Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.
Roland went to the mountain and returned with a huge boulder. He pushed it all the way back, across three time zones.
“Every man is entitled to defend himself. They can't get within 50 feet of me.”
Roland hasn't seen his parents in years. They doted on his brother with the misshapen ear. Roland was left to play with chains out behind the garage.
“Get out. I won't drive with a pussy.”
Roland DuBuque has a neck mole. He runs a liquor store he doesn't own. He's just purchased his 14th GMC Hummer.
“Nobody wants 'em. You can get 'em for parts, anything. I got a whole fleet. I paint 'em all orange. Safety.”
Roland guest lectures at Concealed/Carry classes and “lives the example.”
“This Comet ISON shit is bullshit. They all knew.”
Dialysis will see him through four more decades. Last of a breed.
Everyone, all of us, in America were driven insane not too long ago. No one escaped. Newborns sleep beneath open, always-running laptop computers for the first thirteen months. It's all very efficient.
That's why we mock the Amish. Their only method for driving babies crazy involves involuntary beardings and potato-gluing their hands to bibles.
The end of May exposes many broken promises. We're approaching Popsicle weather, there's no hiding it. So June brings reform. No more romantic breakfasts at Burger King. Stop offering to rewrite your friend's play. Smile when they perform it for you in the hall. Encourage them to do the cockney accents. Admit you've traded your dignity for half a car wash coupon book. And follow through. Because what do you want to be? A gutless wonder, clutching curtains and asking for rides to the KMart pharmacy? Or a lightly caricatured version of yourself in a syndicated television sitcom worthy of the respect of your adopted children? When it comes down to it, refuse the extra gravy. Ask them to put it in a clearly labeled bag and mail it to your Aunt. Offer to pay for priority...
We're running out of holidays to condemn.
I've taken it upon myself to write original songs inspired by the lesser-loved items on the Burger King drive thru menu. The Walnut Cups, Fried Olives, Highway Safety Sticker Packs, and so forth. I won't be posting them here, but will instead mail recordings of them to senators, along with photos of each of you.
Taffy Pulling Machine.
Preacher says, time and again, the only folks who can be trusted were born with twelve fingers and probably smell like cotton straightener. As for the rest of these monsters – the ones that surround us all the time always – he suggests using electrical tape to stick lists of their deficiencies to their backs to free up space in your mind’s limited memory chambers, filling them instead with photos of sharks.
He also advocates tearing dogs in half in the hope each end grows a new dog, rebuilding his army without additional cost.
