Was that when Lisa drank the water and began hallucinating?
'Bart, shut up. Lisa, drink the water.'
Family Guy visited the Small World also.
Regarding Christmas music, here is a bit of my journal from last December:
'the goat of Christmas passed' - December 13, 2007
It's nice for me, the customer, to hear the lush piano chords of Vince Guaraldi as I breeze through a store to purchase a targeted gift item. A recent day of shopping found me walking the tinsel-strewn aisles of Garden Ridge. 'I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus' rang out through the store as I walked between the artifical trees. Christmas is typically very happy time for me. Entering the godless realm of American holiday shopping and all its attendant commercialism is treacherous. It's an uncertain spacewalk. It's life among the lions, or rather, lionesses –cougars in crazy purple jogging suits, the likes of which I've never seen in clothing stores.
Rack after rack of glitter-coated plastic junk steadily became a blur. White-haired Sherman tanks in purple jogging suits refused to yield their positions and would not be swayed by my smile. 'Santa Baby' came over the PA and I sensed a transformation taking place. I had reached my limit with the the piped-in carols and contemporary renditions of holiday songs. A bitter, slightly downward, curl formed at the corners of my mouth and I noticed I was walking faster. In an aisle which should have been labled 'Gay New Orleans FuFu Feather Christmas' I felt a wave of revulsion as a patriotic pro-war Christmas in Iraq country song began to play. Goat-bearded jihadists and Toby Keith's America of camouflage and Carhardt jackets had shotgunned and suicide bombed my holiday cheer. My jaw clinched. A hip hop version of 'Little Drummer Boy' began and part of me died.
I pictured myself armed with one of those obscenely large candy canes, blithely bludgeoning everything in my path. Silver glitter stuck to my shoes. Soon I was back in the solitude of my car wondering how many people working retail jobs tumble into insanity each Christmas.
___________
This afternoon I once again trudged into the grey to shop, my first destination: Game Stop, a store dealing solely in electronic game systems. A car pulled beside me as I was gathering my things. From it emerged a pretty young woman with porcelain skin and a head full of lazy auburn curls. She wore a powder blue dress which fit tightly around her very pregnant stomach. No ring adorned her third trimester ring finger.
Her boyfriend rose from the driver's seat and surveyed the parking lot with a pointless scowl. A thick red beard clung to his face like a Seattle squirrel, jutting out at least six inches. I looked at him and took note of his ragged jeans, bandana, and leather jacket worn in the unmistakable, insispid, long-dead grunge style. Inside the store pregnant Dorothy Gale stood next to her fertile ghost of trends past. Rather than grinding out an anthemic 'I'm depressed so I do heroin and write songs in dropped D' song on a real guitar, the red goat was playing Guitar Hero. The stink of countless cigarettes smoked in a small space surrounded the pair like an aura. Smiling at the absurdity of my countrymen's folly, I walked past them. A 30 year-old virgin with a name tag asked if I needed assistance.
American culture is circling the drain, my friends