Voodoo on You-Do!

There is an Adam Sandler song called “Voodoo” where Mr. Sandler is able to put hexes on noisy leaf blowers, cantaloupe-snatching old women and traffic cops who hand out speeding tickets.

I like this idea. Specifically, I like the idea of dressing up in a grass kilt (not skirt), taping a chicken bone to my upper lip, dancing around a camping stove and sticking pins into a doll that represents the one who has visited so much torment on me.

Oh yeah, and putting a hex on them sounds good too.

Now, I’m not talking about rotting people’s insides or turning them into a toad, oh no! I don’t want something so quick and, well, fast. I’m talking about making them suffer!

Some examples:

• To the guy that was tailgating me today: ye fate is to have ye car stall at a traffic light!
• To the chick who tossed out a Wendy’s, 32 once, partially filled soda thingie onto the highway divider: a pox on thee!Let thy garbage can be blown over by a gust of wind!
• To the smarmy muckity-muck with yer self-important, 30minute, time wasting blather: thy shooz shall squeak for a period not less than 5min!

And last, but certainly not least:

• To the Critic: let thy browzar shew nothin but porn sites for ye next 10 loadies!

But the final touch, the thing that would make it all worthwhile is the idea of making them realize that it was me who has put this terrible curse upon them. They would realize that, though I am small and easily pushed around, I am not to be trifled with. To drive the point home, before any curse would take effect, I would have to stand relatively near to them, point a bent spoon or other suitable object and proclaim: “Voodoo on you-do!”

Thanks to the internet, it has been possible for me to become an expert* in a relatively short amount of time. Using my new found knowledge, I confronted The Critic:

(Me): Voodoo on you-do! (The Critic): Why do you have a pizza crust taped to your upper lip? (Me, taken aback): I don’t like chicken. (C): You wanted to tape a chicken to your upper lip? (M): Well, a chicken bone really. (C): And why are you pointing an empty, 2 liter thingie of diet coke at me? (M): Oh yeah, Voodoo on you! (C): You already said that. (M): Yeah, well, now it’s a double whammy. (C): You’re trying to put a curse on me? (M): Muhahahahaha! If only you had read my latest posting you might have avoided your fate, but now…MUHAHAHAHA! (C): Riiiight. So now I’m cursed…well, I don’t see any difference. (M): Wait till you fire up your browser! (C): OK, hang on a sec. (Walks over to computer, brings up browser) (M): Cute Kittens? (C): So sue me. What’s supposed to be different? (M): Try going somewhere else. (C): (Brings up a variety of sites, none of them having to do with porn) Well? (M): Hmmm…I think I need to go study…

After an exhaustive study of the information available to me, I was still perplexed by my lack of Voodoo-oriented success when The Critic called me:

(The Critic): You don’t have to do the whole thing where you point something at the victim and proclaim “Voodoo on you-do!” (Me): Hey, it’s artistic license. (C): You’re no longer suspended? (M): I didn’t say that, but how do you know so much about Voodoo? (C): Oh, just a wild guess. (M): Whatever. It’s only a matter of time before I get you…and your little gigapet too! (C): (Yawning) Oh no.

I was going to write more, but all my word processor seems to be interested in doing is spewing out the sentence: “I am a dopy doodie-head.” I’m sure that it’s a glitch that will resolve itself.

* = I partially read 2 or 3 pages from some half-reputable sites I found on Google. OK, so 2 of the 3 were sites featuring women with boobs that Gawd himself would look at and say: “I didn’t make those;” but the 3rd site was sort of about Voodoo.

technorati: Voodoo, blather, the critic, chicken bone, Adam Sandler, curse, hex