Die! Die! Die, my doll-ing! (edit for picture)

EDIT: With my trusty cameraphone, I managed to snap a picture of the horrible thing described in this entry. I have no idea why I originally said it was green, although I try not to look directly at it, fearing that my eyeballs will melt like the Nazis' at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, so I was probably just confusing the color of its shirt with the color of its, um, fur.

Behold the beast! Lo, its name is Legion:

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One of my coworkers, A, is a sweet older woman with a penchant for collecting tchotchkes. One of them is a hideous green Muppet-looking doll wearing a sunhat, sunglasses, and a t-shirt that says “You’ll always be my friend…you know too much!”

So far, so…well, not good, but innocuous enough, and the sentiment on the shirt is funny. But the problem with this fucking piece of shit is that it sings “When I’m Sixty-Four” in a high, tinny voice when its belly is pressed. And not just a brief snippet, either; it goes on for a full two minutes or so.

Today the office is having a Saint Patrick’s Day progressive potluck, which means that throughout the day, different departments set out different items. (Side note: I came in at 9:30 today, so the breakfast items were pretty much gone, but I did manage to snag a couple of strips of bacon, and I must agree with the blogger who said “Bacon is the chocolate of meats.”) My department got salad duty, and the salads have been set out, and people keep coming over to get salad and PRESS THE FUCKING BUTTON ON THAT FUCKING DOLL.

If, say, the doll belonged to Flatass, aka I’m Related to a Famous Murder Victim and Somehow That Means My Shit Don’t Stink Even Though It Probably Stinks Worse Than My Breath, then I’d grab that green monstrosity after everyone else had gone home and toss it into the breakroom trash, where it would be unceremoniously buried under coffee grounds and Lean Cuisine boxes. But I actually like A, and as such, I have no desire to steal or vandalize her property, obnoxious as it may be.

So in the meantime, I’ll grit my teeth and try to drown out the ear-raping strains of “When I’m Sixty-Four” playing over and over and over again. But the next time we have one of these stupid progressive potlucks, I’m taking its batteries out the night before.