Is that a Voodoo doll in your pocket or are you happy to see me?
Several years ago I was in New Orleans and became entranced by Voodoo. Some may say I was put under a Voodoo hex. Others might point out the copious amounts of alcohol I consumed and use that to explain the zombie-like glazed over look I sported for three days straight. Either way, I took to yelling "Voodoo!" at the top of my lungs whenever I could as an explanation for just about anything and everything, including why I punched that police horse after it disappointed me by not being able to jump over the flaming fountain at Pat O'Briens.
When I returned to the Big Easy a couple years later (in disguise and under an assumed name because of the past unpleasantness), I was once again overcome by the lure of Voodoo...and a Lucky Dog. I cursed the city and all that it stood for. Two weeks after I left, Hurrican Katrina struck.
All of which leads me to the point of this post, which is that some people need to start taking Voodoo a little more seriously, like this fire marshall in Middleton.