I have failed you. Truly I have.
I forgot to remind you that we are celebrating my birth month, and now you only have two days to shop and get your prezzies to me without looking like a schmuck. I promise not to judge you too harshly if your prezzie gets here on the 9th or the 10th, instead. Mean it.
I know what you're thinking: you're thinking I want to do something special for phlegmmy, to make a difference on this planet in honor of the day of birth she shares with Sigourney Weaver, Jessie Jackson, Chevy Chase, Matt G and C-Jay Ramone, something ecologically sensitive that improves the planet for everyone, something like Squirrel Underpants. Nuh-unh! No way. THIS day is mine, dagnabbit. Yes, it IS in fact, all about me. We require gifties.
Let me tell you what I want, what I rilly rilly want:
Remote control hopping, yodelling lederhosen. LURVE these. They are made all the more delicious by the fact that the remote is a knockwurst. More like knockbest, baby! HYUK! I love them so much. If you don't buy them for me, I'm going to have to buy them for myself. Don't make me do it. Step up to the plate.
I figure if every other one of you sexy people who read my blog daily ponies up a pair of these puppies for me, then I'll have a baker's dozen. That's practically a fleet, in lederhosenese.
In my lonely room at night, I'll line up little Radio City-style revues of my 13 yodelling Lederhosen(s? nen? innerinen? Crap! I've lost all me German!) to entertain me. I'll deftly man the remotes and sometimes I'll be the girl in the gingham dress, and sometimes I'll be the guy behind the green curtain. It'll be heaven.
Wait-- did I mention it's me birfday this week?