* My new computer is blacker than Baroque Osama. It likes fried chicken and smooth jazz. It is very good at sports, and when it's driving gets pulled over all the time for no good reason. It scores poorly in standardized testing, but the tests are optimized for children with fathers so they're culturally biased. People are intimidated by my computer even though they won't admit it; if I walk home late at night, they cross the street to avoid us. If people are telling jokes, they lower their voices if my computer boots up. My computer prefers peripheral devices with a little extra meat on them. Also, Republicans call my computer in an effort to scare it into staying home on voting day. It's true -- I got a BlackBook.
* The newest BlackBook marketing slogan from Cupertino is this: When you're even too pretentious for a regular MacBook: black is the new translucent.
* Once this guy told me I was a racist, so I hanged him. He was a different race from me, but that's entirely beside the point. I didn't like the fact that he was so judgemental. Mistaking my lack of tolerance for racism would be in and of itself racist. But I already knew you were entertaining such simplistic views, because your kind always does.
* I was once beat up by six hateful queers. They were heterophobes. They told me so, and made me read their placards before they laid into me. True to their mean demographic, the slogans on the placards were very witty and spelled impeccably. "You're drowning the world, breeder!" cried their leader as he manhandled me. I was punched through a telephone book so as to maximize pain while minimizing contusions, a method first introduced by pioneering homophobes back before the turn of the century. While I lay in the gutter, moaning, they harshly criticized my outfit and haircut. I thought it would never end. But then it did.
* My batshit-insane father-in-law complains about how gay socialist liberals have crippled the once mighty West with their horrifying welfare state while he's on the way to query the subsidized mail service about the arrival of his groceries allowance cheque from the government. Quietly, I hummed Alanis Morisette. I was overheard by my iPod and reported to the authorities, then sued by the CRIA but I settled out of court for only $6,250 + GST. My lawyer is awesome. I wrote a piece of hatemail to Alanis, and then her bodyguard broke my knees with a cricket bat. Fortunately, due to the glory and wisdom of The Party, I was repaired at no charge. The guy in charge of my rehab was a knock-off Patch Adams, so my crutches are shaped like pink flamingos. Thus, I have been banned from limping through all the classiest neighbourhoods, enforced via restraining order. Who are they to limit my locomotion? Bloody Nanny State.
* I don't really have an iPod. I was kidding. What do you take me for?
* My car breaks down every time my life is going too smoothly. It's a contentment throttle, probably triggered by a certain concentration of endorphins in my blood. How does my car sample my blood? I have a theory about that based largely on the existence of automotive vampirism, which would explain why sometimes I awake to the fading fumes of motor oil in the air and coolant stains on my pillow. Someone industrial has been squatting over me, doing some kind of foul business in the dark of night. I don't think it's the lawnmower, who thirsts only for gasoline, grass and garden gnomes.
* I hate garden gnomes. I think they should be put in special camps.
* The other week my wife hosted one of those Fantasia Party things, where women from the village pop by to be introduced to the opportunity buy minor appliances to ply the depths of their marital loneliness. It's basically like a Tupperware party for vaginas. The kids were ensconsed in their windowless "social science cabinet" in the basement while I hid away upstairs for the duration. When all was said and done I helped my wife clean up the livingroom. She showed me an item she had bought for herself. "What is it?" I asked. "It's a dildo," she told me. "It's amazingly life-like," I observed. "Oh yes, they make them out of a special kind of latex invented by the Stan Winston Creature Workshop in Burbank," she explained. "And it's quite big," I went on to say. "Ninety percent of the size is just the base," she pointed out. "His name is Pedro." I smiled uncertainly. "Hi, Pedro." My wife keeps Pedro in a little velvet bag beside the bed. The dildo does not take standard alkaline batteries but is instead powered by a mixture of beans, rice, chicken and avacado. It is a very good dancer. Sometimes, to make room for the dildo, I sleep on the couch.
* Okay, she did host the party but she didn't purchase a hot Latin love slave. That was an example of me stretching the truth. On the Internet, everyone suspects you are dog -- one might as well advertise the opposite in order to confirm the opinion. She did purchase an amazingly life-like vibrator, but I'm hardly jealous of it at all. (My slings and arrows are confined to refusing to acknowlege when it pokes me on Facebook.) It runs on batteries, not biofuel. It's an even crappier dancer than those Pepsi cans that get jiggy with whatever they hear.
* The dildo and I draw lots for access to the sacred cooch. Sometimes we do 'best two out of three' if one of us is feeling especially spunky. To be candid, I probably win more of the time than would be considered fair in the strictest possible sense, but this is because I cheat. I have opposable thumbs, so I can be very tricky with the short stick (e.g., propping it up so it appears, misleadingly, to be a long stick) and also my opponent is inanimate (at least when not switched on) and thus challenged with a certain upper limit to the complexity of wile available to be used against me.
* The Fantasia Party did not devolve into a storm of steamy and uninhibited MILF-on-MILF action. I fail to understand why.
* I went out on my a date with my daughter. We went to see Narnia II: Aslan's Revenge at the local cinematorium, and on the way we stopped to eat poutine and play arcade games. (She's five and half now, for those of you keeping track.) We had a bit of trouble with the first game and ended up seeing the assistant manager's assistant, who supplied us as recompense with about sixteen thousand, five hundred and sixty six tokens; even though each game takes 200 tokens for a single turn, this was still a fair bounty -- from then on we inserted coins with wild abandon, and made that arcade our bitch. We chatted about anything she wanted, and wipes gravy off each other's chins. Later, during the movie, my daughter took my hand and whispered to me that she was having the best day of her whole life. Meanwhile, my father failed to show up for the event of his daughter's giving birth to her first child. I win!
* I am an uncle. Thorin Trouble Gordon, 7/3/2008, 6 lbs. 7 oz. (My daughter watched the whole thing. I was stuck in traffic.)
* I sit on the porch steps with my boy. He likes to watch the road and guess which kind of vehicle will next go pass by. "Pickup twuck," he speculates. "Maybe a wed one." He hunkers down with his elbows on his knees to watch, round face in his palms, brow furrowed seriously. "But maybe bwack. I dono. Could be a bwoo one. I wait." He waits. He likes company while he does. Later, over milk, we'll get to relive the highlights in giddy and zealous recollection. He is two and a half years old. These are the days.
* The newest BlackBook marketing slogan from Cupertino is this: When you're even too pretentious for a regular MacBook: black is the new translucent.
* Once this guy told me I was a racist, so I hanged him. He was a different race from me, but that's entirely beside the point. I didn't like the fact that he was so judgemental. Mistaking my lack of tolerance for racism would be in and of itself racist. But I already knew you were entertaining such simplistic views, because your kind always does.
* I was once beat up by six hateful queers. They were heterophobes. They told me so, and made me read their placards before they laid into me. True to their mean demographic, the slogans on the placards were very witty and spelled impeccably. "You're drowning the world, breeder!" cried their leader as he manhandled me. I was punched through a telephone book so as to maximize pain while minimizing contusions, a method first introduced by pioneering homophobes back before the turn of the century. While I lay in the gutter, moaning, they harshly criticized my outfit and haircut. I thought it would never end. But then it did.
* My batshit-insane father-in-law complains about how gay socialist liberals have crippled the once mighty West with their horrifying welfare state while he's on the way to query the subsidized mail service about the arrival of his groceries allowance cheque from the government. Quietly, I hummed Alanis Morisette. I was overheard by my iPod and reported to the authorities, then sued by the CRIA but I settled out of court for only $6,250 + GST. My lawyer is awesome. I wrote a piece of hatemail to Alanis, and then her bodyguard broke my knees with a cricket bat. Fortunately, due to the glory and wisdom of The Party, I was repaired at no charge. The guy in charge of my rehab was a knock-off Patch Adams, so my crutches are shaped like pink flamingos. Thus, I have been banned from limping through all the classiest neighbourhoods, enforced via restraining order. Who are they to limit my locomotion? Bloody Nanny State.
* I don't really have an iPod. I was kidding. What do you take me for?
* My car breaks down every time my life is going too smoothly. It's a contentment throttle, probably triggered by a certain concentration of endorphins in my blood. How does my car sample my blood? I have a theory about that based largely on the existence of automotive vampirism, which would explain why sometimes I awake to the fading fumes of motor oil in the air and coolant stains on my pillow. Someone industrial has been squatting over me, doing some kind of foul business in the dark of night. I don't think it's the lawnmower, who thirsts only for gasoline, grass and garden gnomes.
* I hate garden gnomes. I think they should be put in special camps.
* The other week my wife hosted one of those Fantasia Party things, where women from the village pop by to be introduced to the opportunity buy minor appliances to ply the depths of their marital loneliness. It's basically like a Tupperware party for vaginas. The kids were ensconsed in their windowless "social science cabinet" in the basement while I hid away upstairs for the duration. When all was said and done I helped my wife clean up the livingroom. She showed me an item she had bought for herself. "What is it?" I asked. "It's a dildo," she told me. "It's amazingly life-like," I observed. "Oh yes, they make them out of a special kind of latex invented by the Stan Winston Creature Workshop in Burbank," she explained. "And it's quite big," I went on to say. "Ninety percent of the size is just the base," she pointed out. "His name is Pedro." I smiled uncertainly. "Hi, Pedro." My wife keeps Pedro in a little velvet bag beside the bed. The dildo does not take standard alkaline batteries but is instead powered by a mixture of beans, rice, chicken and avacado. It is a very good dancer. Sometimes, to make room for the dildo, I sleep on the couch.
* Okay, she did host the party but she didn't purchase a hot Latin love slave. That was an example of me stretching the truth. On the Internet, everyone suspects you are dog -- one might as well advertise the opposite in order to confirm the opinion. She did purchase an amazingly life-like vibrator, but I'm hardly jealous of it at all. (My slings and arrows are confined to refusing to acknowlege when it pokes me on Facebook.) It runs on batteries, not biofuel. It's an even crappier dancer than those Pepsi cans that get jiggy with whatever they hear.
* The dildo and I draw lots for access to the sacred cooch. Sometimes we do 'best two out of three' if one of us is feeling especially spunky. To be candid, I probably win more of the time than would be considered fair in the strictest possible sense, but this is because I cheat. I have opposable thumbs, so I can be very tricky with the short stick (e.g., propping it up so it appears, misleadingly, to be a long stick) and also my opponent is inanimate (at least when not switched on) and thus challenged with a certain upper limit to the complexity of wile available to be used against me.
* The Fantasia Party did not devolve into a storm of steamy and uninhibited MILF-on-MILF action. I fail to understand why.
* I went out on my a date with my daughter. We went to see Narnia II: Aslan's Revenge at the local cinematorium, and on the way we stopped to eat poutine and play arcade games. (She's five and half now, for those of you keeping track.) We had a bit of trouble with the first game and ended up seeing the assistant manager's assistant, who supplied us as recompense with about sixteen thousand, five hundred and sixty six tokens; even though each game takes 200 tokens for a single turn, this was still a fair bounty -- from then on we inserted coins with wild abandon, and made that arcade our bitch. We chatted about anything she wanted, and wipes gravy off each other's chins. Later, during the movie, my daughter took my hand and whispered to me that she was having the best day of her whole life. Meanwhile, my father failed to show up for the event of his daughter's giving birth to her first child. I win!
* I am an uncle. Thorin Trouble Gordon, 7/3/2008, 6 lbs. 7 oz. (My daughter watched the whole thing. I was stuck in traffic.)
* I sit on the porch steps with my boy. He likes to watch the road and guess which kind of vehicle will next go pass by. "Pickup twuck," he speculates. "Maybe a wed one." He hunkers down with his elbows on his knees to watch, round face in his palms, brow furrowed seriously. "But maybe bwack. I dono. Could be a bwoo one. I wait." He waits. He likes company while he does. Later, over milk, we'll get to relive the highlights in giddy and zealous recollection. He is two and a half years old. These are the days.
| < Poem of the Day: "Ajamil and the Tigers" by Arun Kolatkar | The man who has plenty of wheelbarrows and giveth his neighbor none ... > |
