I have a bug bite inside my navel. Somehow, the insect (probably a chigger) found a spot I can't scratch without rigorous effort, and that invokes the fear of inverting my belly button. Part of me is fascinated with the idea of doing so, especially if it turns out like a balloon opening. Me, one of the world's biggest whoopee cushions! (I will neither take credit for being the world's biggest whoopee cushion nor will I research the size or location of such a novelty. If that's how you want to spend your morning, God bless you and keep you away from me.)
For those of you hoping for something more blogtastic, I decided who the three people are that I'd want to have dinner party with: Steve Martin (the performer, not the mystery author), Joss Whedon, and Mark Twain. Were I in a wittier mood, I'd attempt writing what the supper conversation would entail. Unfortunately, all I can think of right now are crappy jokes about Twain's corpse collecting flies. Whedon would find be snarky, complaining to the waiter about the maggots in his soup, while Martin would take the high road, somehow maintaining nonchalance as he grew increasingly perturbed that Twain would be too dead to pass the salt.
Other candidates for that dinner party include Steve Taylor (the greatest lyricist ever), Bill Murray (who everyone, even strangers, claim I remind them of), Jesus (I hesitate at the potential discomfort because we would have trouble letting loose), Weird Al Yankovic (tragically underappreciated), Theodore Geisel, Jim Henson, and Shel Silverstein (see previous post).
Hmm. Not a woman in the bunch. I suppose that means we can fart at the table.
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