Jake says: “I just want to be treated as an equal. Or in some cases more than an equal — an equal plus one. Just a little bit better, because I’ve earned it. Better than you. Yes.”
“And I’d also like some more pop.”
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.
Take the least popular candies from your cupboard. Probably the gummy things that taste like stomach acid. Leave them out on the counter for a few days. Let the air get to them. Make them shrivel just a bit. Don’t forget them. These are your new companions. Get a clean – clean – sandwich bag. Put no more than three of these candies in and wrap the excess bag around the lump. Make it tight so no lint can get in. Get a rubber band. Get one that came with the newspaper. So it’s a little less flexible. So it’s a little bit faded. Now breathe on it. Wrap it around the candies in the bag. Three or four times around. Real tight. You don’t want any of the candy salt to fall out. Put the whole thing deep down into your pocket. Keep it right next to a folded...
We have yet to face up to the above-ground pool crisis.
Not as many shopping carts filled with stuffed animals rolling around anymore. You used to see three or four of them drifting by thoughout the day. There would almost always be one stuck up against a tree on the weekend. The DPW would send a man out to free it on Monday. The carts themselves were usually from auto parts stores. If you got up close you could read the printing on the plastic parts. The metal was always hot to the touch, so nobody got too close. Besides most of them stunk. They had a very strong lake odor. The stuffed animals got soaked by rain and they held that water for weeks. Probably somebody complained about their effect on property values. I know one lady used to write into the paper with concerns about malaria, but I don’t think anyone took her seriously. My...
America is a land of Abundant Plesantries. It’s a land of dealer-operators with one bad eye. Each one all set and ready to guide you and your family straight down the tiger’s throat for a simple handshake. America is a land where you thank these men for such compassion. You thank them by sawing off your own leg and offering to eat it, right there in front of them. America is a land where everybody’s always ready to put on a show. It’s a land of stilt-walkers who truly know how to work those things. It’s a land of people who run the ceiling fan all through winter because they read the book and know how to work it. They can reach the switch. America is a land filled with guys like your Uncle Mike. A man who, thanks to the unaccountable whims of fate, no longer...
I must do everything in my power to protect this cardboard treasure chest. It is filled with delicious, home-made caramel corn. Oh what a delight.
All-natural butterscotch flavors. No plastic liner. Just cardboard printed up with a faux-wood pattern and caramel corn. The lock on its lid is no more than a drawing.
It’s useless against the spiders.
OK. I’m going to set my knife on the table now and begin counting up the pieces again. I’ll use this sandwich bag as a plastic glove. I’ll speak the numbers out loud. You repeat them.
And get Mother on the line. I want her to hear this.
I would love to kick a yowling, yapping, barking dog square in the face with my workboot. Each and every day these horrible creatures mindlessly bark at me as I walk by their owners’ homes. Their incessant screaming accomplishes nothing. It doesn’t even burn calories. They get fatter and fatter each day, the fat pushing their eyeballs out from their skulls and swelling up their tongues. These dogs have but a single thought: destroy Chris. If only, Dear God, this metal fence wasn’t in my way, I could get my jaws on him and tear his flesh for having the audacity to walk near me. Ecstasy, true ecstasy, I would have it, Lord. The pain and emptiness of not being human would lift – however temporarily – if only I, a lowly dog, could crush him. Give me my chance...
Another Saturday night spent ironing plastic shopping bags.
Once they’re crisp, they go right into the bubble mailer and then off to the Library of Congress.