Megan

How could you not love somebody named Nagzilla?

(Well, her legal name’s Melonie, but I call her Nagzilla.)

(Which is what she goes by on the Internet, I didn’t just make it up.)

(Though does sound rather intriguing.)

(I clearly need to start giving all Internet friends randomly weird nicknames.)

(David Hyde Pierce, you’ll be Squishy.)

(We’re Internet friends in the sense that, on the Internet, I pretend he’s my friend.)

As usual, I’ll be interspersing my own commentary in parenthesis.

(Feel free to just skip it and enjoy Nagzilla’s hilarious moment of awkwardness.)

Without further blather, (whew!), here’s Nagzilla from The Adventures of Nagzilla‘s tale.

I am not a morning person. If I were, this whole event would never have taken place.

Okay, that may not entirely be true. The circumstances would just have been different.

I also used to be addicted to Coke. Not little “c” coke, as in cocaine.

(Or so she says…)

Big “C” Coke, as in Coca-Cola.

The nectar of the gods. It was my source of giddyup in the morning. On this particular day, I had the misfortune of having a 7:30 a.m. meeting. Needing a way to function, I stopped at a convenience store on my way in to grab a bottle of my fuel.

I’d been in this particular store before and had a few conversations with the delightful young man who frequently served as register jockey.

(I can only assume he cavorts behind the counter on a stick horse while spinning 45s.)

(Or is just a cashier, it’s hard to tell.)

Clearly not enough conversations, else he would have known the extent of my willingness to be goofy. And my complete lack of a “normal person behavior” filter, especially in the early morning hours when my brain had not been adequately engaged.

(Normal Person Behavior Filters are highly overrated.)

I came to the register, Coke bottle and debit card in hand (yes, I am one of those people) and he asked how I was. I’m sure he was making light, non-meaningful conversation, but ever the (painfully) truthful person I am, I replied, “I’m tired.”

In response he says, “Aw. Well, you should sing. No one can be tired when they are singing.”

(I have tested this hypothesis and found it to be groundless.)

(However, when singing and making an excited face?)

(That’s a scenario guaranteed* to joyfully wake up your brain.)

(*Guarantee not based in reality.)

Dear lord, Pollyanna runs the cash registers at Holiday.

(If only, Nagzilla, if only.)

And because I absolutely cannot leave well enough alone, I ask, “What should I sing?”

(My vote would be for American Pie.)

“Whatever. Something that makes you happy.”

And this is where my brain ceased to function. Because in that moment, there was only one song that came to mind. Not a lovely ballad. Not a rocking pop song. Nope. At 7:00 a.m., at the request of a cashier, the only song I could think of in that moment was a Girl Scout camp song.

So I sang “The Birdie Song.” Loudly. Complete with actions. To a store full of people in business suits and construction workers fueling up for the day. Because that’s the kind of person I am.

If you’ve ever been to camp, you probably know “The Birdie Song.” I don’t even know if that’s its real name.

(I have been to Girl Scout camp and I’ve never heard of The Birdie Song and thus feel quite ripped off.)

(I, however, do know the words and motions to Pizza Hut.)

(It is a chant of Pizza Hut, Pizza Hut, Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut, McDonald’s, McDonald’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut.)

(It’s possibly, looking back, that my Girl Scout troop was taken over by fast food commercialism.)

Waaaaaay up in the sky (arms up above your head)
The little birds fly (flapping motion)
While down in their nests
They take a rest. (rest your head on your pillow shaped hands)
With a wing on the left (fold your left arm under like a wing)
And a wing on the right (fold your right arm under like a wing)
The little birds sleep all through the night (back to the sleeping pillow/head hands)
Shhhhhhh……THEY’RE SLEEPING (cuz you’re supposed to yell that part. Which I did. In Holiday at 7:00 a.m.)

(I highly approve of the commitment.)

The bright sun comes out (again with the arms in the air)
The dew falls away (pat the air as you bring your hands down)
Good Morning, good Morning (happy jazz hands by your face)
The little birds say CHIRP! (Make a big beak with both arms and clap them together when you say chirp. Loudly. Which I did. In Holiday at 7:00 a.m.)

(How did this not turn into a group sing-a-long? How?)

The lovely young man applauded (he was the only one, I might add) and asked, “Now don’t you feel better?”

(Everybody else in that convenience store?)

(Total weirdos.)

And surprisingly, I really did.

Assuming you’ve now fallen in love with Melonie, (and how could you not love a gal with a Yoda quote tattoo?) go say hi to her at Adventures of Nagzilla. Or, if you’re feeling a tad more mature, check out her combination of song lyrics and religious enlightenment at The Sacred and the Profane.

Want to share your shame with the world?

(Or at least my readers?)

Email me your awkward moment

I can 92% guarantee you won’t regret it,

Megan 

Mindee, of having-Christmas-ruined-by-Trey-Parker fame, is one of my favorite people on the Internet.

(And I might now be forced to call her Sparkles, per my new nickname decision.)

She recently had a brilliant idea. For the whole month of May, she’s hosting a Pinterest Post Party, wherein a group of awesome bloggers (and I) shall be using our Tuesday and Thursday posts to showcase some Pinterest project we’ve taken on.

(In my case, this will always involve mess and failure and embarrassment. Everyone else’s will probably involve joy and glitter and success.)

So if you’d like to see my cover myself in glue and shame, tune in tomorrow. Balloons will be involved.

(And follow me on Pinterest, I hardly ever make Harry Potter puns.)

Tagged as: My readers are far funnier than I, The blogosphere is awesome and scary

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