We sold the crow bars for scrap.


I had an uncle that collected crow bars. He had no use for them. Everything around him was resolutely unstuck. He admired their avian qualities. Strong beaks, black souls. No conscience. To him they embodied the exacting, focused dedication to mission that allows these winged monsters to swipe a new born from its crib as easily as it would a worm from the ground. Free of guilt and remorse.

He thought crow bars had something to do with birds! Like that fly in the sky! BIRDIES!

He was a very confused man.

Eventually I drew the short straw and had to push his bed off a cliff.
We sold the crow bars for scrap.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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