So, earlier today my boss sent me a blank e-mail message by mistake. Upon realizing her booboo, she sent an actual message. Feeling a bit punchy, I replied, “Dang. I was using all of my psychic powers, and I thought you had sent a recipe for banana flambé.”
My boss came out of her office and asked pointedly, “Is there any particular reason why you are thinking about bananas and fire these days?” Given my recent breakup woes, I didn’t see what she meant for a beat longer than normal. Oh dear. Hysterical laughter ensued. I’ve been singing “Bananas on FIRE!” to the tune of Morrissey’s “Hairdresser on Fire” in my head ever since.
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To the tune of Fire, Water, Burn by the Blood Hound Gang:
Bananas, Bananas, Bananas on fire. (repeat)
We don't need no water let the Mother F'er burn.
Burn Mother F'er. Burn
What a creative word picture--great metaphor!
Paging Doctor Freud …
No kidding. It was so Freudian, I didn't even know I'd slipped.
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