Period Preaching

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. It is a festivity for all the major social groups: couples, single individuals, and those with eating disorders. For many around the world it is a time to celebrate those who have passed from this life, but for everybody else it is a time to wear the least amount of clothes possible and try to avoid frost bite. Whether it is an overly exposed abundance of flesh or a creepy costume, nothing will scare me this Halloween compared to my recent rendezvous with religion.

I found myself in an unfamiliar chapel for church services. Several laymen expressed their devotion to God and the Holy Writ. The mood was believing and canonical until she made her way to the pulpit.

The slender framed ginger with a forceful chin stood upon the podium and declared, "I became a woman this week." I glanced around to see if anyone else thought that this was a bizarre statement for a 15 year old to be making, but found most of the congregation drooling. She continued.

"I didn't understand why I was bleeding," she announced. I wanted to dissolve into the cushioned pew in horror, shock and awe as she proceeded to inform the throng of innocent worshipers about her loss of vital fluids through the meridional escape route. Panic terrorized my anxiety as an extensive personal account of this young lady's female functions was unfurled and compared to the crimson suffering in the Garden of Gethsemane. I must exclude many of her poignant sentences in fear of being struck by lightening, but the finale came in a spin-chilling aphorism, "He bled for me."

This was by far the spookiest moment of my Halloween holy day.

Amen.

Was Blind, But Now I See

The blind have always held a very special spot in my heart. It was my pleasure to raise two Guide Dogs for the Blind in my youth. Seeing the immense help they gave to their sightless counterparts gave me insight to a world I could never understand. But it was a universe that I decided to explore on Saturday at the Jiffy Lube.

I parked my Buick along side the Jiffy Lube on 5400 South. After taking a deep breath, calming my nerves, I exited the Buick and began stumbling toward the brick building. Groping for the entrance, my fingers touched the door handle and I shuffled into the lobby of the garage. One of the grease monkeys approached me and asked if he could help me. I let him know that I had parked my car on the west side of the building and that I needed him to change my oil. With that, I handed him my keys and felt my way to a chair.

Reverently, quietly, I waited for the man to come back. He opened the door and beckoned for me to follow him. I, of course, ignored him because I was blind. Clearing his throat he muttered, "Mr. Cannon, your car is ready. I'd like to go over what we did today." I stood up and waited for him to come over and escort me, arm in arm, to the computer screen. Keeping my lazy glazed eyes loosely glued to his face, I began tearing up as he said, "You can read here what we changed on your car today." Swallowing every nerve to giggle, my voice quivering I said, "I can't see."

The poor man who was waiting on me shrank when he realized his blunder against the blind. Reading each and every word on the screen took the articulately challenged man an eternity and I soaked up each and every moment of it! Finishing the check list, I took his arm and let him guide his visionless patron to the awaiting Buick.

"Are you sure you don't need some help? Someone to drive you home?" he repeatedly asked. To which I assured him, "I do this all the time."

Feeling my way into the car, I slid my body into the driver's seat with the grace of a sightless swan and buckled up. Pushing on the gas and break one after another, the sedan lurched forward with amazing gumption for such an old girl. "HEY STOP!" screamed the lube man, but it was too late. I slammed on the gas, spun the steering wheel and the tires screamed as I barreled away from that Jiffy Lube and onto amaurotic freedom.

Tropical Storm Lee

Tropical Storm Lee has ravaged the shores of Louisiana as Mother Nature continues her bizarre menstruation cycle this summer. Chaos ridden and draped with washed up seaweed, the relief efforts have begun to clean up Lee's wake. But there is another Lee that strikes fear in the hearts of the innocent, the peaceful office staff and pocket sized pygmies throughout the Rocky Mountain West.

We recently installed a new printer in the office where I pretend to work. The genius tech guy decided that it would best suit the office staff to place the over sized paper producer directly outside of my office door. Poor choice.

As I briskly exited my luxury suite, I always walk quickly and with purpose so that onlookers think I am occupied and unapproachable, my wide set hips clipped the fancy font fabricator and flung the five folder trays through the air. The whole office stopped and starred as I froze mid-mishap.

In my best angry voice I said, "This junk is always getting in my way!" With a sheepish tone that would have swooned Little Bo Peep, Hellewell said, "Sorry, I will have the printer moved." To which I promptly replied, "No, no I was talking about my bum."

Looks like our own Lee tempest has hit the office coast line: Please evacuate the area and avoid airborne articles previous attached to printers.

The "Right" Song

I was recently asked to perform at my little brother Stinky' wedding. With all the sincerity of my heart I began searching for just the "right" song to capture the love of this developing duo of devotion. The following paragraph is littered with links to my failed list of possible pieces:

The Police's magic melody of "Every Breath You Take" is a popular early 80's tune that might appear appealing as an aria for the wedding of a creepy stalker. If stalking isn't your flavor, perhaps "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion will be able to capture the essence of death and love. And if for some bizarre reason you don't want a funeral piece performed at your nuptial ceremony, perhaps the ulta romantic lines of "When I'm 64" by the Beatles will suit your ceremony better.

And then I found it: The perfect hymn to encapsulate the passion, the purity, the eternal pining for each other's heart. Like a cherry atop a mount of heavy whipped cream, like the chipotle jalapeno relish upon a greased up hot dog, like a large bird turd on a newly washed Buick, "Like A Virgin" by Madonna is the finale to a life of celibacy for these two stalwart saplings. Thank you Madonna for providing me with this beautiful ballad and thank you Stinky for providing me with such a fabulous captured audience to croon to.

The Secret of Life

Four steps to achieving the secret of life:

1) Click on this link :
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWG3CyDw90o
2) Watch this video :
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWG3CyDw90o
3) Comment on the YouTube video :
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWG3CyDw90o
4) Share this video with everyone you know :
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWG3CyDw90o

Haunting Scars of Our Youth

When did Donald Trump first acquire his bouffant hair style? Is it reminiscent of his awkward adolescence? When did Lady Gaga first acquire her desire to wear meat? Is it a shadow of an overly carnivorous father figure? When did Adolph Hitler first acquire his square shaped mustache? Is it in memory of his overly masculine mother?

These inquires become the hinge on our window of memory that, when opened, allows us to see the haunting scars of our youth. What moment defined who we would be for the next 20, 40, or 80 years? Was it an epic failure that rocketed you into a successful career as a social worker? Or, perhaps you experienced a life changing success in your junior year of high school that, like Billy Ray Cyruss, left you with an impressive mullet? I recently witnessed this inspiring junction in the life of a young man.

While tutoring at a local elementary school, I watched the throng of 2nd graders bustling about in their microcosm of playground politics and classroom crushes. Each jockeying for their own chance to shine, one boy stood out. He was a sturdy chap with the flash of fire in his eyes and the smell of chocolate cake on his breath. Wearing an adult XL sized Cub Scout shirt busting at the seems, he paraded around his peers with the pomp of a perfectly plumed peacock. He looked hungry for an adventure, starving for a thrill, famished for fun. And then his eyes landed upon the bent over view of the student teacher Ms. Bells: his target was found.

With the stealth of a bloated walrus, he clamored his way atop the nearest work table. I could see the momentum building in his stocky body has he began a great squatting movement on the shaking desk. With one strenuous heave of his hefty human Ho Ho, this proud Cub launched himself skyward. The frail frame of the momentarily stationary student teacher did not stand a chance against the rotund mass of the airborne child.

The look of triumph rested on his glistening face as he stood over his flattened victim. This was his moment, his formalizing announcement to the world that he would be someone special: the next Rock, the next Hulk Hogan, the next President of the United States of America. His future was cemented for him in one glorious body thrust that took an authority figure to the ground. This 8 year old became king of his own mountain. What future will be haunted by this scar of his youth? Only time will tell.

My Tale

Charles Dickens penned, "I have sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming by and by into our lives." Long hours have I sat, listening, listening to a thunderous throng of thespians soaking up each other's excitement to a level of saturation. And for that abundance of life, I would like to thank each of the individuals who have added to the synergy of my Tale.

"A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature in constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other." Listening to each of your words, listening to each of your actions, and most importantly, listening to each of your love has been a treasured secret and mystery for me to explore. Through the secret places of our hearts, we have shared the vulernabilities that allow for pure understanding to occur. Your love has been the key to opening the door to this story, to our story. Thank you for letting me listen.

Dickens wrote that Dr. Manette would often lapse back into memory and experience things "incomprehensible to those unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three hundred miles away." I already find myself craving your "shadow" that you cast upon me. No one outside of our production can understand the culminating adventure that we took together. Your shadow is a comfort, a safe place in my life. Thank you for letting me be in your shadow.

Together we wrote our own Tale these past few months. Each line was written by the laughter, the tears, the drama, the hard work and the passion each of us have given freely. Freely is a poor word choice; not a single one of us can walk away from this family without acknowledging our investment in each other. The price we have paid through listening and loving each other will be an unremitting shadow in our lives.

Thank you for being mine.

Excuse Me?

A trio of recent events can be categorized under the title: Excuse Me?

The first Excuse Me? is brought to you by my fleshy friend, Brenda. Brenda and I met in a tragic treadmill accident involving her passing out, flying off the belt, denting the wall and me hyperventilating due to laughter. The cementing of our friendship occurred when Brenda positioned herself behind me during a squatting exercise. A low grunt escaped her pursed lips as she looked at my rump and said, "Your bum makes me crave cinnamon rolls!"

How does one respond to such a carnal statement? Excuse Me?

A second Excuse Me? came onto the scene during a recent filming of a flash mob. I was dressed as an innocent janitor who was called in to clean up the popcorn that had been thrown by an angry couple. Erupting into song, I bellowed through my part as the unsuspecting patrons were confused and delighted. At the end of the number, the performers dispersed back into the crowd and I moved several tables over and began nonchalantly sweeping again. At this point a senior member of the softer sex waved at me and said, "Will you clean this crap up?" motioning to the disarray of Diet Coke, french fries and crumpled napkins. I stared at her blankly. Why in the world would I clean up her mess? Following my confused silence the second question came, "Do you speak English?"

How does one respond to such a racist statement? Excuse Me?

Lastly, the third Excuse Me? exploded onto the stage this very night. It is my pleasure to perform at a professional theater nestled between the freeway and low income housing developments. I have been plagued by fairly abusive bowel issues as of late and made a mad dash off stage, through the empty lobby of the theater and into the abandoned restroom in hopes to avoid any soiled skivvies. The bass release that occured was of epic earth moving proportion somewhere in the key of B minor. As I opened my eyes after the reverbaration had passed, I saw through the crack of the stall the owner of the theater standing at the sink washing his hands. His was a look of awe and horror.

How does one respond to such a startled look? Excuse Me?

Gluteus Maximus Pile Driver

The United States led an international conversation on Sunday to force President Hosni Mubarak to listen to the Egyptian people's demands for democracy. But there was little indication that the wrinkled dictator would budge, at least for now.

With all this confusion plaguing the pyramid strewn country, I feel that it is my duty to give the people of Egypt credit for their courage and dancing style. Thank Ra and Orsis that the Egyptians created the "Egyptian" dance move. If only I had followed in Pharaoh's footsteps and done the "Egyptian" this weekend, then an innocent life would have been left unmarred.

The scene unfolds as I was dancing on a VIP party platform several feet above the club dance floor. Please do not misinterpret that statement by painting a picture of me dancing atop a table, thank you. When the song "Apple Bottom Jeans" exploded through the sound system, my body took flight into what one may call modern art, a mating dance, or straight up booty dancing.

Unknown to me was the distance between my feet and the edge of the stage. As my body reacted to the intense beat of the song, it did a fairly common dance move, The Drop It Like It's Hot. As my rear end descended downward in a swift dropping motion it collided with a very solid object. Startled, I turned to find a large black woman laying on the ground directly under my bum. My fanny had flattened this female to the floor!

It was a run by rumping. Booty bump, tush push, rump thump, hindquarter sneak attack, it does not matter what you call it; I took that poor girl out with one gluteus maximus pile drive!

So when life gets dark and dreary in Egypt or wherever you may be, don't forget that some crazy white boy might plop his fanny down on your unsuspecting head. Hey, maybe the Rump Thump can be the dance move that gets President Hosni Mubarak out of office!

Somnambulism: A friend maker

Today, I am prepared to reveal an extremely personal piece of information. According to the National Sleep Foundation, I, Lee P.Cannon, suffer from a behavioral disorder. Now this may not come as a huge shock to those of you who have had the pleasure of being exposed to my disorder, but to the innocent reader who believes that I am merely a victim of awkward experiences, this may shake your confidence in my mental stability. I am a survivor of somnambulism.

Somnambulism is a behavior disorder that originates during deep sleep and results in walking or performing other complex behaviors while sleeping. In layman terms, I am a sleep walker.

Now sleepwalking might seem like a great theme for a 1940's horror film, in which the male antagonist butchers his lover Lucille with the blunt end of a plunger while "sleepwalking". It has also been the rationalization for many sex-capades throughout history (see http://www.sleepsex.org/ for more details). But for me, sleepwalking is simply a way of life.

Recently, I have taken to stripping my body down to the prenatal state while sleeping and then taking adventures beyond the bedroom. When I wake, instead of being in my plush pillow top queen bed, I will find myself sprawled out in the arm chair, snuggled in the tub, or sitting on my kitchen floor: always naked. This nude awakening has always been a welcome surprise until it became a public affair.

The last time my tired eyes opened to find my exposed body in an odd location I was propped up against the railing of my patio. Some patios might be prime locations for nude nocturnal narratives, but my patio is down town Salt Lake City. Located 36 inches away from a fairly busy street lay bare the Lee Cannon modern art exhibit.

I have no excuse for my public display of flesh, but only good has come of the event. I was expecting a phone call from the police informing me that I would be appearing before a judge to be sentenced for my indecent exposure ticket. But instead, I received 16 friend requests on Facebook that day. Sixteen complete strangers from Salt Lake City happen to add me in the wee hours of the morning during and after my most recent au naturel stroll. Thank you Somnambulism, you truly are the best friend maker.

Ending 2010 On A High Note

In the light of the season of goals, lifestyle change and over eating, I ventured into the world of retail therapy to rehabilitate my need for radiant raiment. Little did I know that on this innocent outing I was to be visited by own Ghost of Christmas Past, much like Charles Dickens' classic character Ebenezer Scrooge.

The spirit came to me in the form of a store clerk. A young man in his late teens with fairly poor hygienic qualities, the Ghost of Christmas Past looked at me with a quizzical excitement. When I acknowledged his eagerness for social intercourse he bleated out, "Are you Lee Cannon?" This caught me off guard, but my affirmative answer led him to explain, "I was you for Halloween last year!"

Normal children dress up as vampires, monsters, Hilary Clinton or mummies on Halloween night, but this pimpled adolescent chose to get gussied up as Lee Cannon. I could not decide if I should be flattered or offended at his outward adoration for the LeeLee of my youth. The high road was taken, and I graciously accepted his declaration with a hesitant, "Thanks?"

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and I am proud to support future generations using this photo as the raw material for a spectacular Lee Cannon Halloween costume. Thanks 2010 for ending on a high note!


P.S. My favorite reaction to this piece so far has been from Claudia Bigler, "I can't think of another local mortal that this would happen to. Infamy has reached our little world."

Middle Aged Mishaps

I don't know how they find me, but they do. The few and far between freaks find me. I am convinced that at some point I forgot to uncheck the little box of an online survey that allowed Nancy Pelosi and the DNC to distribute all my private information to the mentally ill, maniacs and middle aged women of America. Now, I enjoy a thrilling adventure as much as the next young business professional, but honestly, the barrage of bizarre busty beauties is taking its toll on my sanity. I offer three brief examples of this recent onslaught of the middle aged women mania.

The Date: I was innocently casual dating this woman who I thought to be in her late 20's. After our third outing I received a call from a girl who said, "Lee, I am getting engaged! And since you are seeing my mother, I thought I would ask you to sing at my reception!" Seeing your mother?! Thank you Middle Aged Woman #1, I have now acquired an age limit in all aspects of dating.

The Party: I was innocently attending a costume party over the holidays. Without warning a very large middle aged woman wearing cheetah print teetered over me. As her 400 pound frame collapsed upon me, I could not move. The crowded room could not hear my muffled screams for help. Thank you Middle Aged Woman #2, I have now acquired a fear of inflatable toys.

The Store: I was innocently shopping for nutrients the other day when an unsolicited middle aged woman approached me. She greeted me with a smile and said, "You look like Jude Law . . . only fatter." This is not socially acceptable. No one should be allowed to comment on complete stranger's excess body fat. Thank you Middle Aged Woman #3, I have now acquired an eating disorder.

I am fully prepared for a break in the middle aged mishaps. Please, if you see me being followed by a middle aged woman, no matter how friendly or innocent she may appear, scream bloody murder and tell me to RUN!

My Own Bathsheba

David of Old, he who pummeled the vertical over achiever, Goliath, found himself king of all Israel. One night, Dave was strolling about his lofty palace rooftop and "from the roof he saw a woman washing herself, and the woman was very beautiful to look upon." (2 Samuel 11:2) This yummy morsel was known as Bathsheba. One thing led to another and soon Bath was heavy with Davey's baby.

Current pop culture would have us believe that you must have been spotted fornicating upon a rooftop to be anybody now a days in Hollywood. However, in my recently acquired hobby of installing steel roofs, I do not recommend doing any strenuous activity upon any rooftop. In fact, I, like my fellow psalm writer, have spied my own Bathsheba from atop a roof.


My Bathsheba must have forgotten to read her Old Testament, as she came out onto the adjacent porch in nothing but a skimpy bikini clinging to her 93 year old not-so-beautiful body. I tried to categorize her body type as she waved at me, her arm flab flapping in the wind. She did not fit the ectomorph, mesomorph or endomorph body types, but instead mastered the old pear body type featuring fairly small shoulders that descend into well rounded out hips and a rotting bottom.


The sun reflecting off her glowing white skin caught my eyes like the flashes of the paparazzi cameras documenting the lusty rooftop affair. I was stunned by the public display of wrinkled flesh. But to relieve your churning stomach, I withstood my Davidic temptations, as strong as they were, and giggled my way down the ladder. With each downward step I lost any chance to getting my name in the headlines, but at least there won't be a chapter in 2 Samuel describing my adultry with that aged angel.

Public Restrooms: Turd Terrorism

Public restrooms were created as a center for those seeking sanctuary from the pressures of their bowels. Dating back to the early Babylonian empire, public restrooms are an important piece of our hygiene history. Though they have relieved the heavy burdens of our bowels, public restrooms have never been given a great place of reverence in our society's heart. Dr. Bindeswar Pathak, Ph.D., D.Litt. presented the following explanation of poop's unpopular position at the International Symposium on Public Toilets held in Hong King, "Unlike body functions like dance, drama and songs, defecation is considered very lowly."

Thanks to Dr. Pathak, we now know that pooping, like dancing and singing, is an under appreciated talent. From the first few moments on the stage of life to our closing acts before the curtain falls, poop is a part of us. However, like any athletic activity, pooping requires skill and a life time of practice. The public restroom system, unfortunately, has become the practice field for pooping.

We have all rushed into a restroom with nothing but a prayer in our heart that an empty stall awaits us. But when we find that chance vacant porcelain throne, 9 out of 10 times, an amateur performer has previously plundered the purity of the potty. In essence, you cannot use the soiled, clogged or moist rimmed toilet without fear of getting a rare butt fungus.

I was feeling adventurous recently and, risking a communicable disease, I walked into a small public restroom located in the heart of the Beehive State. As I pushed through the loose hinged door, a picture was painted before my eyes that I will never forget. Balanced on the edge of the urinal sat a young boy, pooping. I was in shock. For a few seconds I stood, confused, before I burst into laughter.

My robust giggling may have caught the youngster off guard, but his perched pooping did more than catch me off guard, it left me searching for air. His dismount from the lofty urinal ledge was graceful beyond his years. This young boy defied the words of Dr. Brindeswar Pathak, Ph.D., D.Litt., when he brought defecation out of lowly obscurity and threw a funny finesse to fecal firing.

10 Pet Peeves of the Week

10. Exposed Thongs: Whenever I see an exposed thong, I get the urge to use it like an elastic band, slapping the exposed tender skin. For you own safety, put it away.

9. Food in Facial Hair: How long has it been there? Are you saving it for later?

8. Over Eager Contributors: We all know them; the self proclaimed experts. We cannot afford your two cents worth.

7. Obese Bikinis: Great that you are comfortable with your 500 pound body, but the rest of the world just isn't. If you are looking to purchase a bikini in an extended size, please, reconsider.

6. Shushers: When someone "shushes" me, it is by far louder than any conversation I was having at the moment.

5. Midget Obsession: When others do not share my passion for little people.

4. Global Warming Propaganda: If I hear one more weather man talk about the proof of global warming every time the temperature gets above 90 degrees, then I will go out and produce more greenhouse gas.

3. Butt-Crack Parts: It is not natural to part one's hair straight down the middle. The two hemispheres divided by the great crevasse does not lend itself to beauty in any form.

2. Eating Loudly: Smacking of the lips, chonking on gum, or slurping cereal deserves corporeal punishment.

1. Public Fingernail Clipping: Clipping one's nails is a private matter. I do not want to hear the cutting of your germ infested keratin.

If You Feel Pain

The room is dark; shadows shield the faces of those sitting in the vulnerable circle. Each individual has come to admit their addiction, their fault. Admitting to the addiction is the first step in the recovery process.

"My name is Lee, and I am a recovering fatty."

Over the past two years, I have dropped a significant amount of weight. I hate to run, but it is the only way I can fit into my pants! I am a firm believer that running was created as God's punishment for fat people. And I am one of them.

But today, as I ran, I found a passage on the holy script of the treadmill. It read, "Cease to exercise if you feel pain, faint, dizzy or short of breath." I feel pain, faint, dizzy and short of breath EVERY time I am on the treadmill!

It was like a prayer had been answered. I can now walk guilt free away from evil that is running with a clear conscious.

Please, Do Rain On My Parade

The stunning musical theatre hall of fame melody Don't Rain On My Parade, from Isobel Lennart's Funny Girl, featuring Barbra Streisand's spectacular voice, will make any heart want to take up a flag, march or ride on a float. If you do, I am afraid I cannot be your friend. Parades are society's worst forms of public torture and I, as a responsible citizen, will not support such cruelty.

I would rather attend a funeral any day than go to a parade. Funerals celebrate the lives of deceased loved ones with song and praise. Parades celebrate the lives of the living with hurling candy and horse droppings.

The numb bum, product of sitting uncomfortably for hours watching ancient couples polka dancing in pastel fringe on passing floats, is only one of the many negative side effects of parade goers. A sweaty brow and a cherry sunburn accompany the numb bum in the Parade Watchers Package.

If you do choose the low road and attend a parade, please keep your eyes peeled for the large balloon cartoon charaters. Though the gigantic caricature might seem colorful and a short term shade source, these monsterous choking hazards, if set free, could be devastating to migratory birds and passing aircraft.

Ms Streisand, you might have had it right when you sang about the bruising life candy and the sun being a burning ball of butter. But, please, do rain on my parade. That way I won't have to attend the inhumane community affliction of any more parades.

Sunburn: The Other Red Meat

I love meat. When the craving for a steak hits me at 2 a.m., I must bend to the urge. Perhaps it is a primal instinct to kill? A sticky iron deficiency situation? Or I could be entering the third trimester of my pregnancy? Just like many hankerings, my meat fixation is unexplainable, irrational and consuming.

This need for red meat overcame me the other day. It was coupled with a second desire: to sun bathe. In a moment ignorant of logic, I stripped down and began grilling a juicy steak. Barbecue grills are very hot metal objects, much like the molten balls of flaming gas that pop off sizzling meat. Between the heat of the beef, the BBQ and the blazing sun, my body became a roasted chunk of charred flesh.

I do not recommend BBQ-ing in the nude. I cannot endorse this act of culinary adventurism. The products of this unfortunate event were a perfectly browned tenderloin, a lobster red body, and one of the most awkward situations on a date.

My skin was beginning the annual post burn flaking process when my date asked if she could peel my skin off. I was startled, confused and shocked by her proposal and simply staring at her. She took this silence as the green light and eagerly began striping my body of its top layer of skin.

This is not socially acceptable.

I may have bizarre cravings for delicious meats and to have the tanned sun-kissed look, but peeling a person's skin on a first date is a desire that should never be shared or acted upon.

The Rapunzel Dilema

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down thy golden hair," has been chanted at every child's bedside by weary eyed mothers since the turn of the 18th century. Long, thick, beautiful hair has been given princess status now for over 300 years. Even pop goddess, Lady Gaga, paid tribute to the lush locks of the towered dame when she dressed as Rapunzel in her 2009 Monster Ball Tour version of "Paparazzi". My own desire to run my fingers through an entangled mane of hair follicles was completely destroyed when I saw a woman with such hair exiting a public restroom.

The little voice inside my head questioned, "What doe she do with that while she poops?"

From that moment on I became a supporter of the short female hair cut. I do not want to run my fingers through any hair that has been brushed along the backside of a toilet or has had the possibility of being dragged through fecal matter. Rapunzel, I do not care how golden thy hair may be, please, cut it!

Adopt-A-Dwarf Foundation

Thank you for calling Adopt-A-Dwarf Foundation, this is Thelma speaking. Here at Adopt-A-Dwarf, we seek to fulfill the dreams of individuals with smaller than normal statures and those average sized Americans who wish to adopt said little folk.

Today, we have three options of compact companions for your viewing pleasure.

Please press the #1 button on your telephone key pad if you are interested in our sturdy Mountain Midget.

Thank you for pressing #1. The Mountain Midget is a pocket sized champion of the hills. With sturdy legs, the Mountain Midget is perfect for long backpacking adventures and carrying heavy equipment. Backpack not included.

Please press the #2 button on your telephone key pad if you are interested in our exotic African American Midget.

Thank you for pressing #2. The African American Midget is a perfectly proportioned person built for display. With flashy or elaborate jewelry, the African American Midget is a perfect fit for those seeking a teensy-weensy conversation starter. Bling Bling not included.

Please press the #3 button on your telephone key pad if you are interested in our international Irish Midget.

Thank you for pressing #3. The Irish Midget is an undersized ginger friend for all occasions. Often mistaken for a leprechaun, the Irish Midget is known for being lucky, liking potatoes and performing traditional Riverdance routines. Jig not included.

These three options of lovable flesh nuggets can be yours by simply filling out an on-line application. Your application will be reviewed by members of the Adopt-A-Dwarf Foundation and Little People of America board members. If selected, you will become a candidate to making a little person's dreams come true.

Thank you for calling Adopt-A-Dwarf.