Posts Tagged ‘annus horribilis’

I was mightily surprised to spot a Chicken Dance Elmo toy at my classy friend JS’s house recently. Not that I was in any position to judge – we have an all-singing all-dancing My Little Pony called “Pinky Pie” in our house, after all. But that’s a whooooole other story. 

JS observed my horror when one of my children hit the button on Chicken Dance Elmo and it began doing that thing that it does – which happens to be being Elmo in a chicken suit, dancing and singing along to the Chicken Dance. 

“As you can see, I have only ever given my son the most educational of wooden toys,” JS remarked. 

“Yes, I’m sure it has the Steiner Tick of Approval under its left foot,” I replied. 

“Not to mention the ‘Fair Trade’ sticker under the other,” she added.

Need I mention that all that long car journey home, The Pixie and McGee sang and danced the Chicken Dance? Need I reiterate that it was ALL the way home? WELL, DO I?

“I feel sick because of that chicken singing Elmo,” Mr Justice proclaimed when our journey was finally at its end. 

I knew exactly how he felt. 

I have always considered Elmo’s meteoric rise to fame on Sesame Street as the show’s “jumping the shark” moment. Which, coincidentally, happened around the same time Mr Snuffleupagus stopped fucking with Big Bird’s head and became visible to everyone. Sheesh! 1985 must have been the Sesame Street writing team’s “annus horribilis” – which, incidentally, is one of those phrases that always makes me giggle because it looks and sounds much ruder than it actually is, especially when applied to the writers of Sesame Street

ANYWAY, ne’er an Elmo toy has graced this house because of my deep aversion to all things Elmo. Not in a chicken suit, not in a nappy, not in a PVC multi-zippered “tickle me” gimp suit. And I’m proud of it. 

But then there are really good friends of mine, whose opinions I respect and company I seek, who have revealed themselves to be Elmo fans. In fact, it’s fair to say that they love Elmo and want to marry him. And maybe even want to kiss him. On the lips. 

“You know how there are those things that you hate that you expect everyone else must hate too but then you end up being constantly surprised by how many people who you thought were just like you actually like those things? The ones that you hate, that is,” I asked my husband in a rather convoluted fashion later that evening. 

“You mean like the Queen?”

“Yes, the Queen and Pauline Hanson and NCIS.” 

“Shit! Not that show with that red-headed guy!” my husband said, appalled. 

“No, not that one. That’s CSI: Law and Order Special Investigation Unit Thingy in Miami,” I replied, a little uncertainly. 

“Oh, I hate that red-headed guy. That terrible hair. He should be ashamed of it!” he said, himself a redhead and with two redheaded children. 

“ANYWAY, I’m talking about Elmo!” I announced in an attempt to rein the conversation back in. After all, this was about my pet hates, not his. 

“Oh, Elmo… ” my husband sighed. “I once saw Elmo on Rove and he was talking to an adult audience about himself in the third person and in a high squeaky voice. And that’s when I realised he was a complete prick,” he concluded.

“What, Elmo or Rove?” I asked. The volume in my head had suddenly been turned right up on that Chicken Dance song and it was hard to think clearly. Next time I go to JS’s house, remind me to set our all-singing all-dancing Pinkie Pie onto that terrible redheaded thing – and no, I don’t mean my husband. At least I don’t think so. I just don’t know anymore…

Elmo want to be a chicken, Elmo want to be a duck. Cluck cluck cluck cluck.  

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