Greetings From Florida! Where One Diner's Bomb Threat is Another Diner's Work of Art

Hello from Florida!

Fay the Rainmaker is putting the smack down on the Sunshine State, but we managed to brave the misting rain and flooded retention ponds long enough to enjoy breakfast at our favorite local diner The Townhouse.

The Townhouse is a great local joint: simple, cheap, delicious diner food with wild chickens running free in the parking lot and children's art work hanging from the walls.

Cute, right?

But let's take a closer look at one of the drawings prominently displayed above the bar, keeping in mind the tiny script above the door reads "The Townhouse":

Did a disgruntled child leave this in lieu of a tip? Should the police be notified?

Either way, it's genius.

Your Childhood Repressed Memories Unpressed...Depressed? ...Pressed? [Terrifying Any Way You Put It]

You were a small child. The TV was on. You were too little to pick the channel. You didn't know any better. It's OK. It's not your fault.

It was called Zoobilee Zoo. You thought you'd gotten past it. Completely erased the memory of those half-human, half animal creatures frolicking around in that magical land. Traumatizing your sensitive-child sensibilities. You thought you had completely repressed it.

But one day, the fateful YouTube link from a friend followed by "Remember this one?"

Brace yourself because you do remember. You've seen this before. Though you wish you never had.

My Plastic Alter-Ego [Shattering Your Self-Image Against Rocks of Melancholy]

After watching my friend Tina's directing thesis last night--an awesome reproduction of Ionesco's A Frenzy for Two, which featured 72 massacred Barbie dolls--my friends and I began discussing which kind of Barbie dolls we'd be, if our personalities were molded and mass-produced in plastic stereotyped proportions.

Other friends were easier to decide: Fun Fashion Barbie, Serious Director Barbie, Happy Fuzzy Dance Barbie. But me... ah? "Collaborative" Barbie? "Writer" Barbie? Nothing really fit.

I was afraid my personality was doomed to be un-Barbifiable forever. But when I saw this "commercial," I knew I had finally met my plastic alter-ego.

Fun bonus fact: According to the end credits, one of the little girls in that clip is named Bailey! It's like totally fate. A tragic, morose fate that I will ponder over some Joy Division and a bottle of sleeping pills...