Friday, June 30, 2006

Bear with me....

Oh, man, that title joke = classic!

Too crazy too too too too too crazy to blog right now ya'll!!!! I have like 15 posts saved as "drafts" because I haven't had a moment to sit down and chitter.

Howevs, we will return to regularly scheduled HILARIOUS OBSERVATIONS ON LIFE AND BEYOND © next Weds. I seriously look like a crazy, strung out beggar from my recent lack of sleep and running around. But, heading to Portland, Mainy for a nice, calming break, where I will take all of my aggression out on cracking open lobster claws and stabbing locals in the heart with the remaining shell.

Landing in my inbox: The worst nerd-euphemism for sex.

And also, thanks to Newport News, where I read up on all the breaking stories related to stirrup pants and lace-and-denim vests, I will be "Building My Own Bikini" for the weekend:


Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Lunchtime Chat with Mike

Mike Barry: Are you so busy that i can't send you a picture, say, of a 1000 lb. man doing the splits?
Michelle: what's the splits?
Mike Barry: this:
Michelle: sigh, if it's gross dont send it, about to eat lunch
Mike Barry: It's not gross...


Michelle: OK literally, I'm dying laughing
Michelle: I have like 4 hot tears


Best Night Ever!

Me doing my best Keira Knightley impersonation.

I taped my first webisode of "Best Night Ever" for last night.

Check out the clip here!

Things I learned the hard way: Toe Dancing. Also, leaning forward into the camera does not make you look slimmer, just kinda awkward, crooked, and Easter Island-y. This ends my typical "Just because I posted this clip does not in any way make me even appreciate myself even a little" disclaimer. I love you all, xoxoxoxo, MC.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Tuning In To WEDZ

Their wedding song: Wu-Tang's "Gravelpit."

This Sunday, I attended the wedding of a close friend of mine from college. It was a beautiful, heartfelt ceremony at a country club in Massachusettes, and a nice reunion of college friends who came cross-country and overseas to attend the festivities.

Following a post-nuptual cocktail hour, we were ushered into the banquet hall for the dancing/lunching portion of the day. This part of the day also includes the "first dance" for the husband and wife. They did a lovely dance to their chosen song, "Is This Love?" by Bob Marley, the irony of course being that these were two of the whitest people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.

Wedding Song: "Doth Milady's Cup Runneth Over? Methinks Quite." by Earth, Wind & Fire

Nevertheless, it got me to thinking about my favorite wedding related subject: the choosing of the song. It is a topic I have delved into before, in no doubt one of the more sobering blog posts seen in these parts. But this wedding spawned new ideas in the wedding song debate. Groggily seated on a 6 am flight out of Boston yesterday morning, listening to my Ipod on shuffle, I thought of each random song playing on my list in the context of a husband and wife's "first dance." Some examples:

1. "I Sing The Body Electric" - Fame Soundtrack
I sing the body electric
I glory in the glow of rebirth
Creating my own tomorrow
When I shall embody the earth

And I'll serenade Venus
I'll serenade Mars
And I'll burn with the fire of ten million stars
And in time
And in time
We will all be stars

Choosing this as your wedding song tells your guests a few things about you. First, it tells them that you probably have a really disgusting, hippy sex life, one that likely involves spandex and swinging. Secondly, it also speaks volumes about what you and your hubby/wifey do in your free time: Tai Chi with "the locals" (i.e. homeless) in San Francisco, weekend jaunts to your local Rennaissance Festival for some additional role playing, nightly organic market visits for some roll-on patchouli deodorant. The ideal song for making a good 50 percent of your wedding attendees mildly to extremely uncomfortable.

"Celebrate the me yet to come"... shudddddderrrrrr.


2. "Cold As Ice" - M.O.P.
I'd like to welcome motherf***ers
To the back of the mind of Bill
See I'm for real
When deliverin'
These M.O.P. tactics
I'll bury you b*stards
I custom make caskets
The B.G. (told ya nigga)
The Y.G. (soldier nigga)
Even the O.G. (cobra nigga)
Told ya nigga
I may come
With my gun in my hand
To make sure you
Motherf***ers understand

Most of you recognize "Cold As Ice" as the hit Foreigner song. The M.O.P's rap remix of "Cold As Ice" will tell your guest one thing: 6 months tops. But also: We're in love!!


3. "Leningrad" - Billy Joel
Viktor was sent to some Red Army town
Served out his time, became a circus clown
The greatest happiness he'd ever found
Was making Russian children glad
And children lived in Leningrad

The ideal melody for a couple who met during the Cold War. It would also help if the groom was a circus clown named Victor. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, download the song right now. The lyrics are totally re-re, and yet I get goosebumps everytime. See also, Celine Dion, and 88 percent of what's on my playlist.


4. "America" - Neil Diamond

Only want to be free
We huddle close
Hang on to a dream

On the boats and on the planes
Theyre coming to america
Never looking back again
Theyre coming to America

See also, Number 3. Perfect for the gay Mexican marriage, where someone's scoring a Green Card.

"I A-DO-EH!"


5. "Your Ex-Lover Is Dead" - Stars

Live through this, and you won't look back...
Live through this, and you won't look back...
Live through this, and you won't look back...

Commitment people. This is what the day is all about. Make sure to wipe the blood off your hands on anything BUT your wedding gown. AWKY!


6. "I'm Looking Through You" - The Beatles
I'm looking through you
Where did you go
I thought I knew you
What did I know
You don't look different
But you have changed
I'm looking through you
You're not the same

The ideal melody for the Nicole Kidman/Keith Urban nuptuals. Why? Because she weighs 37 pounds and is transparent and made out of leftover T2 parts.


I could go on (seriously, I have 2,765 songs left), but really don't feel like revealing every single tune on my Ipod, as it would involve the kind of humiliation not seen since the famous "Public Ass Rapings of '79."

Monday, June 26, 2006

Uber Alles Indeed

This is officially the prettiest and most come hither looking pig I have ever seen. Hitler would be happy to know I've been humming this tune for approx. 48 minutes.

Also, if anyone could translate the part of the song I don't know (everything other than "Pigs for Germany"), I'd appreciate it.

Update: Translation!

Wir brauchen Schwein für Deutschland,
dass jede Flanke sitzt.
Verdammt viel Schwein für Deutschland,
dass jeder Schuss ein Treffer ist.
Wir brauchen Schwein für Deutschland,
dann ziehen wir in's Finale ein.
Denn nur mit Schwein für Deutschland,
wird der Weltmeister auch Deutschland sein.

We need "pig" for Germany
that every cross is right.
Damn much "pig" for Germany
that every shot is a hit.
We need "pig" for Germany,
then we'll make it to the final.
Because only with "pig" for Germany,
will the world champion be Germany.

Note: In German "Schwein haben" ("to have pig") is an idiomatic expression meaning "to be lucky". "Schwein brauchen" ("to need pig") is not really used but is easily understood by anybody with a good command of German to mean "to need luck". Just eeplace every instance of "pig" above with "luck" and the song will make even more sense.

With thanks to Christoph W. for the above translation, and additional thanks to Noa, Jenna and Martin!

Flying Coach

So I'm half-dead right now thanks to a 6 am flight out of Boston this morning. I made the genius decizh of flying JetBlue, by far the nicest airline in the country now that Delta Song is down for the count. Make a long story short, due to the early boarding time, I couldn't watch my usual HGTV marathon (as it was all informacials). So instead I opted for an hour of Headline News, which recycles the same story over and over and over again every 15 minutes. My main reason for watching so long? The following clip, which was shown during the sports segment. I was a-CRACKING up. Esp. when he grabs some water to wash off home plate.

Friday, June 23, 2006

Pedi Crimes

Me getting a pedicure. (picture of De-Fen Yao from China thanks to a good hearted reader. I do not believe it is photoshopped. My friend Julia said De-Fen has a head the size of a washing machine, and I believe it.)

It's June. And if you're the graduate of a women's college and in your mid-20's (and Jewish), that means it's wedding time. This weekend is the second wedding I'm attending in June, and I'm travelling up to Boston to reunite with many girls I haven't seen in years. This is code for "Look your best."

I've got the outfit all planned out. Going with a navy gown that I had shortened to be more "tea-lengthy", a navy bolero that screams Upper East Side rodeo, and gold sandals. And what outfit would be complete without talons for feet. Every outfit, that's what. Which is why I spent my coveted lunch hour at the SAH-lon, getting my feet primped and clipped for my wedding sandal debut.

I am always very humble at the nail salon. Just the idea that I'm making someone touch my feet, even for money, leaves me with cuticle blood on my hands. It seems wrong. So I counter-balance the foot touching by acting like Young Chiyo from Memoirs of a Geisha, bowing low, saying thank you every 5 seconds, avoiding eye contact, and serving tea. This salon was on the second floor, a common occurrence in a space-deprived city. I climbed the stairs and waited a good 20 minutes until my turn was up.

"Hmm... I think I can squeeze my pedi in between steeping lessons and my two o'clock 'sensual dance' hour."

The first thing I do when sitting in the futuristic leather massage chair growing out of a bucket is inspect the other feet, to rank how nasty mine are. The woman next to me had short, chubby tan feet with tiny toenails. The woman next to her's were real veiny, with opaque white nails (before polish.) In comparison, mine really weren't so bad... sure, they vaguely resemble a chitlin, and yes, my pinky toenails have somehow ceased to exist, but the nailbeds themselves were nicely shaped. No, really, my feet were quite nice in comparison.

Ladylike, in fact.

Then I saw my assigned pedicurist snapping on two rubber gloves as if I were about to get a cavity search. Gloves, eh? I glanced at the other two women... no gloves. Were my chitlins that unsavory? Boo.

On second thought, maybe they were.

I'll spare you the declawing process, but I chose I loverly light coral color to compliment the navy dress. I looked at my watch, and saw that I only had 5 minutes left before my lunch hour was over. Gah! No time to dry. Pay, tip (very generously to assuage more guilt) and run. Money went flying as I swung open the door, and then went to open the door leading to the staircase.

Instead, I found that I literally ran into a broom closet. Like in the cartoons. Luckily, 8,000 basketballs didn't fall on my head. No time, no time! I booked it down the stairs, emerged into daylight, and tried to run without ruining my polish.

Even these two were like "Yoooouuuuu schmuck."

End of story? It took me 30 minutes before I fucked the polish up and had to remove all of it. I just made a Dr.'s appointment to have my blood tested for the Hulk gene.

Looks like I'll have to wear my bird shoes again...

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Radio: The One Word That's the Same in Every Language

If there is one form of media that I'm not so up-to-date on, it's your classic AM/FM radio. Not having a car in New York, and being underground for my commutes, the radio just doesn't find its way into my schedule. Sometimes I'll come home and hear my roomate, a radio listener, humming some unknown melody. And I'll be all "What song is that?" and she'll say something like "Oh, it's the new Pussycat Dolls song", and then I'll usually say something defensive like "Still playing with dolls there, huh? I mean really," run back into my room, plug my iPod headphones into my Victrola, and just cry and cry while listening to how Al Jolson absolutely loves his dear, old Swanee. I'm ol' fashioned is what I'm sayin', seeee?

The funny thing is, I was joking. Then the shit actually exists.

Sunday, I went to Target in the Bronx to buy my quarterly stash of shave gel and syringes. While perusing the aisles along with roughly 44,000 other poor people, it dawned on me that I needed a new alarm clock. So I just picked up an adorable little cube-shaped one with a dual alarm (which I immediately named "Cubey Gooding, Jr.") for only $15. But, as usual at Target, I can walk in needing a travel-sized tampon, and walk out with two microwaves on each arm, pool noodles strapped to my chest, and a basket on my head full of Pampers. So my $15 alarm clock turned into a $150 tab worth of shit I will forget I bought next week.

I came home, plugged my new clock in, and within minutes, had it all programmed for the next morning. Its been years since I've used a standard alarm clock. In college and up until last week I used to wake up to my stereo, which was a blessing and a curse, as the clock automatically played the first track of whatever was in my CD player. So if track 1 happened to be "Dreamweaver", I would wake up in an ever so pleasant mood. On the other hand, one time I accidentally left my "101 Civil War Sound Effects" CD in the player, and woke up to the sound of Confederate warfare... I had to carry around my Hallmark PMS mug all day, ya'll!

Oh, that is good. I'm gonna put this in my cupboard right next to my mug that says "He Who Farts In Church Sits On His Own Pew." And then I'm gonna break off the handle and slit my own throat with it.

OK -- it just hit me that I'm literally writing a love poem to my new CLOCK RADIO. Sigh. I'll make it short.

Unfurling long torah scroll and re-inking ostrich quill with which to finish remainder of post. (Note to self: Get wrists waxed.)

One click of the Cubey's radio, and memories began to flood in. Long drives down sun-splashed Miami highways. Getting into fights with my mother about touching the radio dial while the car was in "Drive". Winning concert tickets by calling in a radio show my freshman year in college... and not caring that they were tickets to see Chaka Kahn and screamed like I just won tickets on Bono's space shuttle. But one memory in partick needed a little more sharing...

When I was a girl, I landed a highly coveted position on an AM radio station in Miami, co-hosting a "talk show for teens" called (my skin is crawling) "Livewire", along with the perky blonde traffic girl from the Fox affilliate named Tiffany. I was getting $30 an hour to gab, and I couldn't feel better about myself. Until the first show, when it became clear nobody, NOBODY, was listening to a teen talk show on AM radio at 9 pm. My poor father would sit in the green room, while Tiffany and I begged and pleaded for people to call in. Inevitably, the phone light would blink, we would rejoice, and it would almost certainly be a 98-year old diabetic who accidentally mashed his colostomy bag up against the buttons on a phone and ended up on AM radio. We would say hello, and then he would just scream really loud. This actually happened.

It's not pretty, but it colostomy a fortune!

One time, we had a guest on named Nancy who was a Super-Vegan. Like vegan to the extreme. So much so that she fed her dog lettuce. When we asked for callers, we were surprised to see the phone light illuminate immediately. On the line was a man, gruff sounding and a little southern, who was there to give Nancy a hard time. He loved meat! He loved hunting, and especially murder! He went on and on about the thrill he got from blowing a bald eagle's brains out, and killing random, innocent animals. He really was quite argumentative, and Nancy basically sat there in catatonic shock. She attempted to argue, but the guy on the line was a total lunatic! He wouldn't let her talk. There were fireworks on the set!

Then it dawned on me. The voice... it sounded familiar. Familial.

It was my father calling from the green room.

I mashed my palms into my eyes and took a deep breath. I looked at Nancy. She was flatlining. I looked at Tiffany. She seemed pretty psyched, the same kinda face she probably makes when traffic was backed up on I-95. I looked up.

After the show, when I walked into the green room for my ride home, my Dad and I looked at each other, and burst out laughing. We laughed all the way home.

That night, Nancy killed herself.

Nancy the Vegan, 1968-1996, R.I.P.

Epilogue: I've been listening to the radio every morning this week, instead of the ol' Today Show routine. And I have noticed a few things: 1. I'm getting my makeup done in half the time; 2. I haven't dreamt about Matt Lauer all week; 3. I'm out the door faster; 4. I really, really, really, really, really cannot stand Campbell Brown; 5. Maybe I should think about going back into radio?; 6. No but seriously, Campbell? Why do you always stand like you're really really freezing cold? It's June and you're standing outside. Ugh. Where's Ann Curry at, ya'll?; and 7. For real, Ann Curry looks exactly like my Grandmother.

"Brr... I'm chilly." -- A blood cell travelling through the atria of Campbell Brown's heart.

If you're still bored, check these out: Spirit Spheres. Can someone say ideal wedding night locale? Stephen Hawking can't.

But also: I feel really bad about the Stephen Hawking joke. But you can relax because he just paralyzed me with his mind.

Finally: Go on job interviews from the comfort of your underpaid cube-job.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Dog v. Snake

Stick around for the end.

Bonus video with surprise ending:

Cat using a toilet

Gross, but the end really gets you.

Update: Jon Friedman had this story to add:
"I was once dog sitting for dayssssss....and then the owner (my friend Todd) showed up to pick up his dog.... and the dog starts doing those heaves, immediately... about 30 of them and vomits all over my rug. And it was totally like 'What the fuck did you do to my dog?'. The heaves wouldn't stop and it was RIGHT AWAY."

Monday, June 19, 2006

All Aboard My Typical Emotional Rollercoaster

Hungary's most famous cinema.

A few months ago, a rarity occurred: A Hungarain movie was playing right here in New York, at the ultra-hip Film Forum. Here is an example of how I would pitch it to my friends:

Me: Hey wanna go to the movies tonight?
Friend: Sure, what do you want to see?
Me: Welllll, there's this amaaaazing movie playing at the Film Forum, it's getting raves...
Friend: Yeah?
Me: Yes, it's in Hungarian.
Friend: Oh. Hmm. Well what is it about?
Me: The Holocaust?
Friend: Oh. Well... Can you hold on a sec? My beeper's going off. (pause) Oh, it's the hospital, my wife is having the baby!
Me: But you're not even marrie--

The movie's name was "Fateless", based on a novel by Imre Kertesz, whose self-hating and blunt account of the concentration camps make it one of the more shocking accounts of the Holocaust. To save this blog post from becoming creepily similar to every paper I wrote in my eighth grade English class, I rented the movie last night, and of course was sick to my stomach for the remainder of the evening. Watching a movie about the Holocaust in the native tongue of all of my Grandparents, all survivors, made this movie particularly hard for me to watch. The fact that one character's dreams was to be back on a street that was two blocks away from where I lived when I studied abroad was just surreal. I'll kinda end there on the movie, but if The Holocaust is your bag (and I know there are klanspeople reading this blog to keep track of my Jew-moves), then check it out.

To change directions completely.

So I call up Annie for our nightly Sunday week rundown, and tell her about the film. She then tells me that before our January trip to Budapest, she rented some Hungarian movie that was supposed to be "groundbreaking"... "groundbreaking", in this case, to be defined as a handful of gang rapes and murders. When trying to find out the name of the film (so I could add it to my Netflix queue, along with my fave gang-rape musical of all time, West Side Story), I came across another Hungarian film... animated... whose name alone had me hooked... Cat City.

Here's the Wikipedia description, and some triv:
The movie opens with a Star Wars style text scroll, which tells the main situation: In year 80 after Mickey Mouse, the mice of Planet X are threatened by humiliation and total apocalypse. The well-organized, fully equipped gangs of evil cats are aiming to wipe out the mouse civizilation totally, not caring for the old conventions between mice and cats. But in the last moment, when the mouse leaders are beginning to consider leaving the planet, a new hope rises...
* The half-eyed boss cat is named "Mr. Teufel", which is "Mr Devil" in German, but Teufel sounds like tejfel in Hungarian, which is one of the favorite titbits of cats, sour cream.

One piece of trivia deserves a special call out:
* The secret password for the mice's counsel is "Egy aprócska kalapocska, benne csacska macska mocska" (pronounced "Edge ah-proe-tschka kala-poe-tschka, benne tchatchka matchka moh-tchka") (meaning "A tiny little hat with a silly cat's dirt in it").

This literally had me rolling on the floor. Say it out loud yourself.

Livin' the thug life in Cat City.

Ok, so obvies now I'm OB-GYN-SESSED with "Cat City". I must own a copy. So I go to to order... which is when I'm confronted with their radically different take on "Cat City":
Cat City is an outdated James Bond spoof supposedly involving cats and mice, but the characters are just humans with animal heads and tails. Although the animation is a bit more polished, this 95-minute feature recalls the worst kidvid shows of the '70s and '80s. One pointless scene follows another as the characters natter in amateurish voices, mistimed gags fall flat, and the inane plot involving plans for the ultimate anticat weapon stumbles to its conclusion. Hispanic viewers will understandably take offense at the stereotypical depiction of the Mexican vampire bats. The jacket calls Cat City the "animated sensation that rocked critics and censors around the world." But except for a few brief shots of a rat in pasties and a G-string, and the possible double-entendre of the inept musical number "Pussy Talk," sung by a cat in baby-doll pajamas, the film would have a hard time qualifying for a PG rating. If Cat City were genuinely shocking, it'd be more fun. -- Charles Solomon

Cat City has now officially turned into my worst nightmare, for all of the bold-faced reasons above. RAT PASTIES!!! IN A CARTOON!!! Although I guess for a country that starts airing its free porn at roughly 3:30 in the afternoon, it isn't that surprising.

However two Amazon reviewers may have changed my mind. First, we hear from Piszi, who says:
I'm an other hungarian, who loves it since childhood. The editorial rewiew absolutely missunderstands it (or the english translation is bad) takeing it too seriously. It's not in James Bond-style, it's funny and light. In wich James Bond-movie could happen, in example, that (in the middle of a battle in a city) the bullets and rockets at a crossover politely stops in the air and waits for the green light? The vampire bats aren't stereotyphicals: after listening their victim's tromphet solo decides to not kill such a talented young mouse, and at the end theye will become a jazz-band. I don't consider it a stereothype :).

OK, Piszi, I see your point.

But what does "A viewer" have to say about it, I wonder?
CAT CITY is a rip-roarin' good time, full of thrills, chills, spills and lotsa hip action!The animation rivals other mega animation companys, and it's a perfect film for viewing either alone or with that special someone. Yow baby!, this kittens' got claws! Grrr! The characters are thoughtful, well written, and at times satarical.These animals rival spy flicks of the 60's and 70's. Cat city is touching, heart warming and action paced. Keeps you guessing until the shocking and suprising finish.A non-stop roller coaster ride!Heart pounding and breathtaking with a good deal of romance too! So if you like urban living or felines or both, this movie is a reel winner! MEOW!

Sigh. The world is full of idiots. I'm exhausted and blatantly frowning. I think I'll just stick to soul-maiming Concentration Campy flicks from now on.

Friday, June 16, 2006

Conversations with Mother, Part 4: Cultural Differences

Friday, on my lunch break, from my cubicle, I dialed mother in Miami for a quick pre-weekend check-in:

Mom: (exasperated) Hello?

Me: Hi.

Mom: Mich?

Me: Yes...

Mom: Hi! Mich, it is so hot here. I'm dying. It is 100 degrees, I can't breathe. I just walked out of the supermarket and even from the door of the supermarket to the car, I feel like I'm gonna faint. Oy my god. Anyway now I'm in the car going to buy some t-chhhina from the Israeli supermarket. And it's Friday, which means all the religious people are gonna be in there pushing, and I won't be able to move. (Door opening) Oy my god! MICH IT IS SO HOT HERE! All I want is some hummus and I'm dyinggggg!!! Oh my god, I can't breathe... I can't breathe! Anyway so I'm off work today, I have a million things to do. I'm gonna buy some tchina, go to the dry cleaners, go home, I have to do some laundry...


Mom: Anyway, so tell me, how are you?


Mom: Mich?

Me: Yeah, I'm here.

(I proceed to tell her about a gift I purchased for a friend's wedding tomorrow, a mini-Cuisinart.)

Me: I was very close to buying this gorgeous red tea kettle from this French company... sounds like Le Corbussier...?

Mom: Le Creuset! They have beautiful things. You know what's nice? They have beautiful dutch ovens, for when you want to keep things warm.

Me: (cracking up.) Do you know what "dutch oven" is slang for?

Mom: No...

Me: When someone farts under a blanket, and then they lift the blanket over another person's head and trap them with a fart smell.

Presumably for things cooked in a dutch oven. By the by, out of all of Pazzin Gazz's books, this one is by far the best.

(This dutch oven explanation takes a good four times of repeating until the concept is understood by her. I should remention I'm in my work cubicle.)

Mom: You know what your father did to me once? We were laying in bed, and he pretended he was going to spit on me. So I went to hide under the covers, and that's when he farted.

Me: Young love.

Mom: One time he asked me to pull his finger. In Israel nobody ever pulled anybody's finger! So I pulled it. And then he farted. That's when I learned what "Pull my finger" means.

Da-da-da da-da da - Honk!

He then fooled the cat, and laughed about it for 48 days. That's mah dad for ya!

p.s. My mother, the very wise and glamorous Judy Collins, will be appearing with me on stage, one night only, on July 25 at "The Rejection Show". Details to follow, but I swear to God if you are to ever see me perform, make it this show. It's called puzzle pieces, people. Falling into place, ya read me? Poor Dad, Mel, will be back in Miami, possibly appearing on stage singing one of his many parody songs, including "Shake It Up, Abey" and "The Hondeler" (sung to: The Wanderer.)


Keeping with the theme of 50 animals doing random shit (see also driving and in casts), here are 50 animals getting hammertimed, smashed, wasties, shittanked, flibble-flarbed, date-raped and drunk.*

*Many of these pictures make me a little uncomfortable, like there was child pornography being filmed a stone's throw away. Something about the "grape and graininess" of the pics themselves. Anyway, it's Friday and I'm dehydrated.

And a dog in a hat for good measure:

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