“Chris, you won’t believe it. You can’t believe it.” “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t been there.” Believe what? “What happened with Mary, I – what’s going on here? I can’t believe it.” “It’s unreal.” … “What we did, it was all discussed ahead of time. We had a plan – we had a system. And you know that’s fine. Mary’s a nice person, we’ve always gotten along. But, hey listen, this can’t go on.” “It was very brazen.” “Mary – we invited her over to hear about her stumps and, she, right in the middle of it, why — she touched our fruit. Touched our fruit. All of it.” “Touched it with her hands.”...
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.
I've never had a problem sitting completely motionless for hours at a time. I sit, mouth closed, in total silence waiting patiently for instructions, all the while careful never to let my attention drift towards ugly or seditious thoughts. Poised and attentive but never a distraction or burden. I'd be just as glad facing the wall or covered with a sack, whatever you think is best.
You're in charge for a reason. What that might be is certainly no concern of mine. If need be I can busy myself crossing and uncrossing my legs or shift my gaze to the ceiling.
Just make sure I get my sugars…and we all stay the good son.
You’re right to blame Americans. Blame them first. Above all others. They wanted shirtless roller coaster photography. They support State execution of cartoons. Your average American citizen feels no shame in demonstrating his ability to crush mice with his knees. Nor does he feel any embarrassment over the quality of his nation’s back road buffets. You know – the kind with thick rice.
Say it with me now, out loud, in front of God and the World:
“I blame Americans for the decline of the ship-in-a-bottle industry.”
Oh, it’s like a big drink of ice water after a long afternoon working in the garage.
There is no turning back. There is the big bird with the egg, and it is green. No more. This is where you put the quarter. Hear the clink, OK. Top business. OK. This man here, he goes, Ay-yi-yi-yi-yiiiiii. All night with the Jay Bird, oh God. Now, your shoe- too big. This bird, he no care. It is…….probably fifteen. But he say, you can not go here, this is for the men! They are strong, big dreams. Never enough. Next year, only two weddings. No more. This, this mess, at end what is for me? This ghost? He gone. No more purple.
No.
According to my Old Farmer's Almanac, far distant future generations will be very happy we invested so much into play room ball pit technology.
Whole lot of people around here are heading into bathrooms and deciding they don't want to leave them. They've had enough of it all and just want someplace warm and safe where they can wait things out that also has adequate drainage. Local police are employing large sticks in their dislodgment efforts.
Loudly calling for your enemies' destruction during grace before a large family meal is not only acceptable here, but expected. If you can do so while pounding the table and making growling noises, all the better. Yes, God already knows your desires, He doesn't care; it is your family that must be purified and united. Make of them one mind: revenge, destruction and heated wieners.
Goddamnit, none of this makes any sense.
Obstinate Middle-Aged White Guy Aerobics.
Stay tuned for the 15-minute uncomfortable itch scratch.