The annual conference of The Fall Down and Get Back Up Again Society is in jeopardy this year due to the widespread adoption of cornerless meeting rooms in local rental halls. At an emergency meeting of the Society’s board last week, they responded to this crisis by voting in a small, cement deer statue as Prime Minister and further resolved to stop acknowledging the existence of each others’ tongues. I hope they get this all sorted out as I still have fifty buffet tickets from last year they claimed they’d honor provided I limit my usage of the breading stations. Which I will as I never travel without at least half a loaf of split-top bread in my thigh pockets anyway. As long as they don’t skimp on the butter packets, I’ll be unrecognizable by the time the...
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.
The default human orientation is total warfare, all the time, always. Every ounce of energy spent clawing forever towards the great prize: a pile of shiny rocks. Instinct tells you to slaughter any and all who may stand in your way.
You, as a weakling, are acutely aware of this. Your focus is not on breaking this cycle or elevating human relations above it. Your focus is not even on mere survival. You, because of your shortcomings, wish all the more to destroy your opponent. You want him to suffer. But how?
I heard the above when I dialed up that number the library runs that plays recorded stories for latchkey kids.
Today was the day the Governor had the national guardsmen load up all the county orphans onto their unused military buses and send them to the rodeo. Let the kids have a day of it, let them learn about horses.
And with the orphanages empty, State Troopers go through each room, leaving a little jar of hair under each child’s pillow. It makes up for the Governor’s outlawing of balloons last fall (his signature legislation).
V says: “I want a magnificent ruby. A fine rock the size of a driveway stone. I want to set this stone on the bargaining table and let it speak for me. I wish to communicate only in gesture and absence. I will go mute for fourteen years, starting very soon. If you wish to know my thoughts, look only to the stone. It will be my voice made solid.”
“I want you to feel my presence and find yourself improved. I want you to picture my chair rotating in circles as you read this. I want you to realize I am the compass point. And I want you to do something about these horseflies.”
In America you can do many things with an illegally-obtained automobile. You can jump it over a group of scientists busy mapping the cartoon genome. You can jump it over three of the nine Supreme Court justices. You can jump your stolen car over a marching band’s brass and percussion sections.
You can even jump it over the Fortune 500 CEO of your choice provided he’s been driven mad by money fumes and doesn’t mind it when you call him ‘Slim’.
You can even become President and jump it over the White House, where it will be immediately neutralized by secret service sharp shooters on the roof, who, despite their well intentions, somehow missed the official announcement of your jump and mistook you for an angry turtle.
Migueltio says: “I want to make sure you take advantage of these fantastic prices on single and package set Class B fireworks! Completely legal and a real treat for Mom! My favorite’s your favorite! The warehouse is full! You’d be doing us a favor!”
“And don’t forget your coupon pack! I’ll be making pancakes for the next 14 hours! Come around back and I’ll autograph it for you!”
This fear of beverage-related appliances has ruled my life for far too long. No more. Today is a new day. Today is the day I call the industrial milkshake machine, plugged in, thrashing and running dry in my closet for over a decade: Friend.
Sara says: “I want a few words with this Mr. Santa Claus on where he gets his elves. I’d like to know how he keeps them from drying out. And does he cut off their tails or do they fall off on their own?”
“Either way, who gets that big box of tails?” Sara asks. “I better not wind up with them. I’ll sue!”