Curb your enthusiasm.

Now this is a very funny show. No argument there. But it's also an affliction. I know this.

I am a member and president of too much enthusiasm.

There is no known cure. Only constant reminders to "Curb your enthusiasm," "Calm down," "You are a spaz," "There's no dancing in here." Although I appreciate the constructive criticism, I'd like to point out that enthusiasm is appreciated in other cultures, in faraway places, distant lands, populated by easily excitable folk. I should move there.

In the meantime, I reject this curbature on my enthusiasm. I can't help it. I'm a victim. It's genetics.

Please send your donations to: Shiny Penny, Curb Your Enthusiasm Fight For a Cure.

Thank you.

Kick. Push.

So I'm not blind. In case you were fraught with worry. The UFO is still within sight however. Prognosis not so good for the hypochondriac. But I'm still kicking and pushing on through.

Speaking of which, I'm listening to Lupe Fiasco and I'd like to take a short moment to appreciate.

Did you hear that? It was a pregnant pause.

Awesome. Thanks for listening in and for all your letters of concern, concerning my sight. I was really touched.

Big love,
Shiny Penny

I believe, UFO.

This may in fact be my last post. I know. It's upsetting. Think how I feel for a second.

So, I'm seeing things. In the right eye. A "floater". I wasn't initially concerned three weeks ago when said foreign object invaded my vision. True, I did reach for the elusive fuzzy but was unable to capture it within my tiny palm, which is just about the time I started to freak out.

This particular UFO looks like a tiny tiny hairball and it moves like a tiger. Fast. I had sort of resigned myself to this special thing floating around my eye. And then I read up about it on WebMD.

I'd like to warn you about WebMD. If you have even a touch of hypochondria or general paranoia, stay away from the WebMD. This site is like a hungry parasite feeding on all your insecurities. Look up "flu" and you may discover you contracted ebola. I innocently researched my floater and was shocked and dismayed to learn I may have "retinal detachment" which requires SURGERY.

Calm down for a minute. I made an appointment with Dr. Magoo but I can't say the receptionist was all too concerned. I thought about whipping out my secret knowledge of "retinal detachment" but vetoed that decision.

As if all this trauma weren't enough, then I learn a good friend of mine has several floaters. Has had them for years.

Hold the phone, Buck Jones.

You can probably tell that I'm fairly worked up about losing my sight, especially after that other eye doctor compared my eyes to mangoes. So I'm going to stop staring at this screen and researching my fate. Keep your eyes crossed for me, puppies.

MOVE! Marlboro Man

As some of you may know, I love my laundromat. Many a story has been woven around the happenings at said wash & dry. Yesterday was no exception.

Upon entering, I noticed a funk but couldn't determine the exact funk source. There was a curious man in a high trucker-style cap and flannel shirt but I sniffed around him and gave him the negativo. So I'm washing. I'm washing. I'm washing. And I can't help but watch this man. He's taken his shirt off and put on another flannel shirt.

(Pause for station break. It was 77 degrees yesterday. Not necessarily flannel-wearing weather.)

I watch this man walk outside where he has a large shopping cart parked with all manner of neatly organized bags. I did notice he had nice toenails. No lie. Really. So there he is outside with his carton of whole milk. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that. He had a quart of whole milk with him. That could have been what first attracted my attention. He takes long gulps from his carton. It was a hot day -- I guess milk can be refreshing. He then lights up a cigar. I couldn't even make this up, it's so good. He's smoking his cigar and drinking whole milk.

Let me just repeat that for good measure.

He's smoking his cigar and drinking whole milk. From the carton.

As this whole scene was being played out, I couldn't help but think of the Ludacris song "Move". You know the one. Or the video maybe. Luda has these crazytown big arms and walks down the street, knocking shit over with his posse of beefy ladies.

This man reminded me of that video for whatever reason. And then I thought, this guy could totally take the Marlboro Man in a tussle. He wasn't especially big or tall or sculpted nor was he riding a horse. He was just mas machismo. I'm not advocating an actual throw-down 'cause I think the Marlboro Man is dead and that kind of seems like the odds would naturally be against him. I'm just saying.

It's nice to have heroes.

There are no dumb questions.

Oh really?

I don’t know who perpetrated this untruth. But I feel it my profound duty to set you straight.

There are in fact dumb questions and dumb answers, and yes, even dumb people. Don't be alarmed.

I am witness to the abundance of dumbnosity. I am not judging, mind you, just laying out the facts as I see them. And I have seen the face of dumb; I’ve heard the voice of dumb. It is all around us.

I thought about making a list of ALL-TIME DUMBEST QUESTIONS EVER. I just couldn't whittle it down to a Top 10. So I'm just putting it out there so you can be armed the next time you encounter a truly dumb question. I challenge you to respond with an equal amount of dumbnosity, just to keep it interesting.

If you'd like to submit your dumb questions, I'll compile them with mine in the aforementioned list. Thank you.

I'll miss you Crocodile Hunter

My heart was broken by the news of Steve Irwin's passing. Broken into tiny little pieces. Damn that sting ray! I did love that Crocodile Hunter. He was so fucking ebullient and enthusiastic about everything. We need more people like that in the universe. Just a little touched by the crazy but so happy, so happy it almost hurts to look at them.

That's it. All I really wanted to say. The softer side of the Shiny Penny. Don't get used to it, puppies.

The Television

It is a rare evening when I am master and commander of the television. Not much interests me on the television, other than the WB11 Morning News and the occasional video hits classic. And now that Steve Irwin is passed, I don't hold out much hope for the future of the television.

There was a glimmer in that otherwise bleak future this evening. I happened upon two back-to-back episodes of the Scrubs. When I tell you, I laughed out loud several times...well, I've just told you. And there you have it. That shit is funny. All of it. How is it stuck on Wednesday nights? Is Brandon Tartikoff still the head of NBC? Do I need to write a letter to someone? Because I most assuredly will.

Like I said, I don't forsee a bright path ahead for the television unless the Scrubs stays on the air. If it gets cancelled I may cry and that would be unpleasant. For everyone.

Damn hands

Hands are useful. Except when they're not.

I put my hands to work today in hopes of tricking them out of wanting to do what they surely do want to do very much. My hands have a mind of their own. They are wicked hands. Disobedient. Willful. Reckless hands.

So I kept them busy with various mundane tasks. Washing dishes, throwing shit out, turning pages of magazines and books, clicking endlessly through satellite TV, feeding me, etc. Nothing these hands wanted to do, that I can assure you. And now I've run out of things to occupy these bad hands.

Crap.

Segue. My second-biggest fan remarked the other day that I do not leave the door open for comment on this blog. My immediate reaction was shut up but being open-minded, I decided to give a listen. Perhaps second-biggest fan has something there. Whatever it is, it's a very small nugget, hardly worth this paragraph of mention but my damn hands are enjoying this. So fine. You want to comment. Go ahead. I've left this blog sufficiently vague that I invite your clever conversation. If I strike back viciously, blame my hands.