Elmo On Fire

I don't really care for Elmo. He's not the brightest of monsters and tends to ask a lot of really annoying questions. He has also broken on numerous occasions one of my cardinal rules, which is that Muppets should never have legs and feet. It's just wrong. From Kermit riding the bike in the Muppet Movie to Burt doing "The Pigeon" in the famous Sesame Street bit, Muppets with legs all look like they are missing something. Namely, someone's hand up their ass. Keep them from the waist up I say. Adding unnecessary appendages, for me, just turns a pleasant children's pastime into a spectacle of creepy madness. But I digress. Back to Elmo. Or as my wife and I like to call him, the furry red devil.

My youngest turned the ripe old age of two yesterday. We had an Elmo theme for his party and his birthday gift list was rife with all types of media referring to the Elmster. The party was great and my wife's Elmo cake was made to perfection(plug). Now that the party is over, and the merriment and gift-giving is complete, we are quite literally drowning in Elmo. We have it all. We have the Hokey-Pokey Elmo that when pushed (or kicked) down asks to be picked up. As disturbing as that is, thank the stars we did not get the YMCA Elmo. That toy snaps it's own elbows backwards to make the W, this is truly painful to watch. Imagine the Joe Theisman video sans the jock-strap. We have the Elmo in Grouchland sing-a-long playing on a loop at our home. Now I end up singing Elmo tunes at work and find myself asking co-workers to sing along. We have Elmo software that I've been too afraid to load, fearing the mind-numbing music that may come flying out of my computer. All kinds of books and dolls with the visage of that little bastard all over the house. He's taken over. We are powerless against him.

I'm going to set Elmo on fire. I don't know when and I don't know where, but you can bet that I'm going to arson-up that little shit. He has invaded every part of my house and is slowly taking over what's left of my mind. Really, I cannot stop singing those songs. My life is one big kareoke for toddlers. Don't worry, I won't let the kids in on it. I will just casually take one of the four-thousand effigies we have of El Diablo Rojo and we'll have an quiet little Zippo party. Will this make me feel better? Will it really purge the red menace from my brain, life, and home? Probably not. It will be satisfying though. That is, until my son gets wind of Barney. Then, I'll be buying a blowtorch, and may God have mercy on my soul...