It's Frickin Freezing In Here, Mr. Bigglesworth

Honestly, there should be some sort of scientific method for determining the exact origin of an earworm. An algorithm of some sorts. If I'd done better in my studies of scientific methods, perhaps I would have developed one. As it stands, I simply remain baffled at the seemingly out of the blue songs that lodge themselves in my inner brain. If they were in the outer brain maybe they wouldn't get so damn stuck. I dunno. But I do know, for a fact, that I have not heard the Austin Power's theme song, or watched any of the movies in YEARS. And although the original was an oft-quoted source of hilarity for myself and my peers way back in 1997, I am certain I have not once quoted it since sometime around 2002 at the VERY latest. So, where on earth did this come from?!? Well, that's kind of like asking how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie roll tootsie pop (great, now I'll have that damn jingle stuck in my head.) The world may never know. However, the fact remains that this dance sequence stands the test of time. It is still awesome in all of its spoofiness (my blog, my made up words.) I don't care what anyone else says, it's true. And the part where our International Man of Mystery, after being chased by a frenzied mob of lovestruck girls in a Hard-Day's-Night-esque kind of way, surprisingly rounds the corner leading a full marching band still gets me every time. And it probably always will. That and the line "And when Mr. Bigglesworth gets upset, people DIE!"

Enjoy.

The details of my life are quite inconsequential... very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds- pretty standard really. At the age of twelve I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking- I highly suggest you try it.