No Choice

There isn’t any choice at this point. I have to keep going forward and upward and with the occasional loop-de-loop. A thousand calamities and children without socks lie behind me. If I turn to look back just once I will be turned to stone, broken into driveway gravel and sold off for pieces.

To accompany me I’ve made arrangements for a team of trumpeters and men dressed as sharks to follow behind me. Leading this parade will be a donkey of unquestionable character and intelligence. I may call him Charles, you will call him Mr. Lazlo. We won’t make many stops save for illegal firework tents and teeth washing stations.

It will not be a journey of cherry pie and smiles. It will put to test all of the lies I’ve been telling fortune tellers to win my money back. I’ll have to develop the special muscles on my neck and not be afraid to use them in front of strangers. Most of you reading this will turn back towards the boat. I won’t take it personally. I will however, sell your buttons to the first parakeet breeder I encounter.

About 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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