All activities have been kept well within accepted social bounds.
Please accept your parachute with a smile.
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.
It took humanity but one hundred years to develop the conditions where a special battery-powered cart to ferry around the excess flesh of the morbidly obese had to be invented. In another hundred, I expect humans to force themselves to concoct portable, wearable bathtub pants, with each leg getting its own drain.
The arrival of warmer weather has brought the return of one of my favorite Southeast Michigan customs: the parking of wheelbarrows on roofs. Half the houses on each block have at least one standing atop their homes. The more committed have two. The wheelbarrows have traditionally been left empty, although in recent years adventurous citizens have begun filling them with old sleeping bags and sawdust. One neighbor (a former councilman) fills his with live kittens. There’s no consensus as to what resting a wheelbarrow on your house achieves or represents. Some speculate the practice serves to break up the unbearable tedium of life in late-stage capitalist America, providing something to focus one’s whirling, crippled mind on for at least a few moments of relief from this...
A good neighbor practice is to carry a bag full of jigsaw puzzle pieces with you wherever you go. Whenever you’re left alone, or right in front of your host for that matter, open the nearest drawer and drop a handful of the pieces right in. This works in offices and funeral homes as well. Anywhere with an unlocked drawer. And get multiple puzzles. Mix up all the pieces together. Include some small pieces of cement as well. Maybe some birdseed. Get it nice and thick like a good stew. If your host (read: opponent) starts asking questions counter with one of your own. Ask him where that scotch tape you requested is. Demand he produce it immediately! I don’t care if you have other patients today, I need that tape! Then use it to stick three or four puzzle pieces to his face. Right...
It’s settled: We name the big roller coaster, “Childhood Obesity” and we name the small roller coaster, “Newly Discovered Mole.”
Start printing up the T-Shirts.
America lets everybody be the Big Shot. Everybody gets their chance to shit on little men’s faces. The entire goal, the thing that keeps all of us going, that keeps us plowing through heartache after heartache, is the promise of power. Of Lordship. Of unquestioned, de-feathered, stinging-red Royalty. It doesn’t matter how trivial the power or position, so long as you’re the one walking upright, you’ve won. It’s why the midwest is full of aspiring and working Magicians. And although America allows everyone the chance to become King, it also demands that you do nothing of significance with your power. Absolutely nothing. This explains the proliferation of short-haired professional cake decorators. Reminding others of your position over them is the only end...
There was a terrible curse put on this town many decades ago. A horrible witch who watched her beloved slowly cut in half by the town’s entire Memorial Day parade condemned all of us, resident and traveller alike. It is now impossible to walk around freely without hearing the sounds of bowling balls forever making their way down lanes. The balls never reach their pins. There’s never any conclusion, never any satisfaction. Just endless rolling, rolling, rolling. And us citizens, ugh, we hear it everywhere we go. It’s always with us. A terrible aural stink. As we approach the holiday the sounds get louder. We just have to speak louder during our annual long distance phone calls to Aunt Marge. Some people let their babies sleep in the basement all month. But that’s...
Overheard today in the Land of the Free:
“I’ve been having a lot of issues with shoelaces this Summer.”