!” but it’s not that.
It’s the spies.
Not just any spies, mind you. Zey are Russian, Dahrrlink. Rrrrussian.
I suppose maybe the “Live and Let Die” ringtone should have tipped us off, and the fact that the ringtone was coming from his shoe, but who thinks of such things in the post-Cold War era, in an era when your phone is your stereo and your address book and your computer? It’s not a Shoe-phone, it’s a Phone shoe. The iShoe, if you will. Sure, why not. And who questions a family named “Murphy” about their country of origin or their ancestry? I mean, duh. Right?
One thing’s for sure; it has folks in my little tree-lined, apple pie town all in a tizzy. Papers today have some of the most beautiful, predictable B.S. a blogger could ask for. There’s the classic, “"When he looked at you, he didn't look you in the eye. And I thought it was strange,” from one neighbor, who went on to offer this gem, “I remember him talking to me, but averting his eyes, and I had this feeling, even then, there was something not right.” Yeah, honey. Sure. You just knew, in 2010, that something devious was afoot, sent from Russia, with love. If he had looked you in the eyes, today you’d be saying “I remember how creepy it was, the way he’d lock eyes with you and not let go as you spoke to him.” Never occurred to you that the “something” that wasn’t right could have been your breath? Or that large boil on your neck? I’d avert my eyes, too. Consider the possibility that he found you profoundly uninteresting and/or full of it, which you clearly are.
The bigger tip-off should have been all those stunning catsuits the missus would bring over to Goodwill each Spring, and the Martini glasses she’d take home—10 cents a piece is a good deal—and the way she kind of purrrred, rather than actually speaking.
The best stuff, though, came from the family who had befriended the dreaded spies before their move to suburbia. They knew them when they were Hoboken spies. "I look back at it now and think, 'We let them watch our kids!' Russian spies watching our kids," the husband said. Wow, the panic! I love it! What does he think the Russian spies did with his kids, planted recording devices in their asses so they could hear all about middle class life in Hoboken? So they could find out who that family was cheering for on American Idol? Please. . .
Gets better. They say the wife baked cookies shaped like the Statue of Liberty. No joke. Methinks some little spy is trying way too hard, or maybe giving herself a sinister laugh to break the tension of life undercover. I see her and her “hubby” there, in the kitchen, snickering at first, then erupting into howls of laughter as she applies the red, white, and blue icing. It turns into a food fight, the spies and their kitchen splashed with a colorful sugary coating, practically soiling their pants as they roll on the floor, ending with a passionate kiss, of course. Ah, so utterly American. . . . at least, if this was Hollywood.
I guess when the hammer-and-sickle cookies didn't go over well at the school bake sale it was time to pump up the patriotism. You Amerrricans, you have noh senze of humorrrr.