Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.
The Fall Down and Get Back Up Again Society clubhouse was completely disassembled and carted off last night. All that’s left is a cracked, concrete slab and some NO PARKING SIGNS. There’s no other debris and no foot prints.
It goes without saying that the spelling bee/free public massage day has been postponed indefinitely.
I’m sorry.
Adult belief in the Tooth Fairy has steadily increased over the last decade to the point where a solid third of the populace is convinced they are in a direct, personal relationship with her. They turn to her for advice on buying a car and on how long they can put off shoveling the walk.
These believers also feel this relationship gives them the authority to determine whether the rest of us are overpaid layabouts who don't deserve the puddle we sleep in.
This segment of Americans is also convinced the Tooth Fairy tells them to force the rest of us to eat irregularly shaped glass shards as penance for our doubts.
You have to select your monumental mistakes carefully. You don't want to waste them. You want your poor judgement to lead to an amazing, enormous and long-lasting catastrophe that brings with it bright colors and vivid emotions. You want it to involve a fire truck. It's all too easy to really fuck up and only come away from it with a forty year engagement inside a small, windowless gray box.
If at all possible you should try to time your colossal mistakes during visits to the zoo.
If this shovel factory works out like you claim, we’re gonna need a lot more peaches.
“Put your hand in this iron, I want to make you whole again.”
HEY DEBBIE! I got you a new bowling jacket! One size fits all! All elastic! Let’s go try it on out behind the garage! DEBBIE! I had to sell your roller skates, too. SORRY!
I got No Idea What this Video's About.
Today will be remembered for the abundance of genuine human hair wigs everyone started uncontrollably vomiting up during church services. The involuntary retching began around 8:45am and continued until well after 5pm. The epidemic spared only the town’s holiest: our street mimes and autistics. All the rest of us, meanwhile, were gagging up thick, purple, blonde and silver champagne lady wigs and ugly, tiger-cut man toupees until our throats dried out. Some of the older residents blacked out early on and had to have their feet elevated to prevent choking deaths. DPW services are still raking them into big piles and have been forced, against their better judgement, to ignite the incinerator on the Sabbath. Forcibly puking up human hair for hours on end can only be seen as divine...
Bring me that jar of cocktail onions. The little ones, yes. I’m going to name them. And give them futures.
