An Uncelebrated Popcorn Day

Guys, I did it again. National Popcorn Day was yesterday. 

[You remember our cast of characters from last year, don't you? They're just as disappointed.]

Yes, January 19th, the day that should have been spent popping popcorn and blissfully throwing it at unsuspecting passerby, the day that should have been filled with a little extra pizazz and a lot of extra salt, NATIONAL POPCORN DAY was once again completely ignored by me, its biggest fan. I spent the day doing stupid non-celebratory things like grocery shopping and working and making Tater Tot Hotdish.

I apologize to all my readers, I apologize to this country, but most of all, I apologize to myself because I’m a narcissist. 

I want to go into my cupboards and apologize to the four mini-bags of popcorn in there, but I CAN’T EVEN LOOK THEM IN THE EYE RIGHT NOW.

I feel the need to apologize to people on the street for not attacking them with popcorn yesterday, BUT THEY WON’T UNDERSTAND. 

I’ve already created three alarms on my computer for January 19th 2013, BUT MOST LIKELY THE WORLD WILL END BY THEN AND I’LL NEVER GET TO CELEBRATE MY BLOG’S NAMESAKE. 

This must not happen again. Next year, on January 19th, which is a Saturday so you should all be available (even you Canadian ones), we will have a party big enough to cover all the sins and transgressions of Popcorn Days Past. I will dress up as a giant popcorn kernel and tackle people in downtown Minneapolis. My hipster artist friends and I will create a whimsical stop-motion video of the life of a man who loves popcorn and rides a giraffe-sized bicycle around searching for it. I will record the official Popcorn Day song, which will be sold on iTunes for all my Faithful Follower(s) and their friend(s) to purchase and wake up to in the morning. And all will be right with the world. Next year, baby. 

In the meantime, go back to the very first post this blog ever had and have a mini-celebration of the new holiday I just created for people like me:

See you next year at the party. 

The Centennial (which actually means 100 YEARS, but I don’t care that I’m using it incorrectly. Anyway…)

I’ve been waiting to write anything for this, my 100^th POST, and put it online for fear that it wouldn’t be big enough for all the splendor and glory of this monumental day. This post should be—pardon my use of such a common word of this generation—EPIC. I’m talking a moon-landing-ticker-tape-parade-erect-a-statue-in-my-honor kind of post, people. I’ve already put up 99 good ones; it’s time for EPIC.  

[This picture isn't fully necessary, but it felt really good to draw. What can I say? I dream big on special days.]

But, given that I haven’t posted for a week and a half, I figure I should postpone the world-saving, rally-inducing, room-key-throwing post for now and tell you about a dream I had yesterday while I was taking a nap. For only an hour, my brain packed a lot in.

I was working at a doggy daycare. Who knows what influenced me to dream about that, Christie Roberts. As I was cleaning the waiting room, I noticed that Sandy, a friendly yellow lab, had gotten out of the kennel room.  I gently led her over to the door that had been left open and watched as she trotted over to Bunker, a black lab. A woman came up to me and said, “Aren’t they cute? They’re married.”

It did not seem necessary to question this comment about canine matrimony.

I was just about to close the door when the lights darkened in the kennel room. Then up came risers filled with cheering and picture-taking crowds of humans, and a ring circled around Sandy and Bunker, who donned boxing gloves on their front paws. Rearing up on their back legs, they began to box.

ME: Whoa, these dogs box?

WOMAN NEXT TO ME: Yeah. They say it’s really therapeutic for their marriage. Once a week, they just start going at it. Like dogs, hahahah.

ME: That’s funny.

Allow me to mention my memories of what I saw in this dream. The dogs didn’t necessarily look like dogs with boxing gloves. Like maybe….this:

 

No, they looked like an airbrushed painting of dogs with hairy, human bodies boxing, the kind that artists who have no artistic integrity paint and then sell at the mall next to pictures of Dale Earnhardt and American flag-decaled motorcycles painted in the same style. Something like this…

[Dear Artist, 

Don't you feel like you're kind of limiting your audience to dog-loving boxing fans who have no concept of art or originality? Or do you think that this is reminiscent enough of the cliché poker-playing dogs painting that people will actually buy it and put it in their suburban basement game rooms next to their foosball tables and unused NordicTracks?

Just saying.

Love,

Brian]  

Artistically, it was pathetic. But I dismissed that because, hey, two married dogs are lovingly duking it out in my doggy daycare.

ME: Wow. I wish I could talk to them about their marriage.

WOMAN: Well go ahead then!

Suddenly I was transported into Tim and Jill Taylor’s living room on the set of Home Improvement. And it happened just like the way the old episodes would go to commercial—each chunk of the surrounding scene flew off the screen with a sound effect while that chromatic descending music played...starting with the flute, and then with the full band...Bee dee tee teedle-ee dee dee, dah dah, dah dah, dah dah, dah dah…bum bum BUM! (Tim’s guttural man noise.)

I’m guessing you all know what I’m talking about.  

And there I was, sitting across from Tim the Toolman Taylor and his wife, talking to them about their marriage. This is a paraphrase of how the conversation went:

TIM: Oh, blah blah blah. Women blah blah. Men can do much better blah blah. Ah can’t stand ‘em. Blah. Jill’s the worst. Blibbity blah blah.

ME: [Smiling, but considering punching him in the teeth for being so chauvinistic.]

JILL: Do you want me to tell you what’s the problem with Tim?

ME: Sure. [Wanting to see their trademark bickering…considering whipping out my cell phone to take a picture.]

JILL: See that handle on his back?

ME: Um, yeah. [Suddenly confused to see an actual handle coming out of Tim’s back.]

JILL: Give it a pull!

Tim then turned and allowed me to take the handle into my hand.  Then, just like a seatbelt, I pulled out a long, thick ribbon filled with many insults in bold block letters about Tim the Toolman Taylor. I stopped to read one.

“The only people that Google Tim Taylor are Google People.” 

And then I woke up.

I’m not even going to try to look deeper into that one.

Blogiversary

A year ago today I created Popcorn Day, my beloved blog. [Looks blurrily into the distance.] Oh, how things have changed! When once I had no followers, I now have 24 (and some who are too afraid to push the "Follow" button)! When once I had a plain white background, I figured out how to edit my HTML code and I now have popcorn! When once I had no need whatsoever to be a Blog of Note, now it’s my only obsession! Where would I be without my Popcorn Day?!

[While I was popping a small amount of perfect popcorn kernels over the stove, they kept popping all over the place and my dog ate most of them.]

Anyway.  I’m glad you’re reading my blog. Because I like writing it. To many more years! [Raises his bowl of popcorn and dorkily imagines a crowd of people wearing tuxes and dresses also raising theirs. He steps off the podium and the crowd goes wild. Then he crowd surfs as the hired band plays Surfin’ USA and everyone laughs and joyfully cries as they carry him across the room while fireworks shoot somewhere in the distance. Then there’s a sentimental moment when most of them realize, Wow, this blog has really touched me. And it’s been a whole year! And Mr. Google comes and awards him a trophy that says BLOG OF NOTE and a giant check for all the money he’s ever needed. Then Oprah, Barack Obama, and Albus Dumbledore pick him up on their shoulders and crowds via satellite from his hometown, The White House, and Zimbabwe cheer as the song from the Where the Hell is Matt video plays. Confetti. Slow-motion. Shooting stars. And popcorn.]