Point#18-In which I wish I was a Muppet

15 Dec

I have been obsessed with all things Muppetty of late. I have no clue why. It started as most of my cyclical obsessions do, with a casual mention that I follow up on and thus fall into a gaping chasm of fandom from which the only escape is me being distracted from it by a random article hit on Wikipedia. In this case it was rabies, which led to Cujo, which led to The Dead Zone, which naturally led to Martin Sheen and you get the picture…

The original obsession du jour began with a brief arc on the webcomic Something Positive in which the main character is determined to make his friend cry at the mere playing of a song, which works. It also backfires when the song proves too sad even for him. Armed only with the name of the song, I hit YouTube, knowing my schmoop gland was probably going to get a severe workout.

Do not, under any circumstances, listen to the song, “A Boy and his Frog” unless you hate your heart. You know, cuz of all the breaking.

Man, this song was carefully handcrafted from fine Corinthian tears and bathed gently in the light of baby seal eyes for an extended period of time. It was then handwashed in some cancer of the puppy and presented on a bed of Nicholas Sparks novels. I wept, I sobbed. I had to go lie down for awhile. And then, because I apparently hate myself, I proceeded to watch all the coverage of Jim Henson’s funeral that I could find on YouTube. Yes, I watched Big Bird sing “Bein’ Green”. Yup, everyone singing “Just One Person”, too. As my own personal holiday experience every year is watching Emmet Otter’s Jug Band Christmas, I was happy to see Jerry Nelson and Louise Gold’s rendition of “River Meets the Sea” performed. The sea in this scenario was the wave of saline sorrow that my childhood washed away in. I was comforted (because these things comfort me) that I have found the song I want sung at my funeral.

I am a sappy woman. I am prone to the shedding of tears to the extent that Publix grocery store commercials can cause my tear ducts to go into the sort of overdrive usually reserved for one’s own parents or Princess Diana. The schmoop-n-sap is strong in this one and I am unapologetic. I have been accused of being nigh on a crybaby, usually by people, not effected by this curse, that do not realise that easy tears, like laughter, friendship, and the need to snack, are not voluntarily. They are a reflex for which some people are overqualified.

What does this have to do with my Muppetty aspirations? Other than obvious-perfect hair, can’t gain weight, loved by all, if I die, someone else can voice me and I live on forever-is quite simply: no damn tear ducts so I can finally shut my whiny ass up.

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