We Spiked the Punch, So We Think We Can Dance

The Funasaurus thinks I should write about my unnatural excitement for the upcoming season of So You Think You Can Dance.

I say, no, I shan't write about my “unnatural excitement,” because that's just silly. It's silly, because it's the most natural thing in the world. Young adults doing skippy little foxtrots and waltzes and hip hop in ways I could only dream of? It's SO much better than Dancing With Celebrities Whose Days Have Long Since Been Over. The pure skill, the uniqueness of the routines, the slight humility... it's all so much better!

Plus, American Idol is almost over, and I want to start a new weekly dinner and T.V. routine with our fabulous neighbors (hi, Leah!) because it forces us to cook instead of going to Subway for the third time this week. Last week I even made scallops, and no one died, or choked, or anything!

Last night I was feeling a little down, and searching for positive reinforcement from The Funasaurus, who is always willing to comply, as long as the Broncos or Scrubs are not on. So we're lying in bed, and he said I should be happy because I'm, “Fantabulous” and while I can hardly disagree, I laughed it off, because the editor in me was like, “Um, not so sure of the grammatical correctness of, 'Fantabulous'.” So I went to pick his nose, a little something I do just to annoy the crap out of him after he's been nice.

I know how to woo 'em, baby.

So as he pulled my still-booger-free finger away from his face, The Funasaurus looked at me gravely and said, “But THAT is why you're not fantasmigoric.”

“Fantasmi...? ... I'm not?”

He shook his head.

“But you are?”

“Baby. Of course I'm fantasmigoric. I'm drinking fantasmigoric punch,” he explained.

* * * * *

If any of you need to up your fantasmigoric quotient, apparently The Funasaurus is the man to see. Maybe he'll let you have some of his punch.