I’m sure every man has felt the urge to dump his shoes down the nearest sewer and retreat from civilization. He may have even had the urge to tear off the shoes of any strangers he may meet and dump those down the sewer as well as a liberating gesture, a way of saying, “Come Brother, Come Sister, together our feet can be free.” Each one of us, I’m also sure, has dreamt of smashing in display windows of shoe stores and cobblers and gathering up any and all kinds of footwear and dumping them all into the black abyss, in front of the news cameras. In front of the mayor’s men. In front of tomorrow’s generation. OUR FEET SHALL BE FREE! FREE TO BE LOOKED AT! FREE TO BE SEEN! FREE TO SUFFER SNAKE BITES AND SAND BURNS! FREE TO BE PRESSED UP AGAINST THINGS...
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.
We close the night with a meditation on the oversharing of Vegetables. Neighborly cooperation and good feelings are welcome.
The piling and lighting on fire of said pile of surplus pears and peacock eggs on my driveway are not.
The only reasonable course of action is to construct a scaffolding around the entirety of your head to hold multiple, solid metal bells. These bells will ring each time you have a bad thought.
They will ring twice each time you have a good idea.
If you spring for the 15-bell set, they will play a stripped down version of Whitesnake’s “Crying in the Rain ’87” every time you think of your Dad.
And as an added bonus, the scaffolding will require you to sleep sitting up and keep you safe from the draft.
I’ve found that intensely staring at an Onion for three or more hours can have the same effect on your mood as cutting up that onion into chunks and walking into job interviews with them in your pockets.
You’ll feel the need to sweat but not be able to and wonder why.
Who wouldn’t, upon first waking up in the morning, relish picking up a chair and hurtling it at a cartoon character’s face?
Welcome to Tuesday.
As we turn in tonight, let us say a prayer for the bowlers. LORD TODAY WE PRAY FOR OUR BROTHER AND SISTER BOWLER LORD let their strikes be strong and regular. And accompanied by animations of talking fish or clip art of smiling mobsters. Let their approach be free of trepidation. And their knees be strong. Let their gloves be not mocked. And let not the gutter plague them. Let them fear not, others judgement of their shoes. LORD, let our bowlers’ backs not ache, but if they must let their back braces be strong and without odor. Let their chairs be plastic and discolored. Let Time, the most horrible of all Your wonderful creations, melt away so that they might exist alone with ball and pin and salted hot dog. AND FINALLY LORD, Let the bowlers’ league association offer...
Starting a new theme restaurant with the above name. On the menu you’ll find deer steaks and indian burns.
All the permits have been pulled and the onions fried.
I’m just working out the scent of the hand soap for the bathrooms.
I’m thinking: “Motorcycle Jump.”
Shit’s on fire. Kid’s screaming. Big puddle even though it didn’t rain. Selling sandwich bags full of cut grass. 35 cents each. I bought two. Immediately regretted it. None of the stuffed animals are priced. Lady in the first house got her curlers set up on a table. “THESE AREN’T FOR SALE!” Everybody’s in sweatpants. The second garage’s interior covered in Air Force posters. F-16s flying in formation, Apache gunship cockpit shot with double pilot thumbs up. 66 year-old man sits without blinking behind folding table made from old door. Stacked in front of him are multiple six packs of Orange Pop. “Best offer,” he mumbles. I stab him in the arm. Through the picture window are 8 kids, glass-eyed, white-skinned, piled on the couch...