So back when I was very, very young, my mom used to play her old disco records while cleaning the house, and so I absorbed this love of disco through osmosis. She taught me dance moves and we’d dance around the house together while she was the “Disco Queen” and it was super wholesome! she also listened to a lot of polka and taught me to polka dance but we don’t talk about that
Anyway one of her favorite songs to play was “Hot Stuff” by Donna Summers. If you’ve never heard “Hot Stuff,” it boils down to basically trying to find someone to hook up with for the night.
However. I was, four, maybe five, years old and had no idea what was happening. So naturally I thought the song was about soup. Soup, and a lady who really wanted someone to have dinner with her.
rgiskljfzlmbz it gets FUNNIER later on because
I thought the “wild man” she was referring to was TARZAN I thought she wanted TARZAN TO COME EAT SOUP WITH HER.
Also there’s a part where she says “How’s about some hot stuff” but the way she enunciates it makes it sound like “How’s about some pasta” only further proving my hypothesis she was, in fact, having dinner.
So I’ve been selling my Furby collection as of late. Recently, this pretty girl sold.
My Furbies are basically paper weights, fancy nostalgic decorations I keep on shelves that make me happy when I look at them. I don’t use them or turn them on at all. I did, however, put batteries in this girl to get proof that she works to sell her.
I discovered this morning that I forgot to take the batteries back out after testing her when I ventured to my storage unit to pack her up. As soon as I picked her up, she began to talk in the LOUDEST VOICE I HAVE EVER HEARD A FURBY USE. It was like I was being shouted (and farted) at by a twelve year old girl who had just discovered sugar.
Desperately, I tried to get her batteries out, but to no avail. I have no tools in my storage unit, and after running all the way back to my apartment I discovered my tools are packed up god knows where as we’re currently moving. The entire time she was screeching her little heart out, refusing to sleep. I’m not a fan of loud noises or silly voices, so I left her in the hallway, but could hear her no matter where I went in the house. My roommate could hear her from his bedroom, and I’m sure the neighbors must have been able to hear her through the wall. There was nary a screwdriver to be found. I ran out of time and had to take the Furby with me, batteries and all.
Take her where, you ask? Work. I took her to work. I usually do my eBay packing in my office on my breaks, then stop by the post office on my way home. This Furby. This Furby talked, sang, farted, and yelled at me the entire ride. All twenty minutes of it. By the time I got there I was in a feral rage from this Furby who simply wouldn’t stop. I was going to take her in the building with me to pack her up, but halfway across the parking lot people were staring at me. I had her in a box and you could hear her muffled yells as I walked. I had to turn around and put her back.
I tried to bring her in later to at least tape her box up at a table, as trying to package things while sitting in my car is miserable. It had quieted down by then, so no one noticed her near constant yodeling in the parking lot. No sooner did we step through the doors, however, than the vast halls and high ceilings seemed to amplify her voice as if she was Luciano Pavarotti and we were standing in the Sistine Chapel. Immediately, a professor leaned out his door to see what the commotion in the hall was about. Shamed, so shamed, I turned right back around and marched her back to my car in defeat.
Later, she shrieked from within her box the entire ride to the post office. By the time we got there, I was genuinely surprised I had not hurled her out the window and refunded the buyer. As I was handing her off to the post master, she could be heard talking from within the box. People were staring. The post master was laughing. The woman behind me in line called it the “highlight of her day.”
I could hear her talking until the moment the post office doors closed behind me. If you are here, if this is your Furby now, good luck. You’ll need it.
