Author - 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.
There’s still money to be made in the Bumper Sticker industry. Don’t believe what you hear on CNBC; we are on the brink of a Bumper Sticker resurgence. People will be putting them on pets (the kind you can walk on a leash, not one of those novelty pets like an eel or typewriter). Bumper stickers will be everywhere. What’s fueling this interest in rectangular, UV-resistant, vinyl stickers featuring often-crude, obnoxious and illiterate sloganeering? A fear of missing out. That, and the invention/discovery of three new curse words is driving hordes of your fellow citizens to trade shows, truck stops, and the back page “personals” section of Modern Knifer magazine desperate to hand over real, American cash for Stickers mocking gun control advocates and Wiccans...
The last Supercuts Beauty Parlor and Haircut Center was burned to the ground last night. The citizens had had enough. Count me in.
Their discount hair fashioning, coupon books and promises of personal reinvention were enough to make a mother wretch.
I’ve never been so uncomfortable with a stranger touching my head as I was when I got my head shave there for the last 18 years.
Good riddance.
Name your favorite house plant Howard and keep it separate from the other plants.
Keep the name to yourself. When your family asks why you’re out of work and why you arrange your plants this way, say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I will now go sit in the attic.”
The next time you have visitors, hang up a sheet hiding the plants. Distract your company with the pool table in the basement.
Under no circumstances tell them the names you’ve given to the furniture.
Remain calm. Await further instruction.
With the warmer weather comes many dilemmas. While some concern themselves with deciding the appropriate time to begin grilling meats in public, I have larger concerns. Inside my freezer sits the head of a winter snowman. Charcoal eyes, carrot nose, jolly disposition, the whole deal. I found him, or his head, back in January sprawled out on the sidewalk by some older kids with too much free time. He was dazed but still alive. His body, however, had been thoroughly smashed. Lacking the knowledge to construct a snowman body myself, I scooped up his head and ran home. It took him a long time to come around. I was grateful because for the first few days I panicked and had set him inside one of those styrofoam coolers and dumped leftover soft drink ice on him every few hours (what do I know...
Why all the hushed excitement and bulging necks?
Tonight is this town's favorite night of the year. May 11 is when all good, red-blooded Michiganders gather in the middle of the busiest road and burn their snowsuits. Separate coats and snowpants are not allowed. Only one-piece, ugly-colored, humiliating, adult-sized snowsuits will be burned in front of God tonight.
Doing so will please our Lord and stave off Winter's bite later this year when the majority of us are left naked, shivering and suddenly illiterate under the first snowfall.
The city has begun using that new invisible paint on abandoned and foreclosed properties. They cover a house very quickly. As it dries, the structure vanishes, leaving only a stained, concrete slab and whatever children’s toys were left in the yard visible.
Then the town historian comes by with her camera and snaps photos for the postcard rack at the library.
Billy Goat Maze
COURTESY: PrintActivities.com