|See you next week!
||[Oct. 26th, 2012|03:45 pm]
Okay, so I’m about to vanish, pulled into the maelstrom that is Scary Perry, which given the weather forecast, is going to mean poisoning the inside of my house by spraying paint and sealants on props in the basement because it will be too late by the time the rain’s gone. |
Speaking of the weather – please, please, let me give you a hint: Stop listening to weather reports generated by entities that make their living via the number of advertisements you see/hear on their website/station. The more frenzied you get, the more you check in, the more clicks, the more ads they sell. Capisce? www.noaa.org because they don’t give a rat’s patoot how many times you check the weather really, so who are you going to trust for accurate reports?
Right, so for one of the props for Scary Perry, the Chicken Man specifically, I needed a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Because last year I set Chicken Man up in the Giant Tomato Cage…
Wait. You want to know where I get my inspiration for Scary Perry props/scenarios?
Okay, so the squirrels are eating my tomatoes. So the Captain builds this big wood and chickenwire cage to keep the tomato plants in. And I’m an ex-chicken raiser, so I see chicken wire and really I’m either thinking chicken or armature for a Halloween prop. So, at the end of the season, I say “no, don’t put it away in the shed, I’ll totally put a monster in it for Scary Perry.” Coincidentally, I ordered a giant chicken head mask…because who can’t use a giant chicken mask. So after a couple of days of noodling around with it in the office, I thought “wait. I could stuff this, put it on a dummy body and put it in the cage for Halloween. And then I saw giant chicken feet on sale at a Halloween store, so of course. And there Chicken Man was sitting in the cage, 4pm Halloween night, and I’m now down to either putting props away for next year, or working them into something already out and hey, here’s a box of human bones! Throw those in the cage, that’s funny. Plus I don’t have to haul them downstairs.
Just in case you thought I was pending time planning, or sketching things out ahead of time. One step more evolved from just throwing them out in the yard and seeing where they fall, but that's all I can claim.
But now that he exists, I thought, oh, he needs a bucket, a bucket of Kentucky Fried Human. Kentucky Fried Children would make me happier, but we try not to go quite that far on Scary Perry, plus the way they’ve redone the logo, it would just read KFC, and no one would even know I was making a joke.
So, I go to procure a bucket. It’s been a long time – and yeah, I wanted a used one, because one with grease stains is better….
But I’m tired and the drive through line is long and I don’t see any kind of promotional deal – you know a bucket for $X, and all the chicken on the menu board is listed by the piece, not by the type/size of container. And when I have to be ignorant and stupid, especially when talking to a hole in a sign, I go with an accent. Because Americans are suckers for accents, assuming it’s enough of an accent to be charming and not enough of an accent to be hard to understand. Because we are lazy.
So I throw on some bastardized variation of BFA meets BBC.
So, I say “Yes, I’ve been sent to fetch a bucket of chicken, how many pieces are in a bucket?”
“M’am, you can get 2 piece, 3 piece, 4 piece, 20 piece, whatever you want.”
“Which of those comes in a bucket?” And now we’re in trouble, because I’m tired, sleep-deprived, hungry, bored and have just discovered that it’s really fun to say bucket in whatever accent I’ve got going on. Because “bucket” is now coming out the same way some disaffected British punk would say Expletive-It, just with a “B”. So, I’m going to say it, and ROCK it, every single time, with a sneer and a whine.
“M’am however many pieces you want—“
“No, love, I know the two piece comes in a BOX. I don’t want a BOX, I need a Buck-It. I’ve been sent for a Buck-It. So, I’m asking you, what is the smallest number of pieces I can get and you’re going to hand it to me in a Buck-It. What number of pieces is that?”
Now, if I’d been her, I would have said “look, lady, just tell me how much chicken you need and I will put that in a bucket. Sorry, Buck-It. Anything to make you go away and stop expletiving my workday.”
But she soldiered on, bless her heart. “Eight pieces. Eight pieces in a Buck-It.” See, now I’ve got HER saying it wrong.
“Right then, eight pieces in a Buck-It, it is. That’ll be all, darling. Oh, no, wait, a side of mac & cheese, ‘cause I’m perishing.”
Next year? I’m making my own damn bucket.