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Posts Tagged ‘Nothing chills my blood more than Keanu Reeve's english accent’

Dr Sherman, our family doctor, is known simply as “The Shermanator” in our household. And quite possibly because he is at the very opposite end of the spectrum from, say, Arnold Schwarzenegger on a motorbike yielding a large automatic weapon.  Oh, we do love an ironic nickname ’round these parts. 

Anyway, the other day I’d just finished an appointment with The Shermenator when he offered the kids a jellybean from a large jar he keeps on his desk. The Pixie, quite predictably, chose a pink jellybean and Tiddles chose a yellow one. 

Seeing the large number of black jelly beans at the bottom of the jar, I asked “Does anyone ever choose the black ones?”

“Oh yes. Let’s just say They Walk Among Us,” The Shermanator replied, as he opened the door to his office to show us out. “Except, when they’re four or five years old, it’s hard to pick Them.” 

“I’d guess so since They’re not wearing black lipstick or have too many interesting piercings. At least not before third grade,” I joked as we all stepped out into the waiting room. And we both laughed and then quickly looked around just in case One Of Them was watching us. 

As I drove home, I found myself wondering if an early predilection for black jelly beans would result in you either drinking blood for a living and/or becoming an investment banker.

Personally speaking, my own early experiences with licorice-flavoured sweets was not a happy one. At kindergarten, we had a ‘Races Day’ in which I managed to come second-to-last in every single race. Obviously my kindergarten had an “Everyone wins a prize” policy because I ended up “winning” something (in a race where obviously the aim was to come second last) and my prize was a licorice-flavoured sweet – let’s just say, in the interests of continuity in this post, that it was a black jelly bean. Anyway, the jelly bean tasted bisgusting (as The Pixie would say) and I remember thinking what a lame-arse prize it was and how I didn’t want to win any more races if that was the kind of reward you got.

I went on to enjoy a life entirely devoid of any participation in sports whatsoever.  And the minute I hit 15, I ditched my deckshoes and pastel clothing, started wearing black a lot and wrote poetry about how depressed I was. Which was no great surprise since all I did was sit around listening to “The Cure”, “The Violent Femmes” and “Bananarama”.

However, there was something… something… which stopped me from taking it to the next level. I never dyed my hair black. Or carved my boyfriend’s initials in my arm. Or even wore any footwear that could potentially take someone’s eye out. For example. And I certainly never ever contemplated a career in selling off-the-plan real estate. 

Perhaps it was because I didn’t like the taste of black jelly beans? Is it that which separates the Living from the Undead? I’ve never read “Dracula” but I suspect this is an angle that Bram Stoker neglected to explore. That and how future film versions of his classic novel might unleash greater horrors on the world than vampires – such as Keanu Reeve’s English accent. Shudder.

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