Stay with me here.
Meet Cynthia. Cynthia is about the coolest person I know. She's an awesome friend, a fantabulous wife, a glorious mother of 4 and Psych's biggest fan. She's not a crazy, camp-out in front of James Roday's house hoping to get a photo of him in his jammers type of fan; she's the better kind. The not-crazy, owns every season of Psych on DVD (even though you can stream them on netflix these days), has cooked and or enjoyed all those goodies mentioned in the show (jerk chicken, funyuns, pineapple, pineapple upside down cake, pineapple not-so-upside-down cake, crazy pineapple platter, pineapple dumplings, cinnamon pie, and fries quatro quesos dos fritos [okay the fries was me, got to put my own plug in somewhere]), knows all of Guster's nicknames, can quote any episode, can correctly identify the episode of any quote, plays Psych games online to garner points for her favorite university (who won that little contest by the way) and I'm sure I messed up my punctuation somewhere in this sentence (that last one was me too. In case it got confusing.) type of fan. You know the nice type of fan. The 'you don't want to send them to jail' type of fan. The type of fan you want to reward with tickets to the Psych Fan Appreciation Day (henceforth known as PFAD pronounced fad, as in 1.a practice or interest followed for a time with exaggerated zeal . or 2. [which we are going to try and think of every time we use PFAD as in fad as in] a personal idiosyncrasy or whim). Which someone DID DO! Good job, the plot thickens.
BECAUSE although she got tickets, Cynthia didn't go to the PFAD. Because Cynthia lives in Texas. And the PFAD was in New York City.
This poses a small problem for an awesome friend, a fantabulous wife, and a glorious mother of 4. Because although Cynthia is Psych's biggest fan, she is those other things first and foremost. And those other things make her a nice type of fan and not a 'send her to jail' type of fan. So we like those things about her.
And so, because Cynthia chose to feed her children for the next month instead of buying a plane ticket and a couple nights' stay in a Manhattan hotel, she put on a brave face and watched her precious PFAD slip out of her fingers.
A travesty. A terrible sad, terrible travesty. I will now further illustrate this travesty with rich allegorical imagery.
Imagine a beautiful cake. A beautiful pineapple shaped cake (it can even be a pineapple cake if you are into that). And someone offers you this beautiful pineapple-shaped cake that may or may not be an actual pineapple cake. And as you reach out to take this delicious, most wonderful cake, some doofenshmirtz named Reality steps up and hulk smashes the cake to the floor. And then dances on it in a very rude and frankly poorly choreographed jazz number. And all you can think about is how delicious that cake would have been, how amazing it looked, how tempting it was, how you almost got to taste it. Almost. But you didn't. Because doofenshmirtz over there can't dance. And he's can't dancing on your perfect perfectly perfection cake.The worst part? Cynthia didn't even tell her friends about it until it was too late. The PFAD had died out (that was a clever reference to definition 1. of fad, in case you missed it) before we even knew about it. And we are awesome friends, so you can bet that had we known about the cake (er, the PFAD) and the doofenshmirtz (reality) we would have put together an impressive offense and I would have personally punched reality in the face before it even got near the cake and then we would have all kicked it while it was down. But Cynthia is the nice kind of fan, and an awesome kind of friend who didn't want to worry her friends about something we had no control of. Because she knew we would worry.
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| maybe one that looks less like an oven mitt. |
So email me if you have any Psych powers.
Please and thank you.
kriskrisfoutz@gmail.com
