Rant Of The Mummy
You know what twists my bandages in a bunch? When people call me “irritable”. I really take exception to that.
Not because it’s untrue, just because they act all surprised about it, as if I have no reason for feeling that way.
I mean–well, I’ll put it this way: Say you’re in bed. Fast asleep, curled up under the covers, nice and toasty. And then, say, in the middle of the night, your covers get yanked off you, and you wake up to find yourself surrounded by a buncha lame-o Indiana Jones-wannabe archaeologists who are all hooting and hollering and high-fiving each other because they’ve “discovered” you. Then, say, these same guys just start looting your place, right there in front of you, because apparently your stuff isn’t your stuff anymore–it’s all “artifacts” that they’re going to sell to a museum because, you know, it’s their stuff now.
Let me ask you: If you had the ability to put curses on people, would that not be a situation where you’d use that power? Exactly. And why? Because I’m guessing you’d be irritated by those morons, am I right?
That’s what I thought.
Oh, and also: You ever have a cast, or have a Band-Aid or some kind of bandage on you, and it gets itchy under there? Yeah?
So, imagine your entire body is covered in one giant Band-Aid. You’re itchy right now just thinking about it, aren’t you?
So, look–“irritable”? Fine: Guilty as charged. But don’t give me that look or that tone of voice. I think I’ve earned the right to be “irritable”, OK?