tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49107945854079529572024-02-21T10:37:55.303-08:00Easy RiderParenting without tips.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-41099460289049520492016-12-16T09:27:00.000-08:002016-12-16T09:36:47.625-08:00The Politics of Snappy<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Parenting in the Trump era isn't going to be easy.</span></div>
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9/11</div>
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Kid: Kaepernick is a
jerk for not standing.</div>
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Me: People in this country have the right to protest, bunny.</div>
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Kid: He should be traded for...I can't believe I'm saying
this, but I'd rather have Russell Wilson.</div>
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10/1</div>
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Kid (in park, playing with a beetle): Can I put Beatrice down someone's shirt? </div>
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Me: No. Too mean. </div>
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Kid: Only if it was Donald Trump. </div>
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Girl on nearby blanket:
Donald Trump! Someone said Donald Trump!</div>
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Kid: Mom, why is that lady yelling Donald Trump? </div>
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Guy on blanket: (gasp) That girl just said, “why is that
lady yelling Donald Trump?”</div>
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Girl: Whoa! I'm a full blown lady now.</div>
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Kid: Mom. I just got
quoted.</div>
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10/08 </div>
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Kid: I’m looking on Amazon for a tank. </div>
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Me: What are you going to do with a tank?</div>
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Kid: I'll do like the Trojans and drive it to Trump's house
as a peace offering. </div>
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10/25 </div>
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Kid: Pack your Canada bags, Miss Kitty. Ham will be our new
bacon! </div>
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Miss Kitty: …</div>
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10/22</div>
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Kid: I just found out that Trump is going to win.</div>
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Me: No he's not, bunny.</div>
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Z: He is! And we are going to open our house to people who
don't have green cards. They can sleep in my bed.</div>
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Me: Where are you going to sleep?</div>
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Z: CANADA!</div>
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11/7</div>
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Kid: Hello, I’m a volunteer with Hillary’s campaign. I….</div>
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Voice in Ohio: Oh no! You’re Obamacare! Go away!</div>
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Kid: Thank you for your time. (hangs up) Mom! I got a
Hostile. What should I do? Call the police?</div>
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Me: No. Just click the hostile box and make the next call. </div>
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Kid: I think I should call the police.</div>
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11/8 8pm</div>
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Me: I’m going to keep you safe…no matter what. </div>
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Kid (trying not to cry):
But mom, my friends are going to be deported.</div>
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11/8 9pm</div>
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Me: What are you doing?</div>
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Kid (crying): I’m giving to Mockingjay symbol to America as my
final goodbye before I move to Canada.</div>
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Me: How many fingers are you holding up?</div>
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Kid: (pause) Three.</div>
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11/9</div>
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Me: They’re having a protest downtown.</div>
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Kid: Get your coat!</div>
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11/10</div>
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Questions from Girl Scout’s trip to City Hall: Is Donald
Trump going to build a wall? Why is some of the sand at Ocean Beach black? How
can you watch Donald Trump if he's in Washington?</div>
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11/13 </div>
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Kid: Are you going to
move to Canada with me, Uncle Pauly?</div>
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Uncle: No. I’m going to stay and fight.</div>
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Kid: You can have my room. Please keep Roomy cleaner than I
did.</div>
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11/14</div>
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Kid (crying into my armpit): I’m scared, Mom.</div>
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Me: Don’t be scared. Most people in this country did not
vote for him. They either voted for Hillary or they didn’t vote at all. A lot
of those people are going to be fighting with us. </div>
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Kid (looking up before burying head again): I’m not
reassured. </div>
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Me (stroking her head, my fingers bumping along the two train-track
braids I’d put in that morning): I’m sorry, bunny. <br />
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12/14<br />
Kid: (burying face in my pillow) Mom, I'm scared.<br />
Me: Of what?<br />
Kid: Of Trump.<br />
Me: You don't have to be afraid. He has less power than you think, and a lot of really smart people are working hard against him.<br />
Kid: Mom, he's going to bomb the S-H-I-T out of Syria.<br />
Me: Who said that?<br />
Kid: He did.<br />
Me: Oh right.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-33167056952969675512016-04-14T11:33:00.000-07:002017-04-18T11:25:18.056-07:00Why Your Childhood SuckedIn a way, this is a rebuttal to the latest blog post everyone is passing around like the shrimp puff and condom plate at a key party:<a href="https://rhondastephens.wordpress.com/2016/04/01/parenting-are-we-getting-a-raw-deal/" target="_blank"> Parenting: Are We Getting A Raw Deal? By Rhonda Stephens</a>. In a way, though, because I like the post. If you haven't read it, please do. It's funny and true and it'll make you hope that Big Jerry and Ginny are enjoying their retirement as you remember fondly your own 70s-style childhood.<br />
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And those were truly THE DAYS, weren't they? Freeze tag until the street lights came on. Roller skating everywhere like you were Tootie. Bike riding down to the pond. Accidentally falling in the pond. Picking leeches off your thigh because the pond has leeches. Trick O' Treating in traffic. Getting frostbite from sledding for 8 hours with holes in your hand-me-down boots. Bare knuckle boxing in the street. Giving up on the bare-knuckle thing and picking up some rebar that's just lying around someone's backyard. Playing with rusty power tools at the ol' junkyard. Getting lost in the forest for hours. Getting hit by a car while roller skating. Losing a finger or two in a lawnmower accident. Walking across the street to avoid the pedophile who stands against his fence all day every day, leering at the children who thumb their noses at him and run away so they don't get caught...by the neighborhood pedophile...who should be in jail, but is just standing there, leering and leaning against the fence until his head leaves a weird greasy stain on the fence like a gross brown halo.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhueVjgMY-bLfUENGElkNQCJczat79lFNz2QhXH4q7-kF-QKmLv9zJLhkxegK_jdPuObhx4WgJvY8YpAQkQErJeafrVsSYOtIFkZQh9DKWTLsImCTBBkkQ6KZ97AtzSHQXR0mbfjS9iUmj9/s1600/2012-03-11_17-18-06_376.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhueVjgMY-bLfUENGElkNQCJczat79lFNz2QhXH4q7-kF-QKmLv9zJLhkxegK_jdPuObhx4WgJvY8YpAQkQErJeafrVsSYOtIFkZQh9DKWTLsImCTBBkkQ6KZ97AtzSHQXR0mbfjS9iUmj9/s320/2012-03-11_17-18-06_376.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The author in the 70s, wearing Garanimals and playing on a cannon. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The 70s were great, no doubt, and we are all rightfully proud to have survived the 70s with little more than a few scars, missing digits or limbs, and decades of therapy bills. Seriously. What a RUSH! Ms. Stephens and bloggers like her are right to paint that time with sepia tones, rose tints and Snoopy sno-cone flavors, but it's what they imply that I have I have an issue with. Sometimes they come out and actually say it, but they all imply the same completely wrong sentence fragment: "And we turned out okay." AND WE TURNED OUT OKAY?! Did we? Really? How many of us 70s kids have to start needless wars in Iraq, cause a mortgage crisis that nearly bankrupts the planet earth, greenlight <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Swan_(TV_series)" target="_blank">The Swan</a>, found companies like Girls Gone Wild and bands like Nickelback before we admit that maybe we didn't turn out so great? While middle-aged members of men's rights groups troll the Internet looking for rape survivors to harass, a <a href="http://tedxteen.com/speakers-performers/tedxteen-2014-london/232-trisha-prabhu" target="_blank">14 year-old girl has invented an app to wipe out Internet Bullying</a>. While Baldy McPaunch is poisoning the water supply that we need to live, <a href="http://www.treehugger.com/clean-technology/teen-invents-device-clean-ocean-garbage-patches.html" target="_blank">a teen invented a way to clean up all the garbage</a> that our generation dumped in the ocean like tomorrow would never arrive. While millennials are showing up in huge numbers at Bernie Sanders rallies, guess who is voting for Donald Trump? It's not Dakota, Dallas or even Austin. Nope. Trump lost Texas. It's your Candy-Crush addicted, gray-hair covering, Olive-Garden munching Aunt Cindy. Donald muther-humping DRUMPF?! We lost our fingers to lawnmowers and our innocence to greasy-headed pedophiles for DONALD DRUMPF?! Come on, Cind! Get a grip.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXd57dkeJIfi40w3-V3azcJVZWeefgLOCv69jtiD7OckF8vtkKgujv8xwlAOF3-AI-mHM6p9F9ZNk_zu8LJiMo8TSx33Hp7DgEaZKEOgYu316zljO7CjUXHJrldUIDTQYB81pXLZYkmzj8/s1600/img-Jimmy-Kimmel-Behind-Epic-Prank-at-Donald-Trump-Rally.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXd57dkeJIfi40w3-V3azcJVZWeefgLOCv69jtiD7OckF8vtkKgujv8xwlAOF3-AI-mHM6p9F9ZNk_zu8LJiMo8TSx33Hp7DgEaZKEOgYu316zljO7CjUXHJrldUIDTQYB81pXLZYkmzj8/s320/img-Jimmy-Kimmel-Behind-Epic-Prank-at-Donald-Trump-Rally.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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So then the blog war began. (Amongst Gen Xers. Millennials don't argue via the four-to-six-paragraph blog post. They take their beefs to Snapchat...where they belong!) We wrote a million blogs about how to raise children who will have enough self-esteem to NOT vote for Donald Trump. We read the blogs written by tenured college professors about the basic skills kids today are missing due to helicopter parenting, and no, the irony of someone entrenched in academia complaining that someone else can't hack it out in the real world is not lost on us, and yes, we concede that <a href="http://sfeasyrider.blogspot.com/2011/08/eight-parenting-styles-more-annoying.html" target="_blank">helicopter parenting is annoying</a> and that you should make your kid cut the crusts of their own damn sandwich and twelve is too old to still be pushing them on the swings, but maybe these supposedly over-parented kids have some skills that we don't. With the exception of going on a 48 hour, unchaperoned trek through the woods to look at a dead body, a millennial with twelve years of ballet, tap, chess, Hapkido, violin and swimming under their black belts is going to handle any situation better than a twitchy, three-fingered Gen Xer. Let's get real.<br />
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At the beginning of her post, Stephens asks: "<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "pt serif" , serif; line-height: 30.6px;">When did adults start caring whether or not their kids were safe, happy, or popular?" </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "pt serif" , serif; line-height: 30.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "pt" serif , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 30.6px;">I'll tell you when, Rhonda. Right around the time Al Gore told us that we've doomed human civilization for all eternity because we don't like carpooling. We tried it the 70s way. Now let's try Giving A Crap! It can't do any more damage than has already been done. </span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://rhondastephens.wordpress.com/2016/04/01/parenting-are-we-getting-a-raw-deal/"></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-61796460749652454112014-05-23T20:00:00.000-07:002014-05-23T20:01:26.380-07:00Things My Kid Doesn't Give a Fuck About.Guess what? I'm on Pinterest now! I'm mostly pinning pictures of bored cats and ideas for crafty stuff I will never ever get off my ass and do. I just created a board called: <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/melindasf/things-my-kid-doesnt-give-a-shit-about/" target="_blank">Things my kid does not give a shit about</a>. It's in the early stages, but it's mostly about all that hipstery crap that people act like kids give a crap about but really don't, like flower bologna for your bento box, twee designer kids clothes and retro-themed birthday parties.<br />
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Here are a few of my first pins:<br />
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Sure. It's cute, and I really want to turn my kid's lunch into a ransom letter, but I know that my kid really doesn't care about shit like that. </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-8229247860017911122013-04-11T08:39:00.002-07:002013-04-11T08:43:29.595-07:00The Sad Story of Cattown<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This morning, Snaps told me about a mythical place I've never heard of: Cattown. It's a place where all cats live before they end up in their mommy's tummies. Sounds like a wonderful place, right?<br />
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Wrong! Snaps continued.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Did you know that Cattown has segregation? There's segregation in the restaurants and stores and even the public buildings.</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_37mv9DzY_K2PFrjhXgatWOiBGuhXu4r0Fa3iYmVSY6rS_H2L3e6rm0atfL50HfdbvmNecXS-Eyv53IsRUAwwz6RXm0dkH2p17t0qcb-n2Z-kqbWoxnAaPK5aSVgVdh5Ggqoy7K_ywSfS/s1600/images+(11).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_37mv9DzY_K2PFrjhXgatWOiBGuhXu4r0Fa3iYmVSY6rS_H2L3e6rm0atfL50HfdbvmNecXS-Eyv53IsRUAwwz6RXm0dkH2p17t0qcb-n2Z-kqbWoxnAaPK5aSVgVdh5Ggqoy7K_ywSfS/s1600/images+(11).jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Wow! Are the dogs and cats segregated? Because that would make sense.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
No. Only white cats and some beige cats and white dogs and some beige dogs as long as they have some white on them.</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifjO-lNp0VnTheC9WeEB5WSSbil7f7J1VcU9KgKSf8ptb2YXlYiXUT7FHhGWU3tFWgs4Pn1rJ5Ca3fu0S6c6aNqIgC8IwSGe88Bzlre_y-8jZb1dkf3TW89fvOfU4MxDCoY8rf8FFmiI9p/s1600/images+(8).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifjO-lNp0VnTheC9WeEB5WSSbil7f7J1VcU9KgKSf8ptb2YXlYiXUT7FHhGWU3tFWgs4Pn1rJ5Ca3fu0S6c6aNqIgC8IwSGe88Bzlre_y-8jZb1dkf3TW89fvOfU4MxDCoY8rf8FFmiI9p/s1600/images+(8).jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
And there were restaurants just for black cats and brown cats. </blockquote>
Those sound like fun places.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
They are. Lots of fun.</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-E0ryvV0VUXQY2icil1zMN26H1-2bq3kH2NVrSeoEZYDOJRh0sWW-SqVIpDueP3SbCBqzcFrUyqopFCo3pt0I5OhvyTKnWUsUgUVoBbq6RCuPORWx7XFloIXuFAIEVQzhC_pGnmnw_ip6/s1600/bllack23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-E0ryvV0VUXQY2icil1zMN26H1-2bq3kH2NVrSeoEZYDOJRh0sWW-SqVIpDueP3SbCBqzcFrUyqopFCo3pt0I5OhvyTKnWUsUgUVoBbq6RCuPORWx7XFloIXuFAIEVQzhC_pGnmnw_ip6/s1600/bllack23.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Still, despite the raucous good time of the all black and brown cat bars, Cattown sounds harsh, but it had a hero.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs0AqGzLPVYQeb_jx4u4dwgukCl9vmcWRC6YBV26XE5wqDXRyzibkJUkbSpbYAQWcYdI7Fdqluj_GzdINm0EGJtHwZzOagvX5FwVrKpsGHoi-2Z_E2l7VJoreS3Ofqc5m-grIeNRu22QP6/s1600/2013-03-16+10.32.35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs0AqGzLPVYQeb_jx4u4dwgukCl9vmcWRC6YBV26XE5wqDXRyzibkJUkbSpbYAQWcYdI7Fdqluj_GzdINm0EGJtHwZzOagvX5FwVrKpsGHoi-2Z_E2l7VJoreS3Ofqc5m-grIeNRu22QP6/s320/2013-03-16+10.32.35.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
An unlikely one.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Mum, did you know that Floyd protested one of the restaurants. It was really bad. He protested and the cats threw their milk at him, and water and they even threw their kibble.</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrr4MTA3tIVWzV197Le6H1QmSNtrOo42BWd3oP6UzBO-4u9p-oZchPzIfbUnqVjbrqZt0F2AFqlJrqA8CcQoWLbZSLhrIprvX1bkqex6AMf_-xkPdTRBNUs7VdauNbm7187SZ6aWxIXhGK/s1600/images+(7).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrr4MTA3tIVWzV197Le6H1QmSNtrOo42BWd3oP6UzBO-4u9p-oZchPzIfbUnqVjbrqZt0F2AFqlJrqA8CcQoWLbZSLhrIprvX1bkqex6AMf_-xkPdTRBNUs7VdauNbm7187SZ6aWxIXhGK/s1600/images+(7).jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
It was bad. Even the kittens threw milk at him.</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbX8nXMyZ8lLy2EaXI7G1QXgZ0223TNseBWAZjZMbPMMKioBQWsUR5PZArzDDawcfwjIu0IBz5jGAO5ylLkx6y83HKvF4wQYpvMyHxFaXb2iHhoNRhd_26g8lheZ-yn2LIhyphenhyphenGvXKSIvFxp/s1600/images+(9).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbX8nXMyZ8lLy2EaXI7G1QXgZ0223TNseBWAZjZMbPMMKioBQWsUR5PZArzDDawcfwjIu0IBz5jGAO5ylLkx6y83HKvF4wQYpvMyHxFaXb2iHhoNRhd_26g8lheZ-yn2LIhyphenhyphenGvXKSIvFxp/s320/images+(9).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
Even the kittens? That is surprising. Did other black cats protest too?</div>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
No. Maunalani just looked at the signs and said, "Unfair."</blockquote>
Not a woman of action, huh? We can't all be Rosa Parks.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
But then, one day, did you know? All the cats from Cattown get picked up and taken to all the shelters.</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4mtqTAY5joT0PmU0zfmSVxoW02usXqTzM5seUQYF8H2aqJ138xOREFUhk2YQRJYy0eZ3M69-DHxTex1NyoOS9NBjvfII2aNhqlEjwrl3UzCgYiXplwEyM_rqmNVUqarDG5tK-P5hPyEJr/s1600/293612_2323210836725_5917017_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4mtqTAY5joT0PmU0zfmSVxoW02usXqTzM5seUQYF8H2aqJ138xOREFUhk2YQRJYy0eZ3M69-DHxTex1NyoOS9NBjvfII2aNhqlEjwrl3UzCgYiXplwEyM_rqmNVUqarDG5tK-P5hPyEJr/s320/293612_2323210836725_5917017_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
That's how we got Pink Floyd!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYblA2xPG_cFlikE05k-LIFgQ9wXAgpd3NFB5h78lBbGcyMxlcX0zhbqcSuvnCbyuoeA8-CtQ_sHvdKA789S88LxkXBnD_wt7BkmuKI81-l_uS1Yl5MbeVaqxy9w8xxDOdQXIgZXAJ5alx/s1600/295787_2323212516767_392624_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYblA2xPG_cFlikE05k-LIFgQ9wXAgpd3NFB5h78lBbGcyMxlcX0zhbqcSuvnCbyuoeA8-CtQ_sHvdKA789S88LxkXBnD_wt7BkmuKI81-l_uS1Yl5MbeVaqxy9w8xxDOdQXIgZXAJ5alx/s320/295787_2323212516767_392624_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Yeah! And don't you think he was glad to be out of Cattown?</blockquote>
I do. That place sounds like a crap hole.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqDe8s_pnotPivM4bTbC-3nSVH3iPe9zTKdX5jO5HsGemR3MWgFn5G77mcukHf3FEnuqC18tgj5DoXtpX0OWVhsNZ3a8k0s0xlS7MO0RMy04iGCMzdlYNCUlBDXPzIOwA-vee3bfw18a8Z/s1600/2013-03-21+07.45.44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqDe8s_pnotPivM4bTbC-3nSVH3iPe9zTKdX5jO5HsGemR3MWgFn5G77mcukHf3FEnuqC18tgj5DoXtpX0OWVhsNZ3a8k0s0xlS7MO0RMy04iGCMzdlYNCUlBDXPzIOwA-vee3bfw18a8Z/s320/2013-03-21+07.45.44.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-15743700854879772162013-01-05T10:22:00.000-08:002013-01-05T15:59:01.535-08:00Top Six Reasons Parents Today Are Lame Compared to Parents Six Years Ago.Oh you parents today think you are so cool with your binkies that look like stuffed animals and lead-free toys. Back in my day, about six years ago, if the binky popped out of the kids mouth we had to pick it up ourselves--like a common servant. And sure, there was lead in every single one of our baby's toys (even their binkies), but we didn't care because we were drunk. What's that? You don't spend all afternoon at wine bar playdates with your babies? Too bad. We did, and it was pretty freaking cool. I think. I can't really remember that well. I think I remember enough to pass judgment on the way you youngsters are doing it now, though.<br />
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1. First of all: Baby Bjorns! Back in my day, if you didn't carry your baby in a Bjorn, you were an asshole, and people told you so. I once admitted to a strange mom in a Bristol Farms that I stopped using the Bjorn when my baby was six months because she wouldn't stop jumping up and down in it like it was her own personal trampoline...a trampoline designed to break her mother's back. The woman threw a jar of organic tofu and tapenade baby food at me and ran.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFJWGpAE3GY0dru7cmdyaKpD5lP3l8oEGmLpKYrcipvL4FUPmkOwsW7CTK63aM5Z8WsrINlkfVZ19i4eCSykEKTQ_efbsPUlZG_61KxOuFzkWTtWXA1ZNCIf7uH6WoyqbYgIIJXv-kGSA7/s1600/bjorn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFJWGpAE3GY0dru7cmdyaKpD5lP3l8oEGmLpKYrcipvL4FUPmkOwsW7CTK63aM5Z8WsrINlkfVZ19i4eCSykEKTQ_efbsPUlZG_61KxOuFzkWTtWXA1ZNCIf7uH6WoyqbYgIIJXv-kGSA7/s320/bjorn.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me. Not being an asshole.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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If a smug, Bjorn-sporting parent from 2006 were to step into a time-warp and end up at a Park Slope playground in 2013, they would immediately be pelted with lead-free Tupperware bowls filled with seaweed snacks and shouts of "Hip Displacement!" and "baby hater!". The parent would try to explain that the warning on the box specifically told us to take the baby out of the Bjorn every 30 minutes to avoid just such a problem. "Box?" The parents of today would say, and then just just stare blankly at the parent of six years ago because parents today only buy second-hand. ...And then they would throw more seaweed.<br />
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<div>
2. Oh...and that's another thing. Back in my day, if you didn't feed your baby tofu, you were a jerk! Now, if you feed your baby soy products of any kind you might as well be feeding them a birth control pill because tofu and soy products contain MASSIVE just MASSIVE amounts of estrogen. I guess that's why none of our toddlers got pregnant, though. Just saying.</div>
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<div>
3. BPA! BPA! BPA! In 2006, we had no idea what those things were, but we used them like crazy in all our baby products. Today, BPAs are completely banned from use in all baby products and no one has any idea what they are. See the difference?</div>
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4. In my day you kept the baby in the backseat until they were about twelve. And if the baby was caught facing the wrong way, we'd take a picture of it and splash it across every tabloid cover in the free world. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6pOsYvT2Iqxm0mwXh_gEM9qN07ZhWzPCZAKpPxTpnROBrvr2BvCKjBCUjJz1GezinS3UnoqDkz6QeqoJUkXYlQq1U3P2KwBRxCy0WPHs9FoFrG-hcg2OMUs_02n3ICqIkFgxEsr4j45My/s1600/images+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6pOsYvT2Iqxm0mwXh_gEM9qN07ZhWzPCZAKpPxTpnROBrvr2BvCKjBCUjJz1GezinS3UnoqDkz6QeqoJUkXYlQq1U3P2KwBRxCy0WPHs9FoFrG-hcg2OMUs_02n3ICqIkFgxEsr4j45My/s1600/images+(1).jpg" /></a></div>
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Nowadays, they are in the backseat until they are sixteen...or reach the height of 5'7". If the baby is facing the wrong way, you go to jail. Oh...how wrong we were.</div>
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<div>
5. Oh and look at this, parents of today. This is what passed for a shocking and controversial breastfeeding photo in August of ought six. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0LnES-IxWWMwOjBoS4JQED62otfgqWim35OKIFHh6uwM1CugbDjisSspNqu-pd0wXWPuXhpnW2nbDR_9vnyW2AA9OwJLyE6O_44eQxwP9OULb9GyKZp-AlFNs3vBxj2Ttg49H1AV512PA/s1600/babytalk-august-2006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0LnES-IxWWMwOjBoS4JQED62otfgqWim35OKIFHh6uwM1CugbDjisSspNqu-pd0wXWPuXhpnW2nbDR_9vnyW2AA9OwJLyE6O_44eQxwP9OULb9GyKZp-AlFNs3vBxj2Ttg49H1AV512PA/s320/babytalk-august-2006.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">SHAME!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And this is what it takes to shock you new-fangled baby wranglers:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSahM2rWBWfYHx6l1AfkxXEHIvLYuAYETD2lpoPdsvr-ce45nbLOVwgt88QNEHFStCmM9oBUwvCjNFPaxjMDfzTPC4lmPuv-dd5CWCbsQX4-duCaZfQ6heWYSfBc5D16rWB_mjr03my7Ju/s1600/time-magazine-breastfeeding-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSahM2rWBWfYHx6l1AfkxXEHIvLYuAYETD2lpoPdsvr-ce45nbLOVwgt88QNEHFStCmM9oBUwvCjNFPaxjMDfzTPC4lmPuv-dd5CWCbsQX4-duCaZfQ6heWYSfBc5D16rWB_mjr03my7Ju/s320/time-magazine-breastfeeding-cover.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By 2017, the mom will be replaced by an middle-aged man and the kid will be a spider monkey.</td></tr>
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<div>
6. iPads. Believe it or not, whippersnappers, we did not have iPads. It we wanted our baby to STFU, we just had to ask them nicely...or drug them...or let them play with our phone. And if we got a call? We had to just suck it up because we could not have a quiet baby and make a phone call at the same time.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSQ1D-YFK3PLrzM8rZN658bFDz1yk3MICVYcJGKGVhhvHYwsXVVa7pyyqIljml2JG7REtmqKxYwtXAdtpHFtfyxg6rEamFzOnuMa8dNXHkkOciZngqdFZL6_h6G_9m61OkT-8dzZH2LPhv/s1600/images+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSQ1D-YFK3PLrzM8rZN658bFDz1yk3MICVYcJGKGVhhvHYwsXVVa7pyyqIljml2JG7REtmqKxYwtXAdtpHFtfyxg6rEamFzOnuMa8dNXHkkOciZngqdFZL6_h6G_9m61OkT-8dzZH2LPhv/s1600/images+(3).jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You guys have it so damned easy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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BONUS! Nowadays, parents are all complaining that they can't buy tickets to Burning Man anymore.</div>
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In my day...uh...what the hell is Burning Man again? I forgot.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-74469901968986280512012-09-15T15:37:00.001-07:002013-01-05T17:35:18.363-08:00Easy Rider: Media SvengaliSo a while back, I posted about those ridiculously <a href="http://sfeasyrider.blogspot.com/2012/08/things-that-suck-swiffer-ads.html" target="_blank">sexist Swiffer commercials </a>where women are so surprised to find they've finished the housework before collapsing in a dusty heap at their pampered family's feet, they excitedly allow themselves a treat. Something their husbands and children take for granted, but for them is a luxurious indulgence--things like reading, bathing, drinking or going outside.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8nHLYhejdHuhP1nmnzy_qEUpFgVwGo17RtnPqUK6y1UeA4Q70ofs32C2n4RfWKWrmGWgzAYnRPDhlrpNlVcSsxUCHOglSSXqzIj1r2AtXL6HvFHkbAznaHBvZLPywP-uhWdIbYKMbOqzC/s1600/swiffer7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8nHLYhejdHuhP1nmnzy_qEUpFgVwGo17RtnPqUK6y1UeA4Q70ofs32C2n4RfWKWrmGWgzAYnRPDhlrpNlVcSsxUCHOglSSXqzIj1r2AtXL6HvFHkbAznaHBvZLPywP-uhWdIbYKMbOqzC/s320/swiffer7.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do you know where the bathroom is?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I'm pretty sure the next commercial would go something like this:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Mom</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">(shocked)</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I'm done. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> Picks up roll of toilet paper.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Mom</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">(elated)</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I'm going to use this!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> Her family looks at her with detached disdain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Mom</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I mean, I'm going to figure out how to use this...then I'm going to USE THIS!</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Or it would have had I not stepped in and saved the day. After I called them out for those commercials (as well as a Facebook post where the big brains down at Swiffer Marketing compared a man who <i>actually cleans</i> to a mermaid sighting) they changed their tone and come out </span><a href="http://www.swiffer.com/media-room" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">with two new, less sexist, commercials</a><span style="text-align: left;">. </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwE0p8Q8YK1dYcZm7e3pQJhv1I7UUdNJ2HjYek_zYrm1xY25hiQzXZ7LJGu_vC_E5sSOIIWXtp11tT4W1qDdW6zyDjtpZwFJFiD8Pi6hBOezo8r5WSkIKF0jgKAt4-RY-9dxCMPITpdX5C/s1600/swiffer6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwE0p8Q8YK1dYcZm7e3pQJhv1I7UUdNJ2HjYek_zYrm1xY25hiQzXZ7LJGu_vC_E5sSOIIWXtp11tT4W1qDdW6zyDjtpZwFJFiD8Pi6hBOezo8r5WSkIKF0jgKAt4-RY-9dxCMPITpdX5C/s320/swiffer6.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This might be good for a larf.</td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: left;">In these ads, the women are not quite as shocked to have free time, and they choose something a bit more frivolous to fill it with--like taking a Cosmo quiz, or having a squirt gun fight. Most amazingly, one of the ads actually shows a man cleaning (either that, or he is placing </span><span style="text-align: left;">objectionable reading material out of reach from his impressionable wife, but let's go with cleaning.) </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR-pjF6LWpgNWmgFPlxH3bBYJePWSvYXP1xGSl56E_Ul6Gx3z3wnJpVv557YIfs_yZkkgpCW8Gwx4Usu65pRjldMve94UOC81-qYT0qtpWOHIVQXouXpog05c80I8sweHUQJ-Uq6gnTp0O/s1600/swiffer4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR-pjF6LWpgNWmgFPlxH3bBYJePWSvYXP1xGSl56E_Ul6Gx3z3wnJpVv557YIfs_yZkkgpCW8Gwx4Usu65pRjldMve94UOC81-qYT0qtpWOHIVQXouXpog05c80I8sweHUQJ-Uq6gnTp0O/s320/swiffer4.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who has two thumbs and is afraid of Virginia Woolf? This guy!</td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Women of America, you are welcome.</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-91827543048849578272012-08-27T10:56:00.000-07:002012-08-27T10:56:20.503-07:00From the Way-Back WTF File: Lane Hope Chests<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhviFsy04YZY1cHWAuksrnVsxplZJqyHPZO2MGiBowsfjsENZfwLiOUuYD1qnJy9H0jH9DTg3tGoletGy6OofFazB6CzMukZQkEbgls1VSAbrCGO2LiJUUOAnrheKEI_kFkkSkvhNXF3CBJ/s1600/4503735126_e33e9cbd42.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhviFsy04YZY1cHWAuksrnVsxplZJqyHPZO2MGiBowsfjsENZfwLiOUuYD1qnJy9H0jH9DTg3tGoletGy6OofFazB6CzMukZQkEbgls1VSAbrCGO2LiJUUOAnrheKEI_kFkkSkvhNXF3CBJ/s400/4503735126_e33e9cbd42.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That horse must smell awesome to get a girl like that.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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When I was fourteen, I (like every other fourteen year old, but no other seventeen year old) read 17 Magazine. Well, not the magazine itself, but the ads! Those wonderful, pink and frilly ads that made me wish I could transport my life into that of a upper-middle class girl who wore Love's Baby Soft and Gunne Sax dresses, rode perfumed horses to prom, and dreamed of her upcoming nuptials (to either Morris Day or Kevin Cronin...whoever asked her first) at the edge of her canopy bed while seated atop a Lane's Hope Chest. Those Hope Chests were confusing. I knew I wanted one...like really wanted one...but I had no idea why because I didn't know what the holy heck a hope chest was. I asked my mother, and she said, "They're for teenage girls to put linens and towels and stuff like that in for their wedding." Got it. I would need towels for my wedding, and if I didn't start putting them in an expensive box now, at fourteen, I was horribly behind the game. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpOc7cPcPtm2QATfrdCLk67zZwaLdt4j5gYc5WxsLwCgQHSnMxm5Nkhikku-4C8awlGyiGLPXG5rlFojkzpI8GtQRhXJJuKcU9qDN9GAS6d3M307dgtVdZtAxwnDTveOtpOZJ8hclol-Lc/s1600/5594765799_d605ac0056_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="387" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpOc7cPcPtm2QATfrdCLk67zZwaLdt4j5gYc5WxsLwCgQHSnMxm5Nkhikku-4C8awlGyiGLPXG5rlFojkzpI8GtQRhXJJuKcU9qDN9GAS6d3M307dgtVdZtAxwnDTveOtpOZJ8hclol-Lc/s400/5594765799_d605ac0056_z.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This towel is already making my friends bitterly jealous. Thanks Lane!</td></tr>
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<br /><br />Of course I didn't actually ask for one. That would be stupid. My mother would sooner buy me a perfumed horse than an expensive box for my wedding towels. But I decided that I would one day buy my daughter a Lane Hope Chest, and a perfumed horse. The problem with that plan soon revealed itself twenty years later when, fully knocked-up with the daughter in question, I finally got married. If I had gotten a Lane Hope Chest at the age of fourteen what good would it have done me and my blushing groom? On the odd chance that my mother hadn't sold the thing a decade earlier at a yard sale, it still would've been filled with a bunch of Tiger Beats, a magazine-clipping-on-poster-board collage (heavy on the Reo Speedwagon and Purple Rain, of course), and one Laura Ashley sheet (not set, but sheet), reeking of mold and a Love's Baby Soft knockoff called Burt's Baby Smell. Totally useless! (Except for that collage. I really want it for the bare spot in my entry way.) <div>
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I did a little research and found that, in older-gal magazines like Redbook and Vogue, the ads suggested a girl wait until she got engaged before getting a Lane...and then it should be gifted to her by her betrothed. Despite the overwhelming evidence that <a href="http://www.lanefurniture.com/Furniture/Cedar-Chests.aspx" target="_blank">Lane is still in business</a>, I'm sure those ads failed miserably. What man wants to buy romantic furniture? And even if he did, if I, a fourteen year old girl, didn't really get the whole idea behind a hope chest, what hope did a thirty-year-old man have? None. No. It makes no sense. Lane must be some sort of front for a smuggling-heroin-in-cedar-hope-chests ring...or possibly an illegal alien border crossing operation. And they nearly got away with it, too...if it weren't for the intrepid musings of one formerly fourteen-year-old girl. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOYuL8Z5QwRNgDW6H0Y2L0YJepi11mPY2SbFBYxhwbSrC5SH9bo7-k700XSY_gqUZSsGe5f88X_xdYmhRXr7h_C37t0InWiLWn2g3PC04bwgYDUnye5jgGDCdxjAbZlYqDr-YTnrjSTn-K/s1600/107-40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOYuL8Z5QwRNgDW6H0Y2L0YJepi11mPY2SbFBYxhwbSrC5SH9bo7-k700XSY_gqUZSsGe5f88X_xdYmhRXr7h_C37t0InWiLWn2g3PC04bwgYDUnye5jgGDCdxjAbZlYqDr-YTnrjSTn-K/s640/107-40.jpg" width="488" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh! Lane sells other furniture too? Also packed with heroin? Or just the hope chests?</td></tr>
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<br />Now that I have a daughter who, at six, is already starting to plan her own wedding (to the cat or her imaginary alien friend...whoever asks her first), my stance on hope chests has changed. If, in seven years, she comes to me and asks me what hope chests are for, I will say, "They are for mob guys who want to smuggle heroin into countries with strict anti-drug laws, Sweetie." The problem is that if 17 Magazine still runs ads for those things, she will want one...and she'll want one bad! Great. I'll have to be the big meanie to tell her no because, whether they are filled with drugs, towels or illegal immigrants, expensive boxes are a waste of time, space and money. If she wants a perfumed horse, though.... I might consider it. Those things could be useful as hell...especially during prom season.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFUr-RsJYa6AjGkJr6xM6U7wB_p407s8DWMhE5p3iUpPL0NhmUqkxxmOf6qg5WhxMBEPNX4hxmvY2jFYDxiV509tgrXAH6mPopbyoGMgrNjYQ5MIhpHVvjW4Hl6qh35tL6hzy30VqO0IKt/s1600/il_570xN.191867535.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFUr-RsJYa6AjGkJr6xM6U7wB_p407s8DWMhE5p3iUpPL0NhmUqkxxmOf6qg5WhxMBEPNX4hxmvY2jFYDxiV509tgrXAH6mPopbyoGMgrNjYQ5MIhpHVvjW4Hl6qh35tL6hzy30VqO0IKt/s640/il_570xN.191867535.jpg" width="460" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well baby, I've got you, a bunch of towels, some heroin, a new gardener and a super-sweet collage all wrapped up in cellophane. Now if only we didn't need oxygen to live. Choke...gasp..... </td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-13180356324899037252012-08-23T09:30:00.001-07:002012-09-15T17:48:51.306-07:00Things That Suck: Swiffer Ads.Seriously. Who is writing these Swiffer ads? Don Draper? Darren from Bewitched? They need to stop. Seriously. Look Darren and Don, I grew up back in the 70s when<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MVLzkTuVmrw" target="_blank"> Calgon t</a>aught us that we were allowed to ignore traffic jams, screaming children and fat, grouchy bosses to take a warm scented bath at ANY TIME! We could bring home the bacon AND fry it up in a pan. And now you want to come at us with this shit that tells us we have to mop the floor before we can use the front door with the regular folks?<br />
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Oh...and that other one where the mom has to scrub the bathroom like she works for Joan Crawford before she can even THINK about getting into the tub? Fuck you, Swiffer. We're women, not medieval fucking serfs. You know what? I never thought I'd say this, but could you bring back those commercials where we are being stalked by our old cleaning supplies? Because I like that Player song. </div>
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<object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://2.gvt0.com/vi/SRPeYhW_qG4/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/SRPeYhW_qG4&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/SRPeYhW_qG4&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
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Ah! Yes. That's the stuff. It's funny because it's a mop...and not a real dude. Hilarious. But don't go thinking all is forgiven, Don! You either, Darren. I saw this shit on your Facebook page this morning. So...yeah. ...Fuck you.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0oeUskrpVgaBYLzw6KF0aSg95K1urA1Si9iYkN_Q9QuGTcGvBM8ELeFyPnN_8aC2runJA00BuhX_04OWcmp58uLX5Jg06XdnWiMIRvPf_husxG9V63oT2Gwg__Z6b1tHTQAf9KiJtgeuA/s1600/swiffer.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0oeUskrpVgaBYLzw6KF0aSg95K1urA1Si9iYkN_Q9QuGTcGvBM8ELeFyPnN_8aC2runJA00BuhX_04OWcmp58uLX5Jg06XdnWiMIRvPf_husxG9V63oT2Gwg__Z6b1tHTQAf9KiJtgeuA/s400/swiffer.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Is that a mirage or a guy doing housework?" ...Oh right. Because men don't clean. Ever.</td></tr>
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UPDATE: I think the <a href="http://sfeasyrider.blogspot.com/2012/09/easy-rider-media-svengali.html" target="_blank">Powers to be at Mad Ave are reading this blog.</a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-39082413162504046822012-07-31T13:19:00.001-07:002012-07-31T17:16:36.133-07:00Postcards from the EdgyAllow me to introduce myself. I am an edgy dad. As a matter of fact, I am That Edgy Dad!(tm) You may not remember me from that little-seen one man show, or from the sporadic appearances at various sparsely attended local comedy shows.<br />
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I say edgy things at which you laugh, even though you know they are wrong. Then you shake your head or fist with mock disgust and say, "Why, you edgy dad! Oh, that edgy dad. What can you do; he's an edgy dad!" Imagine Louis C.K., but not famous or likable.<br />
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But I can't help it. Edginess is a part of me; it runs in my blood. It isn't just some pose or fad I adopted in my teens and 20s. I resolutely refuse to dull my cutting remarks or fluff up my jaundiced viewpoint. I am the living embodiment of a sardonic, leather jacketed loose cannon. I am a rogue cop and the world is my angry captain.<br />
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Sure, I'm a middle-aged white guy who lives in the suburbs. My two kids are adorable and make me feel like weeping in dreamy wonder. Yes, I've been reduced to accepting Target as a fine boutique that has some pretty decent Michael Graves can openers. But so help me god I will never stop wearing my arch cool smirk and sardonic logo t-shirts, no matter how much they accent my burgeoning midriff.<br />
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Except when I am around my kids, because I don't want them to become infected with ennui at too young of an age. They can get their bitterness the hard way: they can earn it. I am not going to pre-emptively make them feel like life is a rigged game and that there is almost no way to affect positive change for yourself. Sadly, they will probably figure that out by themselves. I will do everything in my power to make them feel empowered and capable and confident. In short, I will try to make them Not Me.<br />
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But since I am a comic and That Edgy Dad(tm), and since my kids can't read yet, I will say whatever I want right here, on the web, where no one can be held accountable for their thoughts or actions.<br />
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<br />That Edgy Dad!(TM)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04606049716779683173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-30898992857769381682012-07-11T12:53:00.000-07:002012-07-11T12:54:36.339-07:00Pink Floyd vs The Most Adorable Animals at The Zoo.Last weekend, I took Snappy to the zoo on Nature Trail day! The Nature Trail at the <a href="http://www.sfzoo.org/" target="_blank">SF ZOO</a> is a little area of the Children's Zoo where volunteer Junior Keepers show you pettable (and not so pettable) animals. The Kiddie Keepers had all memorized a list of facts about their animal. For example: "This is Frank. He is a tortoise. He has a shell that is connected to his spine. He is twenty-three years old."<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPZN3g-kn92fy9XX9E1Zsq61P0TTEENJoprgM2mUa00L2GpDsoI3UqvLBloIIMAzmJS5Gx6_aa7RKI-n1JZOPMurwwyeqf2BjsJZFLZZvB3gPueAURE-CVAwaucrLvNUwlD2-834gTLWy/s1600/img400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPZN3g-kn92fy9XX9E1Zsq61P0TTEENJoprgM2mUa00L2GpDsoI3UqvLBloIIMAzmJS5Gx6_aa7RKI-n1JZOPMurwwyeqf2BjsJZFLZZvB3gPueAURE-CVAwaucrLvNUwlD2-834gTLWy/s320/img400.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This tortoise is her bitch.</td></tr>
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Now Snappy, fresh off of her first year of successful speech therapy since we first started trying to fix her unintelligible speech when she was two, and also being a bit of a chatterbox, took these animal introductions as an invitation to introduce the only animal that matters, her cat. I'll use these adorable animal pictures to describe exactly* how it went down.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUzRAJg1nSMxcc93B3Jby5LcAZYMYrRTRT7WG1FvV2L0MuUFMjiMZPEpFdY4o0d75ATAwXIuPVRoOckBKaDHs4qSkpB_Qldiob7696La2-lKLvvZTSeMcKto6MbuOnPO5kAERJLpsGPF-5/s1600/sulcata.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUzRAJg1nSMxcc93B3Jby5LcAZYMYrRTRT7WG1FvV2L0MuUFMjiMZPEpFdY4o0d75ATAwXIuPVRoOckBKaDHs4qSkpB_Qldiob7696La2-lKLvvZTSeMcKto6MbuOnPO5kAERJLpsGPF-5/s320/sulcata.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh really? Your fucking tortoise has claws?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_BzEJIIT7rJlmZ9TiREsNWn3BI7GvdvhHdH08nbWFAZiYGhOk5pQgBK16fHRnAn2bIAK1dxAtCi6r0hXbyBdB61v_7ijRWE7lxjqn_Jro0DvOttNh9GAl-Qi0uvPGblC6rP2GMtditYP/s1600/img355.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_BzEJIIT7rJlmZ9TiREsNWn3BI7GvdvhHdH08nbWFAZiYGhOk5pQgBK16fHRnAn2bIAK1dxAtCi6r0hXbyBdB61v_7ijRWE7lxjqn_Jro0DvOttNh9GAl-Qi0uvPGblC6rP2GMtditYP/s320/img355.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My cat uses his to scratch the ottoman and not his scratching post because he's a bad ass.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWUMig4zcneldaUCHeescvkkNXiVt-LnyWehWPBjalrbXbrnelk5nlxACh77KqlVlsVV3hfLs5aqksO477gYYYfEqjGIaAivPwOQyZge5BMveBPlybKOciqp786ACuf5mc0WDMVXWJMuGR/s1600/ferret.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWUMig4zcneldaUCHeescvkkNXiVt-LnyWehWPBjalrbXbrnelk5nlxACh77KqlVlsVV3hfLs5aqksO477gYYYfEqjGIaAivPwOQyZge5BMveBPlybKOciqp786ACuf5mc0WDMVXWJMuGR/s320/ferret.jpg" width="319" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Your ferret is soft? Fuck you. That's not soft. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV_ydgni4T4HGC7uf-RxieSbZ7XNgHttMXuKxbC5pqIUi-WSg_1zOJ9oOHAgVMr7KhjUsM1M0YJeTzVqia1oe4nZgFAui8s-KWVge8z8BEdES4SWCc4uVYs55DEjyzt2koKKUpInnU9wws/s1600/img388.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV_ydgni4T4HGC7uf-RxieSbZ7XNgHttMXuKxbC5pqIUi-WSg_1zOJ9oOHAgVMr7KhjUsM1M0YJeTzVqia1oe4nZgFAui8s-KWVge8z8BEdES4SWCc4uVYs55DEjyzt2koKKUpInnU9wws/s400/img388.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This motherfucker is soft!<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1a3IAB1McRcbviM8V5bh7NhOyK2wSc61FlzYZOflxqUrfy82kC_f9l9haUmfyWbj1b0AKOtvp4nbqZ9yVQjHjzZPYt2-IYSZ3l-9IkWvy8K5duXXazgRVHQtGQCYjWhoBybpNG7kAQcJ5/s1600/hedgehog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1a3IAB1McRcbviM8V5bh7NhOyK2wSc61FlzYZOflxqUrfy82kC_f9l9haUmfyWbj1b0AKOtvp4nbqZ9yVQjHjzZPYt2-IYSZ3l-9IkWvy8K5duXXazgRVHQtGQCYjWhoBybpNG7kAQcJ5/s320/hedgehog.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh really? I can pet your fucking Hedgehog? You know who else I can pet?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0M3x_qYoN3INS50yYmVj9dUy-ZKGmsXy9DE949HiZAnpV5z38jjV8r4FS9ojaOFRJxP1nn8KIiI4TBEzo3xo3WROYBRLMKWkHwfqLKkQv7Zu7_kSMnBFIjqUaHOQvAGQQWJjPE1GdQY9x/s1600/img453.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0M3x_qYoN3INS50yYmVj9dUy-ZKGmsXy9DE949HiZAnpV5z38jjV8r4FS9ojaOFRJxP1nn8KIiI4TBEzo3xo3WROYBRLMKWkHwfqLKkQv7Zu7_kSMnBFIjqUaHOQvAGQQWJjPE1GdQY9x/s400/img453.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This Bitch! That's right. He sleeps on a doll bed. Like a boss.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGg3aufbgWbHbRvdiDozE42BeoxUodg4lCUhYK0XTshdoDO54-xz1SyZ4HEdLylltNfxfuNmropemBB0Hf5Imit3K9H5sS-kKV6Y5atig_cUFO4JRtyi438xKMIQyP4ZzZCBKaCWihEzrp/s1600/cute-bunny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGg3aufbgWbHbRvdiDozE42BeoxUodg4lCUhYK0XTshdoDO54-xz1SyZ4HEdLylltNfxfuNmropemBB0Hf5Imit3K9H5sS-kKV6Y5atig_cUFO4JRtyi438xKMIQyP4ZzZCBKaCWihEzrp/s320/cute-bunny.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Your bunny's name is Flopsy? That name sucks. You know what name doesn't suck?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoOyNE2_V6QUezFwjIoiZO_s4MEDJIaXn9HnYFfg0YoyGkfsT77ZY1qMrYkHn9AXqRIMmzDKL2kJ85pupTHQUt2324EUPdEpGurTcUm4Ql_Zu1fPjrnm4nRgWVXp1-Z1Zg-R0MVsxZQB1a/s1600/img396.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoOyNE2_V6QUezFwjIoiZO_s4MEDJIaXn9HnYFfg0YoyGkfsT77ZY1qMrYkHn9AXqRIMmzDKL2kJ85pupTHQUt2324EUPdEpGurTcUm4Ql_Zu1fPjrnm4nRgWVXp1-Z1Zg-R0MVsxZQB1a/s400/img396.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pink Floyd. Memorize it, fool.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
* Only without quite so much swearing. But you get the idea.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-54572177239001629532012-05-24T09:39:00.000-07:002016-04-14T18:30:42.317-07:00Does Your Mother Suck? Baby beware.<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">This blog post is only for my newborn readers. Everyone else, could you just bust into the nearest L&D room and hold a laptop or an iPad up to the little bugger's face? Thanks.</span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
So you were just born, huh? Well guess what.... F*ck you, baby! That's right F-asterisk-C-K-U because everything here sucks: the environment, the economy, schools, roads, the two-party political system, and, now that House is gone, network television. Oh...and lattes are all either too hot or too cold, dogs smell really bad when they're wet, and potato salad has too many variations. So, yeah. It's sucky here. But, if you haven't heard, <a href="http://www.time.com/time/covers/0,16641,20120521,00.html" target="_blank">moms also suck</a>. But what about your mom? You know, the owner of that opening you just tore apart like it was a birthday present? Does she suck? Probably. <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/05/17/petricia-krentcil-tanning-mom-braless_n_1525450.html#s=989944" target="_blank">Most of them do</a>. But how can you know for sure. Don't worry, babies. I got you....<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj02NCq0sPpBvYdaFp8Bw4ECm_RNbCoRbo_rrsxwhQZjdzHdp9t8WtVpp8rkYDgyfHS9i2e_oJKFlV_YEZZvjae9e_HiFjENIasqG7xSrF_fjJY9kyfBz_Clo8DWzA5vy4xkRdizbypm93K/s1600/2006-06-08+11.58.58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj02NCq0sPpBvYdaFp8Bw4ECm_RNbCoRbo_rrsxwhQZjdzHdp9t8WtVpp8rkYDgyfHS9i2e_oJKFlV_YEZZvjae9e_HiFjENIasqG7xSrF_fjJY9kyfBz_Clo8DWzA5vy4xkRdizbypm93K/s320/2006-06-08+11.58.58.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Easyridersf</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<h3>
How does she look?</h3>
<div>
Go ahead. Look at her. Open your eyes first. Eyes are those two weird holes in the middle your face. No. Not those holes...stupid baby. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<h4>
Like she's about to die.</h4>
<div>
Ooh! Not good. She didn't get an epidural or any of the other fun drugs offered to her. That means that she's probably a hippie...or a vegan. Or even worse--a vegan hippie! You will never know what candy that isn't sweetened with raisin syrup tastes like. You will eat your first Lunchable at the age of 18...you will love it. No doubt about it. She sucks, but she's sucking for "your own good", so you can't really do anything about it except rebel when you finally grow up. Might I suggest opening up a non-sustainable chain of pork skin restaurants...or voting Libertarian?</div>
<br />
<h4>
Calm and happy.</h4>
<div>
Ouch! That does not bode well. If she's calm, it means she gladly took that epidural and possibly some, and probably all, of the other fun drugs offered at pushy-pushy time. She must be one of those selfish, slacker moms who occasionally think of only themselves. She will always pick you up late from soccer or ballet or dandelion scouts or whatever...assuming she actually signs you up for all that crap. All of your birthday cakes will be from the grocery store. Your name will be misspelled on most of them. This type of mom is easy to get back at with a taste of her own off-brand medicine. Every year, send her a Happy Mother's Day text three days late. Spell "mom" wrong.</div>
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
She looks like this:</h4>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiDk5M6mkhGHkDH6M_F4z_hZJzxZFCtZsvWcDMxl2kbHHrhiRPDMgeb6hH4oy44X94dZC8GJ1yHwMboGVckGUmmfFqzrtTrE7v3aOyzP21WzWcx7Q0MdJDZJrkJ_a9U7q6LP9ECvuLFyVG/s1600/MommieDearest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiDk5M6mkhGHkDH6M_F4z_hZJzxZFCtZsvWcDMxl2kbHHrhiRPDMgeb6hH4oy44X94dZC8GJ1yHwMboGVckGUmmfFqzrtTrE7v3aOyzP21WzWcx7Q0MdJDZJrkJ_a9U7q6LP9ECvuLFyVG/s320/MommieDearest.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paramount</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Don't panic. Just grab the nearest cellphone and call CPS. You know what a cellphone is, right? You don't? ...stupid baby... A cellphone is like a play phone, only when you call 911, Elmo usually doesn't answer. You don't know who Elmo is? Jespus Crisps! What are they teaching you kids today between the vag and the OB's gloved-hands? Listen. Just try to roll on the floor. If horror movies have taught me anything, you will instinctively slither out the door...into the sucky, sucky world. (A sucky world that has just been made even more sucky by a rampant, slithering newborn.) </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yep. All moms suck. And you know what's even suckier? Besides the slithering-away option, you can't do a damned thing about it. You are stuck with her and her suckiness. And the terrible thing is that you will have no idea how sucky she is. You are a stupid baby who doesn't know who Elmo is. You'll think she's just great--misspelled cake and all. More than great. Awesome, even. That's right, this sucky woman is going to make you love her more than anything...more than raisin-syrup candy (which you will learn to love quite a lot right up until you discover Kit-Kats)! And guess what? It's a life sentence. You will never stop loving this awful woman. Face it. Your mom sucks. Now suck it up and get some sweet skin-to-skin with her, you stupid baby. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-54277591120302238662012-02-19T13:35:00.000-08:002012-02-19T14:03:22.710-08:00Hipster FAQMuch has been written on this blog, and every other one on the interweb, about hipsters. You'd think that there would be nothing left to talk about. But no. The notion of "The Hipster" is an ever changing, mutating and growing phenomenon that often latches itself onto stair-wells and ceilings, dripping caustic ooze onto unsuspecting passer-by, like The Blob (not the original Blob, but the remake with Kevin Dillon). So with that said, I offer the definitive (for now) Hipster FAQ.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga-nX9juYlNsTF-AdfOLEaCAG-DKLIojdqf9fjlhCYJdwrgX-b5b5qyvdGG2WtFUN-HMClvEyhs8vcb0cvF-faJ0fcO75GRADpmlAXk6EgLe6bpU60vIlUjIfZtTu09ZrJYAqGtKAjPiss/s1600/Blob-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga-nX9juYlNsTF-AdfOLEaCAG-DKLIojdqf9fjlhCYJdwrgX-b5b5qyvdGG2WtFUN-HMClvEyhs8vcb0cvF-faJ0fcO75GRADpmlAXk6EgLe6bpU60vIlUjIfZtTu09ZrJYAqGtKAjPiss/s400/Blob-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh my GOD! The Hipsters are coming, and they haven't had brunch yet!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;">Q: </span><b>What is the difference between a Hipster and a Freak?</b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A:</span> Good question. Because there actually is one, but it is sometimes hard to spot. Hipsters are people who try to be different in a way that is just like everyone else in their gentrified neighborhood. Freaks are people who are different because they are different...and usually can't afford to live in gentrified neighborhoods, for that matter. Let me put it this way: if you like wearing and doing stuff that will get your exposed butt kicked out of all but our country's least respectable Applebee's* because no one liked you in high school--you are a freak. But if you just want people to <i>think</i> that no one liked you in high school, welcome to Hipster City, population: you. To make it even easier: if you look like Bootsy Collins, you are a freak. If you look like Jeff Goldblum, you are a hipster. If you look like Nicki Minaj or Lady Gaga, you are a freak. If you look like Lisa Loeb or Lisa Bonet...you are a hipster. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBU2uYoQ5iFTKGBHbpBeJqU5kWpfWZjML1yPpwYgXhzrapax-wJm4tlWf1TDwOPUFD30OkBFmt7kglOu6p0uhFK3_TdVg7lNUshgfSJsPqHaohvqHsA5Tl8JAnYqmolFwf43JDTj9S4J7/s1600/images+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBU2uYoQ5iFTKGBHbpBeJqU5kWpfWZjML1yPpwYgXhzrapax-wJm4tlWf1TDwOPUFD30OkBFmt7kglOu6p0uhFK3_TdVg7lNUshgfSJsPqHaohvqHsA5Tl8JAnYqmolFwf43JDTj9S4J7/s320/images+(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More like this?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzCyi_XKH-wx3KYX-xhuDSF8nB9XwPXIMmq3EGuHOBAf3Sy_uCV7ee3WOypS6blsOqdgaawGaO5A7qKHOV3BPsHB4YePny0DbSvZhMAWmQE04p1vUVF01mfueU_F2ot1usMDxgwEjMFnCn/s1600/twitter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzCyi_XKH-wx3KYX-xhuDSF8nB9XwPXIMmq3EGuHOBAf3Sy_uCV7ee3WOypS6blsOqdgaawGaO5A7qKHOV3BPsHB4YePny0DbSvZhMAWmQE04p1vUVF01mfueU_F2ot1usMDxgwEjMFnCn/s200/twitter.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Or more like this?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Q:</span> <b>Oh god! I think I might have accidentally engaged in a conversation with a Hipster. What do I do? </b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A: </span>Okay, calm down. It might not actually be a hipster. You might just be talking to a barista. Look at his or her hand. Is it holding your coffee? Just take it and back away...slowly. If not, touch your ears. Are they bleeding because The Possible Hipster won't shut up about composting toilets, all the places he's seen a real Banksy and how The Food Network keeps ruining all his favorite eateries and drinkeries? You are talking to a hipster. Don't panic. That's the worst thing you could do. Panic is like offal ice cream to them...they love it. Just yell the word <i>bacon</i> three times, confess that you've always really liked The Shins, but now you think they've sold out, and scream, "I really want to try that raw diet, but I love bacon too much!" Then run, don't walk, to the nearest coffee shop that doesn't brew by the cup. A hipster will never follow you there.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_oNQyyQaw6esKCJhahZRToiyOWKC1moq_XSy8okONYwqzTxcLL5sHBSo3rdLWEM7y202Jiaq4FhYtpt5EVfYV4Akpl0lpu9QbISLKFoZ8kqDcy9xvKw3T0MK6EV0kRWocPSp3XcUTXHYg/s1600/guyfieri_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_oNQyyQaw6esKCJhahZRToiyOWKC1moq_XSy8okONYwqzTxcLL5sHBSo3rdLWEM7y202Jiaq4FhYtpt5EVfYV4Akpl0lpu9QbISLKFoZ8kqDcy9xvKw3T0MK6EV0kRWocPSp3XcUTXHYg/s400/guyfieri_web.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The natural enemy of the hipster.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Q:</span> <b>This is embarrassing. I think I might be a hipster. Am I?</b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A:</span> Relax. So what? So you've been to a few Modest Mouse shows--it doesn't mean you're a hipster. It means you have bad taste in music. The very fact that you are embarrassed makes me suspect that you are not a Hipster. I know it sounds strange, but Hipsters are actually proud of their Hipster status. (Especially after Bon Iver won the Grammy and gave the whole movement the one thing they love to pretend they don't want: mainstream cred.) If you're still worried, here are a few questions to ask yourself. Do you look like a member of The Specials? If yes, you are either a hipster, or you are in that band The Specials and should probably be getting ready for your reunion tour. Oh, and this is definitive Do you drink PBR? Then you are a hipster.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2wrfZuRIE0k0tHetav37uzVnQIB0tg4yVUaigamHINb61wIyzPKFlItEyPzIl-WXZ3-lISVUsOVPwgguEgxY5kTuBubbSHyGCRG8aU_HfcvRT7M-1jsfANF9H9UVmUtHxpBZ8kQqMGgU3/s1600/61RK-yCynHL._SL290_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2wrfZuRIE0k0tHetav37uzVnQIB0tg4yVUaigamHINb61wIyzPKFlItEyPzIl-WXZ3-lISVUsOVPwgguEgxY5kTuBubbSHyGCRG8aU_HfcvRT7M-1jsfANF9H9UVmUtHxpBZ8kQqMGgU3/s320/61RK-yCynHL._SL290_.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A message to you, hipster.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;">Q:</span> <b>I drink PBR, but I am not a hipster.</b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A:</span> That is not a question, but the answer is yes, yes you are.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Q:</span><b> No, I'm not.</b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A:</span> Again, not a question, but yes, you are. To paraphrase Louis Gosset Jr. in An Officer and a Gentleman, "The only people who drink PBR are hipsters and people living on a deserted island who have no other choice, and I don't see a coconut bra** on your sun-burnt boobs (or moobs), so you must be a hipster."<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vf8pXGScuUnxB_WUjhiviwoDi_q9Ja5N0WBhQyzKQYS0vmQlIMSuz4svkP8PaerGaCAVI7Mc2whgnZkdEyNULzC6PLy2UBUHrE0ElOryOGMPA-YyiRUMtP4NCnf4GuEjXc29lFnBeiwT/s1600/images+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vf8pXGScuUnxB_WUjhiviwoDi_q9Ja5N0WBhQyzKQYS0vmQlIMSuz4svkP8PaerGaCAVI7Mc2whgnZkdEyNULzC6PLy2UBUHrE0ElOryOGMPA-YyiRUMtP4NCnf4GuEjXc29lFnBeiwT/s320/images+(3).jpg" width="233" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is that a Pabst Blue Ribbon you're drinking, recruit?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
*You of course would never, ever want to go inside that Applebee's. It's filled with freaks and hipsters.<br />
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** My apologies to deserted-island dwellers who do not wear coconut bras, but are reading this blog on a coconut-based laptop.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-33132456588975638132012-01-17T12:37:00.000-08:002012-05-01T08:50:39.456-07:00War on Feminism: Lost. Stop. Send reinforcements. Stop. And Betty White. Stop.<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Face it, ladies. There has been a war waged on feminism since long before Newt Gingrich suggested that you couldn't (or was it <i>shouldn't</i>) change a tampon in a foxhole. It was completely lost on July 22, 2010 when a judge in St Louis said that if you are drunk and have stupid friends, you can <a href="http://www.stltoday.com/news/local/metro/article_30865bcc-95eb-11df-9734-00127992bc8b.html" target="_blank">legally slip and fall into a nationally advertised soft-core porn video</a> and you don't even have to sign the consent form. Yeah, I think we always knew that the fatal blow to feminism would be dealt by those scum slurpers over at Girls Gone Wild, but who knew a judge and jury would assist them? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, when sexist stuff happens, I'm not surprised. I'm pissed, but not surprised. When asked by the NY Times why there aren't more female comedians on The David Letterman show, Letterman booker, Eddie Brill, said, “There are a lot less female comics who are authentic. I see a lot of female comics who, to please an audience, will act like men.”<b> </b>Hilarious. Even funnier is in the comments section of the Mirth Magazine<a href="http://mirthmag.com/opinion/are-women-funny-yes-now-can-we-please-move-on/#comment-20" target="_blank"> article about it </a>, Eddie, in trying to defend himself by calling comedian Amy Schumer "that comedian's girlfriend." Ha ha ha! He can't even stop being a sexist dick to explain that he isn't a sexist dick. His apology is even funnier...but not funny enough to quote here. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nope, instead I think I'll just say Happy Birthday to a woman who is a thousand times funnier that Eddie Brill could ever be. Proof:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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UPDATE: <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=%2Fn%2Fa%2F2012%2F04%2F27%2Fnational%2Fa131115D52.DTL" target="_blank">She won! Almost 6 million. </a>And the Girls Gone Wild lawyer has quit...probably because he couldn't stand the small of slimeball. </div>
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-44173295133535900802011-11-08T09:04:00.000-08:002011-11-08T09:04:25.385-08:00And now a word from our sponsor...<i>Hey my four fans! Looking good, Mom! So, I'm real busy doing this crazy <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/participants/snappyssidekick" target="_blank">Novel in a Month</a> thing, and I just don't have time to blog right now, so instead, I decided to make a little cash (.004 cents to be exact) by renting out space to advertisers. First up, the good folks over at Hooker Toothbrush. Take it away!</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: x-large;">Hey Kids!</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: large;">Did your parents give you a lollipop infected with Chicken Pox and other stuff (possibly Hep C, definitely Cooties)? Are you in a never-ending hell of calamine lotion and oatmeal baths? Do you have thousands of itchy red bumps covering your entire body, even your tushie and wing wing, but you parents have the nerve to tell you not to scratch?! Did you spike a fever so high, it melted part of your brain, and now you've changed your dream school from Harvard to "something with air-conditioning or air-conditioning repair"? Well get back at them <a href="http://www.southparkstudios.com/full-episodes/s02e10-chickenpox" target="_blank">South Park</a> style with the new, improved</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: x-large;">Hooker Toothbrush!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkBQhALPKODFe6eyhxuPjB3rSLu_pUZbzti0XWOAobv7y9M2JDPBIp-ivfpVu6ik0VKPTur9w_fyqDRAGO9Dr9WZlDua-kFTMmMpm3ZM_7D79RvhQ9YZRMfNWn1BZvuz41f1nI-J_KXqk1/s1600/180px-Toothbrush1899Paris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkBQhALPKODFe6eyhxuPjB3rSLu_pUZbzti0XWOAobv7y9M2JDPBIp-ivfpVu6ik0VKPTur9w_fyqDRAGO9Dr9WZlDua-kFTMmMpm3ZM_7D79RvhQ9YZRMfNWn1BZvuz41f1nI-J_KXqk1/s640/180px-Toothbrush1899Paris.jpg" width="470" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: large;">Just send a tweet that says "I'm itchy as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore" (be sure to add the hashtag #hookertoothbrush), and we will send you your very own toothbrush infected with all kinds of nasty stuff (possibly Hep C, definitely Hep B). All you have to do is replace your parents real toothbrush with our skankified one.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Oh, and no, don't feel bad. Did you know that the CDC says that between 100 and 150 people die as a result of Chicken Pox every year? Not a big risk, but your dumbass parents happily took it just so they could look cool at their All-Natural Holistic Mommy Group. Oh, you didn't think they did it for you, did you? You're covered head to toe in calamine lotion, bits of oatmeal and scabs. You look like pink Swamp Thing. Come on, get real kid!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">*Actual toothbrushes probably do not come from an adorable old-timey prostitute like the one pictured. In reality, they most likely brushed the nubs in this gal's nob hole:</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju2j_uFLG0-i3ziYs_fMQceD1841GPN5Y-yCFymCBGfrbWKSRmSDzdLWiXyjnTbLYDx_clK_cczgNCVG7jFqKz2wllbD3ZpUro-gZMbdaa2-yerRKUkYl7BipWUAw8dAxEXt37UdoQxicd/s1600/prostitute.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju2j_uFLG0-i3ziYs_fMQceD1841GPN5Y-yCFymCBGfrbWKSRmSDzdLWiXyjnTbLYDx_clK_cczgNCVG7jFqKz2wllbD3ZpUro-gZMbdaa2-yerRKUkYl7BipWUAw8dAxEXt37UdoQxicd/s320/prostitute.jpg" width="255" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><br />
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</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-69709557652943234702011-08-30T12:51:00.000-07:002011-08-30T16:21:06.985-07:00Eight Parenting Styles More Annoying Than Attachment ParentingIs this you?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/I6CMxvwRA-o?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
Oh yeah. Ha ha ha! Yuk it up. Everyone loves to make fun of attachment parents since Maggie Gyllenhaal's brilliantly succinct one-sentence anti-stroller rant in Away We Go, but the truth is that all parents (myself included) are annoying. Deal with it, breeders. All of us fall into at least one of the following parenting styles, and they're all annoying.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Helicopter Parents</b></span></div><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-7FfPqqvoAA1KgRn_1RuAzAmqYfYI6o5NH578veJi3n9Tx2cHMfoBc1It8ARB4YJvJDdE30UgiaLrJej0LEqde89zCDSXpRC0BYu1JmR0FNkv4VdeuzjMEy6W9tIfmUK4_cDwbc6kisZ4/s1600/the-legend-of-zelda-ocarina-of-time-3d-782348.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-7FfPqqvoAA1KgRn_1RuAzAmqYfYI6o5NH578veJi3n9Tx2cHMfoBc1It8ARB4YJvJDdE30UgiaLrJej0LEqde89zCDSXpRC0BYu1JmR0FNkv4VdeuzjMEy6W9tIfmUK4_cDwbc6kisZ4/s320/the-legend-of-zelda-ocarina-of-time-3d-782348.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes. I know the fire is hot.<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Everyone calls them Helicopter Parents, but I call them Navi Parents after that little fairy in the video game, Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, who follows Link around everywhere he goes and says, "hey listen!". I hear you people at the playground all the time saying, "Hey listen! That slide is wet!" or "Hey listen! I need you to put on a sweater!" or "Hey Listen! Don't play in the sand. It's dirty" and I want to say, "Hey listen! The kid is going down a freaking slide, it's not like she's fighting Ganon. Back off a little." Your exact opposite is....<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Predator Parents</b></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7LbsUEFUokfzRyq0SiJU85fTpxFqonUNhVnMCTak5a717EZ9uVKdOczFhyh0vgkOnmgKb9eoUvdVSxKtiHO-5OSv3AWf_UvWBmnJWkPCGgZ5OnzsIjSQQbi9CWwErJnRUzYN0c22gfxom/s1600/%2528270409180705%2529predator_12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7LbsUEFUokfzRyq0SiJU85fTpxFqonUNhVnMCTak5a717EZ9uVKdOczFhyh0vgkOnmgKb9eoUvdVSxKtiHO-5OSv3AWf_UvWBmnJWkPCGgZ5OnzsIjSQQbi9CWwErJnRUzYN0c22gfxom/s320/%2528270409180705%2529predator_12.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No one expects Predator Mom!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">No one knows whose kid that is until you suddenly emerge from the foliage just as the little bugger is about to fall off the monkey bars. I know this style is annoying because I am a Predator Mom, and I've startled a few nannies in my time by emerging from the dark corners of the playground. Sorry, unsuspecting nannies! Similar to this style is....</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Mick from Rocky Parents</b></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJjsOg2Fmtu4Cj3FEsYxFRJaNMyCD1G9RGObro6Tc0POU-9lAwI0opp_8T3GheUnhG3VtXVRtA6_CbWN0Y0Bw9wCxFayqOSmqFL3vvuLrPzUXkG1OOp-PG_wwQpyEJ2cY8eCWZec5ypAyL/s1600/burgess-meredith-rocky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJjsOg2Fmtu4Cj3FEsYxFRJaNMyCD1G9RGObro6Tc0POU-9lAwI0opp_8T3GheUnhG3VtXVRtA6_CbWN0Y0Bw9wCxFayqOSmqFL3vvuLrPzUXkG1OOp-PG_wwQpyEJ2cY8eCWZec5ypAyL/s320/burgess-meredith-rocky.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little Bactine will take care of that. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">So what you fell off your bike and opened up a gash from your eyebrow to your elbow. So what you just got pushed off a baby swing by a two-year old on steroids...GET BACK IN THERE, ROCK! Your exact opposite is....</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Kid in a Bubble Parents</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
You know who you are. You don't let the kid leave the house unless wrapped in bubble wrap--preferably spf 100 non-toxic, carcinogen-free plastic. Although I have morphed into a Mick mom, I must admit that before the age of 12 months, I was a Kid in a Bubble parent. Here is a shot of my 11 month going on a walk for the first time with someone who was not me or my husband: her grandpas. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmFd5LrIzlwpZ8XL36g60d5VLwvPMPN_jGqii3UifV_QzznGUo85V_7fVETKT1uaj_GWzrxtBcM8kwbC27bmdIXCX1iOCIgP_3WgL4iVajlWOIgI7M-4-WM23fJ4MvHqxHHfue1EgKjCEe/s1600/babyinbubble.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmFd5LrIzlwpZ8XL36g60d5VLwvPMPN_jGqii3UifV_QzznGUo85V_7fVETKT1uaj_GWzrxtBcM8kwbC27bmdIXCX1iOCIgP_3WgL4iVajlWOIgI7M-4-WM23fJ4MvHqxHHfue1EgKjCEe/s320/babyinbubble.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Please note: There is a stocked diaper bag, a blanket and a wind screen on the stroller on what appears to be beautiful day. Also, I somehow felt that she needed both of them--like just one would surely screw things up. Also, right after I took this picture, I instructed both of these seemingly grown men on how to cross the street. I'm not proud of it.</div><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Tiger Parents</b></span><br />
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</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglHxWNJAKilZjx-eA17MNbqc8Tl-fflKfT5NISJUEBvvqR01WLqYQzHVQMeiWuISx77VuXsYB7S9IizdCNLwtIR-jT72UqNVHF1NcMtnnJsXTcCpJYQHEhVcnz4eF42aNlxooSRM337uJ5/s1600/tiger-mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglHxWNJAKilZjx-eA17MNbqc8Tl-fflKfT5NISJUEBvvqR01WLqYQzHVQMeiWuISx77VuXsYB7S9IizdCNLwtIR-jT72UqNVHF1NcMtnnJsXTcCpJYQHEhVcnz4eF42aNlxooSRM337uJ5/s320/tiger-mom.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you fail, I will claw your furry little ass.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table>If your kid has soccer practice on Mondays, violin lessons on Wednesdays and hates soccer and the violin...you are a Tiger Parent. Deal with it. Your exact opposite is....<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Hippie Parents</b></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN-RKPqFOekMiPLEzUMR19DfcpTmt8OyMsA1A-vh3PdlIJHVljetE199Sr5T4M70C38qwsJQkWrrbLO8TmPu2oDM2um6-ZXiMZ0ivCL-og6CMB6nt2Ujh8iKS1FgO_vv2hlVVJoxifnZ-x/s1600/hippie+parents.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN-RKPqFOekMiPLEzUMR19DfcpTmt8OyMsA1A-vh3PdlIJHVljetE199Sr5T4M70C38qwsJQkWrrbLO8TmPu2oDM2um6-ZXiMZ0ivCL-og6CMB6nt2Ujh8iKS1FgO_vv2hlVVJoxifnZ-x/s1600/hippie+parents.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sure they're having fun. But none of these purple flower children are going to Harvard.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">They've never gone to a real school, or worn socks, or eaten refined sugar or met a puppet that wasn't homemade or arty. And vaccinations? Forget about it. Is this the right way to raise kids? Who knows, but one thing for sure: all these kids are going to grow up absolutely hating carob. And then there are...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Bad Seed Parents</b></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7K-NadXh8dUxpxqRMm36PM5CsQAjZ-F1FE8OBQrtvuAORmXb8OKnwLSUCJ5_4CHj1w-ScXUsJ0VsrTkOVpk8ruvRCzWivJltlx_7BOwOyzRz8birfC5s-N3l-vvCytn6lTe-zD1b6FWVL/s1600/The+Bad+Seed-04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7K-NadXh8dUxpxqRMm36PM5CsQAjZ-F1FE8OBQrtvuAORmXb8OKnwLSUCJ5_4CHj1w-ScXUsJ0VsrTkOVpk8ruvRCzWivJltlx_7BOwOyzRz8birfC5s-N3l-vvCytn6lTe-zD1b6FWVL/s320/The+Bad+Seed-04.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have the prettiest mother. Everyone thinks so. Huh? What dead handyman?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">Oh no! Not your precious little darling. Sure he just roundhouse-kicked a toddler off the merry-go-round, but you're sure that that baby provoked your perfect little angel. Your child will probably end up murdering someone with a pair of tap shoes. Deal with it. Your exact opposite is....</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Parent Dearests</b></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiDk5M6mkhGHkDH6M_F4z_hZJzxZFCtZsvWcDMxl2kbHHrhiRPDMgeb6hH4oy44X94dZC8GJ1yHwMboGVckGUmmfFqzrtTrE7v3aOyzP21WzWcx7Q0MdJDZJrkJ_a9U7q6LP9ECvuLFyVG/s1600/MommieDearest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiDk5M6mkhGHkDH6M_F4z_hZJzxZFCtZsvWcDMxl2kbHHrhiRPDMgeb6hH4oy44X94dZC8GJ1yHwMboGVckGUmmfFqzrtTrE7v3aOyzP21WzWcx7Q0MdJDZJrkJ_a9U7q6LP9ECvuLFyVG/s320/MommieDearest.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How many times do I have to tell you! No Hello Kitty dresses in the toilet!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">If someone else's kid kicks yours off the merry-go-round, you wonder what your little bastard did to deserve it. You somehow find a way to blame all your problems on the fact that your kid can't stop putting her Hello Kitty dresses on wire hangers. You should just chill and be glad she doesn't toss them on the floor, or in the toilet, or out the window.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">What's your style? If you're like me, you're a little bit of all eight, which is good because, when it comes to parenting, if you're not annoying somebody, you're not doing it right. Deal with it, non-breeders.</div><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-82475679437832580522011-06-30T10:24:00.000-07:002011-06-30T10:27:59.455-07:00Ophiuchus July Horoscope<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbY7z1HTkfLo_eFcSqO3JnHMA6hJiUDBYPa-lCGII6jtlhqXlpbeXwA92vLk0VIkcP5mzLy9QigdMF15GbyOaKPdVUoaajMW6Ti_KfPgHa7YaGcUpCCYes5D4mvNFVFX7bQZaGsw28gwe1/s1600/bruce_campbell_army_of_darkness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbY7z1HTkfLo_eFcSqO3JnHMA6hJiUDBYPa-lCGII6jtlhqXlpbeXwA92vLk0VIkcP5mzLy9QigdMF15GbyOaKPdVUoaajMW6Ti_KfPgHa7YaGcUpCCYes5D4mvNFVFX7bQZaGsw28gwe1/s320/bruce_campbell_army_of_darkness.jpg" width="258" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><a href="http://sfeasyrider.blogspot.com/2011/01/ophiuchus-daily-horoscope.html">Hey Zombie Slayers</a>,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Whew. July is going to be one crazy month. The moon is moving voraciously into Uranus so, needless to say, money will be a bit tight. To save cash, you will stop spending money on expensive salon treatments. Your hair will frizz and your mustache will grow back. Hipsters will throw improvised gangish signs at you and ask you if Spoon is still touring. Tourists will stop you on the street to take pictures with you because they think you are 70s folk singer, Jim Croce. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">At this point you will lose it and start yelling that Jim Croce has been dead for years and don't you stupid tourists know anything? The hipsters start yelling "Yo Crotch-ey" at you. Then they take the dimes out of their penny loafers (because quarters would be too ironic and pennies wouldn't be ironic enough, like duh) and start throwing them at your eyes and neck. The tourists hold up real money and ask you to sing Operator (That's Not the Way it Feels). You do a quick count and see that there's just enough folding cash for a blow-out and a lip wax—tip too if you can turn in those dimes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">You decide to go for it. One of the hipsters offers to back you up on guitar and sing harmonies on the chorus because he was totally in a so-ironic-it-is-not-ironic Jim Croce cover band for about a week. You give it your all, but the tourists keep interrupting you to ask where they can find a good place to buy cheap t-shirts. Then the hipsters keep asking stupid questions because they were all born in the 80s, even your guitar player. You have to stop every few lines and say stuff like, “an operator is a lady who worked for the phone company” and “yes, it was always a lady” and “the phone company is too hard to explain” and “a match-book is something we used before iPhones to write numbers on with this thing called a pen” and “a pen is too hard to explain” and “I don’t know who Ray is and yes he is a total punk ass” and “see there used to be this thing called a phone booth and phone calls cost one dime” and “dimes are those round things that you tried to blind me with earlier” . <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Somehow, even though this is an improbable future situation dictated by a bunch of<span class="apple-converted-space"> stars that look like Bruce Campbell, the whole thing was impossibly caught on tape (with your comments edited out for time and profanity). Enjoy:</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 174.45pt;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/A2iS8XctJKo?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 174.45pt;"><br />
Your lucky numbers are 5, 7 and bored face emoticon.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-32152142305369774202011-06-19T10:09:00.000-07:002014-08-20T07:57:27.159-07:00Happy Father's Day, You Big Softies.Yesterday, my five-year old spent part of the afternoon in Clock Town, a fictional village in Nintendo's classic game Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask. She mostly just ran around and hit stuff with her sword: doors, trees, villagers. It made me realize two things. One, I should have taken her to the playground. Two, I made the right decision in<a href="http://sfeasyrider.blogspot.com/2009/05/business-of-baby-naming.html"> naming her Zelda.</a> We had been nervous about the name, as it outed us as the giant video-game dorks that we really are (and is there really anything wrong with being outed as who you are?), but it soon proved to be a crowd pleaser. Immediately, really. When we first took her to the NICU, her nurse was waiting for us, excited to meet her first Zelda.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUNZYeOx-qI7RwvrzbXihk_5bvNX89Fpg60-Gqh0geg4Pk71K0bB3A9Rje-yu0AHa7baYCGjLsGUXU33f-Pbj886YKO_k1LHxHFs9aRDRa_Algd7fZW3TpW7XE08PqgJMf6cJVV51xS5K/s1600/zelda_oddities_02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUNZYeOx-qI7RwvrzbXihk_5bvNX89Fpg60-Gqh0geg4Pk71K0bB3A9Rje-yu0AHa7baYCGjLsGUXU33f-Pbj886YKO_k1LHxHFs9aRDRa_Algd7fZW3TpW7XE08PqgJMf6cJVV51xS5K/s320/zelda_oddities_02.jpg" height="221" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
We had told the nurse, as we tell everyone, that when we saw her tiny Betty-Boop chin, we just had to give her a 20s-style name. And for 20s-style names, we could only think of Daisy and Zelda. Being gamers we, of course, could never give our beautiful daughter the name Daisy. (It's <a href="http://boards.ign.com/mario_bros_/b5215/163953578/p1/">hard to explain</a>.) So we owned our dorkitude and gave her the name that connotes at once a beloved video game franchise and a flapper who died in the crazy house. With no regrets. WITH NO REGRETS!<br />
<br />
However, after learning that her cleft-palate and small chin and short tongue were all part of a birth *blergh* <i>defect</i> called<a href="http://www.cleftline.org/publications/pierre_robin"> Pierre Robin Sequence</a> (pronounced Pee-air Roh-ban. It's French, bitches.), I was slightly bummed to know that her vintage look was not handed down from me, or even my husband, but was due to the fact that her embryonic self had gotten all comfy in the womb, with her chin tucked onto her chest and her tongue on the roof of her mouth. But only slightly. I had enough to worry about what with finding a <a href="http://www.cleftadvocate.org/feeders.html">cleft-palate bottle </a>that would keep the baby fed and happy, not cause gas and could not be used as a formula squirt-gun by said baby (as Meatloaf once eloquently, and possibly drunkenly, said, two out of three ain't bad).<br />
<br />
And it seemed like as soon as she had graduated from <a href="http://sfeasyrider.blogspot.com/2007/12/1-12-and-already-inconsistant.html">formula to pizza</a>, we had a whole other problem to worry about: speech. Since before she began to speak, she's had speech therapists. (She had more speech therapists than she had bottles, and she had a lot of bottles.) None of them, not even the cranio-facial team that managed to keep her fed and breathing (with the help of an oxygen tank that looked more like it belonged between Slim Picken's legs than next to the crib), had any idea why her speech was so *blergh* BAD. And now we need to worry about how long into the grammar school experience kids will be pointing at her and saying, "She sounds like she's speaking Japanese."<br />
<br />
We're hoping before second grade (or the age when all our adorable little sweeties turn into tortuous little monsters), but at our last visit to the Cranio-Facial clinic (after yet another head X-Ray, that Zelda decided to color pink because she must have pink bones) our hopes were tempered when they told us that the problem would either be solved with therapy or surgery, but they didn't know which and we should "hang in there". And like the proverbial kitten in the tree, that's what we've been doing.<br />
<br />
The next day, I came home from pre-k drop off to find my husband weepy and emotional. Big, manly tears of masculinity, I'm sure. I immediately blamed Facebook. Rightly so. He informed me that he had been crying for ten minutes straight about this video:<br />
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<object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://3.gvt0.com/vi/bINUfbLV_0M/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/bINUfbLV_0M&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/bINUfbLV_0M&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></div>
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Yep. Big manly tears. I even shed a couple myself. A stupid video game commercial, yes but one that shows that Robin's (pronounced Raw-bin, it's American byatches) little baby Zelda (and proof of his own dorkitude) has grown into a beautiful young woman and even more beautifully into her name.<br />
<br />
"Well this will cheer you up," I said. "Zelda took the pictures of her cleft and her head X-Ray to pre-school today. She asked her new speech therapist to help her tell everyone about how she was born with a cleft palate and how she couldn't suck when she was a baby and how her tongue was on the roof of her mouth when she was in my tummy."<br />
<br />
"She's owning it," He gasped. More manly tears.<br />
<br />
This morning, for Father's Day, even though she can't really pronounce "daddy", Zelda will be making her daddy pancakes and showing him how to play her new game:<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Legend_of_Zelda:_A_Link_to_the_Past"> Link to the Past.</a> There might be more manly tears.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-76568228381792485672011-06-13T17:07:00.000-07:002011-06-13T19:29:34.720-07:00The Problem with Kitty Cat Heaven<div class="MsoNormal">When Snappy was a baby, I used to carry her around in a Baby Bjorn. She slept soundly, nestled between my boobs in a brazen, SIDS-defying face-down position. I took her everywhere. I even took her with me when I did my comedy walking tours--which had us trekking from Union Square to North Beach to Chinatown and back. She always returned home from those tours well-rested and with bright, red lip prints on her head from the old women who could not resist smooching the newborn who was helping to lead the tour. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFJWGpAE3GY0dru7cmdyaKpD5lP3l8oEGmLpKYrcipvL4FUPmkOwsW7CTK63aM5Z8WsrINlkfVZ19i4eCSykEKTQ_efbsPUlZG_61KxOuFzkWTtWXA1ZNCIf7uH6WoyqbYgIIJXv-kGSA7/s1600/bjorn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFJWGpAE3GY0dru7cmdyaKpD5lP3l8oEGmLpKYrcipvL4FUPmkOwsW7CTK63aM5Z8WsrINlkfVZ19i4eCSykEKTQ_efbsPUlZG_61KxOuFzkWTtWXA1ZNCIf7uH6WoyqbYgIIJXv-kGSA7/s320/bjorn.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snappy and her kissable head.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now the conventional mom-tip wisdom at the time would have me smacking the Clinique Parisian Red right off their presumptuous mouths lest they spread their deadly germs to my fragile baby. Thankfully for them, and for the tour company I worked for, I chose to follow my own instincts instead of the “wisdom” of the tiposphere. This attitude served me well when, at seven months, Snappy started to treat the Bjorn like her own personal bouncy house, jumping like a grasshopper from the moment she got in to the moment I kicked her happy little butt out due to the massive strain she was putting on my upper back. The poor thing, life was just too exciting to experience sitting still.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If I’d been a devotee of the Attachment School of parenting, I would’ve had to get on the message boards and ask everyone how to stop my baby from jumping in the Bjorn, and everyone would tell me that their baby never jumped in the Bjorn and was I sure I breastfed in public places enough? And then I would end up staying in the Family Bed until the kid was old enough to walk on a leash. But because I was a devotee <a href="http://sfeasyrider.blogspot.com/2009/09/time-out-from-parenting-tips.html">only to my own instincts</a>, I was able to quickly and confidently banish my little jumping bean from my bazooms and let her experience the world from the stroller. Sure, we got a wee bit of tude from the other Bjorn moms (which is my excuse for the snarky tone of this paragraph), but I solved our problem the best way I could in a way that made sense for my back and Snappy’s sense of adventure.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQpBccTkIbXPwZrupCj77M48g4s_a-fdU0QbH994NM9Ru7-7ei5VCIeu3HvaTSOepDhA4yI0Z23UHsYPsei8w4jrkVUkF6p5HFQcvEGCPlPkKIVEjbEnT1J1-douud4wSpitJV0rnUKzw6/s1600/stroller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQpBccTkIbXPwZrupCj77M48g4s_a-fdU0QbH994NM9Ru7-7ei5VCIeu3HvaTSOepDhA4yI0Z23UHsYPsei8w4jrkVUkF6p5HFQcvEGCPlPkKIVEjbEnT1J1-douud4wSpitJV0rnUKzw6/s320/stroller.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still, parenting by the seat of your pants is not always easy. Recently, my nearly five-year old baby girl laid across my lap and looked up at me with big, fat tears in her sweet, blue eyes and said, “Do kids die, mom?” I was on my own. Although there were, I’m sure, volumes of clinically researched advice on how to talk to kids about death, none of these sage tomes could help me. I told her that yes, kids do die, but most of the time they didn’t because grown-ups worked so hard to keep them safe and healthy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I would’ve immediately jumped up and run around the room, singing the Rocky Theme had she not followed up with a mournful “Am I going to die, mom?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well…” Yeah? Well, Miss I-Don’t-Need-No-Parenting-Advice…well what?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I don’t want to die, mom.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well there it was. She had just conjured up my own personal boogey man. She had uttered the fear that I had lived with since she was still breaking my back from the inside. The fear so painful and persistent that I would gladly give my right arm for a pill that could leave me with all my capacities intact, but would stop my brain from worrying about the ever growing, Gorey-esque list of all the things in the world that could kill my baby: everything from aluminum poisoning to old-lady germs to zoo-animal attacks.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well of course you are not going to die. Death is for suckers, not you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(<a href="http://www.sadtrombone.com/">SFX.</a>) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, I knew that was the wrong thing to say, but I also knew that this topic would be revisited at another time—hopefully when I was better prepared. And the next time I was. When my little crazy-cat-lady-in-training realized that the fact that some cats went to kitty cat heaven meant that all cats went to kitty cat heaven, even *sob* Ralph, her beloved big, fat fifteen-year-old tabby, I was ready. “I’ve got an idea, let’s take really good care of Ralph, so that he can be with us for a very, very long time.” I said, successfully getting the mournful wail down to a pensive whimper.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4vQFcBlYk3xK0pRTX9zknc9NJkIGzsAmGXGDXnLljibrXrVrPVsfJPTH1GD4ryWiAljtlRIqJUx_eBJzIYCMR1o-HaqbEvoZjiZQHFUnrQcjgWgDQl3nXMPV5XYQFZghGSEacxLRDWZ8N/s1600/zlovesralph.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4vQFcBlYk3xK0pRTX9zknc9NJkIGzsAmGXGDXnLljibrXrVrPVsfJPTH1GD4ryWiAljtlRIqJUx_eBJzIYCMR1o-HaqbEvoZjiZQHFUnrQcjgWgDQl3nXMPV5XYQFZghGSEacxLRDWZ8N/s320/zlovesralph.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not RALPH!</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next time, I was not prepared. It came out of nowhere. We were having our usual argument about who loves who more, when she suddenly started to cry. “Don’t die, mom. You can’t die!” I knew how she felt, I’d felt the same way, every time I was faced with how awesome it was to have a Snappy, I was immediately cold-cocked with how impossible life would be without her. I wanted to break down with her and cry about how painful it was to have something to lose, but I didn’t. Instead, I told her the same thing I needed to tell myself.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hey Snaps, I’ve got an idea. Let’s take care of each other so we can both be old ladies together. Won’t that be great? What shall we do when we’re old ladies? Shall we go on cruises and out for lunch? Shall we take a walking tour? I know! Let’s walk very slowly through intersections and drive people crazy. That’ll be fun.”<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And that worked. Mostly. The other night, she handed me a kitten book she had when she was a baby and, with a glance at the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Cat-Heaven-Cynthia-Rylant/dp/0590100548">Cat Heaven book</a> she had bravely insisted on taking out of the library, said “let’s read a happy book tonight.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Later, she came out of her room, sniffing back what was threatening to be a torrent of tears and told me, “we can’t be old together, mom.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I looked at her and said, with conviction, “yes we can.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ralph too?” She asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes, Ralph, too.” I said with less conviction. “Now go back to bed.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuDleaWiQNssSXYeBSCXoik9bumfHxMjxXsBukR88aoGw0Ue-o4_boq5A_WAv8B3XXNyGoegv7iaqUs6J6j97nkWcqVMqs9JV8endqvc2i_YlpubDifXI4sUu7EJ6QR3VudFkuEwlwR0eB/s1600/weeklykiddo1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuDleaWiQNssSXYeBSCXoik9bumfHxMjxXsBukR88aoGw0Ue-o4_boq5A_WAv8B3XXNyGoegv7iaqUs6J6j97nkWcqVMqs9JV8endqvc2i_YlpubDifXI4sUu7EJ6QR3VudFkuEwlwR0eB/s320/weeklykiddo1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A girl and her beast.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She did, but I could tell that she didn’t believe that thing about “Ralph too”. Which was fine with me because I could tell she believed that thing about us being old together, which helped me to believe it. As long as we were stuck facing that stinky old boogeyman, it was kind of nice that we were facing him together.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkti9uCJYCPsyWQnTCdBWqn5lxAhxv102NXoQjDOk1xdOF1Q-9ibnJZTwavYv2Jrwwn5yW2j9zS4Y7h48bL4OZtEJTITtt6knBCX0lR7hCALmaO32r2Rlsk4g6Z9bJQB8-9Y6a0CW_zImV/s1600/meandz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkti9uCJYCPsyWQnTCdBWqn5lxAhxv102NXoQjDOk1xdOF1Q-9ibnJZTwavYv2Jrwwn5yW2j9zS4Y7h48bL4OZtEJTITtt6knBCX0lR7hCALmaO32r2Rlsk4g6Z9bJQB8-9Y6a0CW_zImV/s320/meandz.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Up yours, Boogeyman!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-44969878143134026122011-06-08T18:42:00.000-07:002011-06-08T18:42:12.060-07:00Memes for MomsWe've all seen them. They're all over Facebook and Twitter. Snarkily captioned pop culture pics that are only marginal funny to anyone, but even less so to moms. (With the exception of<a href="http://katemiddletonforthewin.tumblr.com/"> this site </a>dedicated to our favorite new princess, Kate) We just aren't the target audience. Until now. Now, because these were made in about five seconds, while my kid jumped on the couch...they are, admittedly, craptacular. I promise to make the next batch in a program other than paint.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHo9wtJbrwt8sGUt26rWhwcDngtGlkFhmuXNbfx_wij0bBCmuvY8rUzbfSH1XCFIFDhnIXU0F5waxWBUBdewzWo7XXSoGPWami610mpnKm7szpFXjVhD-iG9NJdRmmBJ1SLqC35X8gG5WR/s1600/0083953900403_500X500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHo9wtJbrwt8sGUt26rWhwcDngtGlkFhmuXNbfx_wij0bBCmuvY8rUzbfSH1XCFIFDhnIXU0F5waxWBUBdewzWo7XXSoGPWami610mpnKm7szpFXjVhD-iG9NJdRmmBJ1SLqC35X8gG5WR/s320/0083953900403_500X500.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSIKKul4YRk2Z4IbqRJC16EP5LeKIi7b3QpiJ-ApZYxTEkjS6UkRhodlwvaxvMTD07uUP_nennvLiwrUAO63jhBO3AiIPyybBD4RYSKjCq9f0NzIfcxastQkvM0mvkr8lt7Myyd2gSbkgg/s1600/Jumping-Jacks-Kids-Play-Gym_213141_image.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSIKKul4YRk2Z4IbqRJC16EP5LeKIi7b3QpiJ-ApZYxTEkjS6UkRhodlwvaxvMTD07uUP_nennvLiwrUAO63jhBO3AiIPyybBD4RYSKjCq9f0NzIfcxastQkvM0mvkr8lt7Myyd2gSbkgg/s320/Jumping-Jacks-Kids-Play-Gym_213141_image.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPdv6IgFPejz9DSvLTe3laLtE8sdsnbGrLJWfYj-3LPnHioEWkGBMQLa710WCFZKAWBckdQsiES9mzwc8vKr4m8ZaE9G7-SEZM0N-l23rA-mq_fw7TJM74Qlg-fv0dPcBlSTQ0h8J5P-c/s1600/children_playing_with_campbell_kid_dolls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPdv6IgFPejz9DSvLTe3laLtE8sdsnbGrLJWfYj-3LPnHioEWkGBMQLa710WCFZKAWBckdQsiES9mzwc8vKr4m8ZaE9G7-SEZM0N-l23rA-mq_fw7TJM74Qlg-fv0dPcBlSTQ0h8J5P-c/s320/children_playing_with_campbell_kid_dolls.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpav7qLTupm2DjUB5P8UkUn3ri8vm6uhlZOIAMHFnNgFc1aD4XuDoUcxDxRt7VyYMp5vZExtxAfsYxRsBHe_tvNhYHeoo1wSac1w_nz6rWR5S_qfU3I1EfBnChWPbHB9xk3HOBhsfp7uoc/s1600/memecomp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpav7qLTupm2DjUB5P8UkUn3ri8vm6uhlZOIAMHFnNgFc1aD4XuDoUcxDxRt7VyYMp5vZExtxAfsYxRsBHe_tvNhYHeoo1wSac1w_nz6rWR5S_qfU3I1EfBnChWPbHB9xk3HOBhsfp7uoc/s320/memecomp.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia-x-B1dYnTkntSLMinQvK21RWOZy2jWMKn-P4FwXL7N8VLdsILsif8y_SwmX4Ck4yApJ3FCgy9lXk6X7-rBR24-WTq5f4u-H8q-cp39Re735Qf5Orw2L_dbFDJjTxpADRtykyLRmcHMsm/s1600/boy-with-toy-truck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia-x-B1dYnTkntSLMinQvK21RWOZy2jWMKn-P4FwXL7N8VLdsILsif8y_SwmX4Ck4yApJ3FCgy9lXk6X7-rBR24-WTq5f4u-H8q-cp39Re735Qf5Orw2L_dbFDJjTxpADRtykyLRmcHMsm/s320/boy-with-toy-truck.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYnC-zHWqoIQpFAcexLuyRNw9PzqMAJHtxOQ1nkiCUONdioZR61bNYWDxK7I61S6jR-egp5VLSWwDYuJpxtTFgKwS3gHva8ibjMl0ym8fASTxqYznTXnVPWlQRVGUlNTfyTyjV8RCDD8IR/s1600/kidsplay-lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYnC-zHWqoIQpFAcexLuyRNw9PzqMAJHtxOQ1nkiCUONdioZR61bNYWDxK7I61S6jR-egp5VLSWwDYuJpxtTFgKwS3gHva8ibjMl0ym8fASTxqYznTXnVPWlQRVGUlNTfyTyjV8RCDD8IR/s320/kidsplay-lg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiCHQ7rmfzGHFkO-SaYaJvgRROim9e5x4gRRjXENQCj2I9XR5XQJ-36lL3_E0-rVk5zDEHqsSdU2r12v-SnxphZEwjZfdM0iLsY3OBOVfWvnLfcOr2bfbTffYu8VhJcq4WygMNNDLJzYeI/s1600/mom-toys1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiCHQ7rmfzGHFkO-SaYaJvgRROim9e5x4gRRjXENQCj2I9XR5XQJ-36lL3_E0-rVk5zDEHqsSdU2r12v-SnxphZEwjZfdM0iLsY3OBOVfWvnLfcOr2bfbTffYu8VhJcq4WygMNNDLJzYeI/s320/mom-toys1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPSAvUWdEhtZ6Lvq-hm8o6XELdYPtBji9w39K8nId3OUEGUCofBK52FrHKf5tSTMPaJ01fl2UKcuAK9egL9C91e4BOqYPPvQC-1BrxETeroCtZR0tBhbYGaZKlVgtzCdYDiT_9fsESzAIa/s1600/surimeme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPSAvUWdEhtZ6Lvq-hm8o6XELdYPtBji9w39K8nId3OUEGUCofBK52FrHKf5tSTMPaJ01fl2UKcuAK9egL9C91e4BOqYPPvQC-1BrxETeroCtZR0tBhbYGaZKlVgtzCdYDiT_9fsESzAIa/s320/surimeme.jpg" width="218" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-58105496871401875282011-02-01T13:43:00.000-08:002011-02-01T14:05:02.384-08:00Pink in Thinkin'My parental motto is basically my life motto, is borrowed from the movie Smokey and the Bandit and is as follows: <em>eastbound and down, loaded up and truckin', we're gonna do what they say can't be done</em>. In other words: keep on truckin', don't dawdle at the truck stops, join a convoy when you can and above all else: watch out for smokies. So far, this has served me well in keeping my head above the dark, immense waters of BS that come with having a kid in this day an age. (Another thing that helps is having a special needs child; you never see a special needs parent worrying about the sugar content of dried apricots or the political implications of the length of Dora's shorts, but that's for another blog.) But the other day, I saw something in the corner of my rear-view that caused me to pause, one foot lingered above the brake.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiPJLapKFCoFrUsnxc8MeMnDtFy0_UMYuirEO2yjOGLRQh5MwTNmKu4I1QNbmFwKO2UKgw-TWbkpsmja02FU7eF-PGW9dpfXgGIRXhGRu5ggHgZaFyYkeNDE7RVIIVVmQywxCgrWFUVZ5g/s1600/zmeetscinder.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiPJLapKFCoFrUsnxc8MeMnDtFy0_UMYuirEO2yjOGLRQh5MwTNmKu4I1QNbmFwKO2UKgw-TWbkpsmja02FU7eF-PGW9dpfXgGIRXhGRu5ggHgZaFyYkeNDE7RVIIVVmQywxCgrWFUVZ5g/s320/zmeetscinder.bmp" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cinderella met my daughter</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
The thing was a book called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Cinderella-Ate-Daughter-Dispatches-Girlie-Girl/dp/0061711527">Cinderella Ate my Daughter by Peggy Orenstein</a>. Now, admittedly, my expertise of this book is strictly limited to the quarter page review I read of it in the People Magazine I found at the gym, but that is not going to stop me from telling you exactly what I think of it and anyone who has jumped on its anti-pink bandwagon (have we learned nothing from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Purplicious-Pinkalicious-Victoria-Kann/dp/0061244058">Purpalicious</a>?). <br />
<br />
The pause I felt was due to three things: 1.) Feminism was condemning our girly culture, 2.) my daughter, on any given day, could be seen dressed head to toe in pink sparkles and tulle, rainbow painted fingernails embellished with flower decals, carrying a pink purse containing at least one lip gloss and one princess doll, and 3.) I am a feminist: a militant one (which basically means that I wear a watch that signals me it is time to suit-up and go throw a grenade at a frathouse/Girls Gone Wild offices/Fox News set by playing a midi version of I am Woman by Helen Reddy.) <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4GDd9czAfNQaykrKwFP8-M-Lo-OYL3SnGH1ZqWakg1Dkhcu3jVRGbnNOX4Szu8NivdIhx-lFvBVN2Kya0XQRhkxR2pnlpRW-l2YZTCjrhMc2D1-bZrT5XFt9Q2lZ2KXLU80XvOC4gAgpt/s1600/pinkie+002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4GDd9czAfNQaykrKwFP8-M-Lo-OYL3SnGH1ZqWakg1Dkhcu3jVRGbnNOX4Szu8NivdIhx-lFvBVN2Kya0XQRhkxR2pnlpRW-l2YZTCjrhMc2D1-bZrT5XFt9Q2lZ2KXLU80XvOC4gAgpt/s320/pinkie+002.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pinkalicious faces anti-pink discrimination</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Supposedly the problem with Snappy's mountainous pile of Princess/mermaid/fairy/pink-for-the-sake-of-being-pink crap is that it all leads to Miley Cyrus fandom which, as we all know, leads directly to pole dancing on an ice cream wagon at the Teen Choice Awards and "forgetting" to wear underpants with mini-skirts. There might also have been something in there about it leading to anorexia as well, but considering that fact that exactly half of everything you could ever say, give to or put near your child will lead directly to anorexia and the other half leads to obesity, I think they just cancel each other out and can be ignored. <br />
<br />
I decided, ultimately, (with the exception of writing this blog) to just ignore the whole thing for two main reasons: one because I remembered <a href="http://sfeasyrider.blogspot.com/2009/09/time-out-from-parenting-tips.html">my long-standing endeavor to trust my own instincts</a> and two because I did not want to spend every single Thanksgiving for the rest of my life apologizing to my grown daughter for throwing away her Aurora dolls when she was four.<br />
<br />
Now it will be a long time until I can know if I'm doing the right thing, but I feel like trusting myself not to turn my daughter into a skanky ho as well as trusting my daughter not to let me turn her into a skanky ho has just got to be better than falling in line with the latest parental scare making the blog rounds. Still, that doesn't mean that I don't get brief glimpses of my impending success. <br />
<br />
The other day, my mother-in-law sent my daughter a nightlight in the shape of a buxom, bootylicious pink and red-clad fairy. Snappy loved it, named her Rose Fairy and asked me to find a place to plug her in. I had to pull out a basket full of tutus, princess dresses and fairy wings, but I found the perfect corner outlet for Ms. Fairy. As she blazed forth in glittery glory, Snappy curled herself into a comfortable little ball on a perfectly child-sized patch of carpet (sullied only by a few minuscule scraps of tulle, feathers and rhinestones that had fallen from the basket) and stared lovingly at her newest decorative addition. I stood just outside of her diminutive domain and listened to her tell a story about the fairy that began, "a long time ago in a far, far away land...".<br />
<br />
Hey, who knows? Maybe she'll be a famous writer, maybe she'll be a nail technician who specializes in rainbow nails but there is one thing that I know for sure: somewhere, out in the ephemeral reaches of a little girl's imagination lives a pleasantly plump fairy named Rose with a back story that the anti-pink patrol hasn't even considered and who will one day blow the Miley Cyruses of the world out of the water. And all I can say is "Go Rose! Go!"<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn9sb04Zb9kfoZtFZKWGWIZQCtWL4a5YZpvkQD4DITvGIjVCY9CaYEtmaOsxpHkJWRi1lBBPdOfhywncUqg7zf3AEHWsUpqonrK_gIgaEVPLtkBTEBmKDnJKP1MbIcCStuXqP2BNLGdl7A/s1600/pinkie+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="314" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn9sb04Zb9kfoZtFZKWGWIZQCtWL4a5YZpvkQD4DITvGIjVCY9CaYEtmaOsxpHkJWRi1lBBPdOfhywncUqg7zf3AEHWsUpqonrK_gIgaEVPLtkBTEBmKDnJKP1MbIcCStuXqP2BNLGdl7A/s320/pinkie+001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You tell 'em, Pink!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-19038761473266203532011-01-18T12:12:00.000-08:002011-08-23T19:05:14.155-07:00Ophiuchus Daily Horoscope<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Well last week, my favorite astrological sign, mine, was hijacked. Some jerk sent out a link, a bunch of other jerks (myself included) forwarded that link and suddenly every Sagittarius born between November 29th and December 17th was this new sign, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ophiuchus_(astrology)">Ophiucus: the snake handler</a>. Snake handler? How the heck do we go from The Archer, a guy who carries around a bow and arrow and, I assume, shoots other constellations, to a guy who touches icky things. Is that what happened? Did The Archer get busted for popping an arrow in Capricorn's ass? Fricking goat had it coming, I'm sure, and yet still we are the ones who are punished. <br />
<br />
Yes, <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/01/13/new-zodiac-sign-dates-oph_n_808567.html#s223863&title=kristin_leigh">true or not,</a> I consider even the implication that my sign might have possibly changed to be a punishment. Why? Because no one is writing a daily horoscope for Ophiucus (supposedly pronounced Oh-fee-you-kiss). What am I supposed to forget to read for months on end? How am I supposed to know what lottery numbers I should play in the unlikely event that I actually buy a lottery ticket? How am I supposed to know which days are good days to let my aura shine through for everyone to see? Am I supposed to guess? Screw that. <br />
<br />
That's why I decided to take matters in my own hands and create my own Daily Horoscope for Ophiucus. First, though, I need to change the stupid symbol. Since the symbol for Ophiucus is supposedly a guy holding two snakes (Um...ew! What is he? Hill people?), I figure we can extrapolate that to be a guy with snakes for hands. Much cooler, huh? Yes, but I think it could be even cooler, while I'm calling the shots, how about we just turn our symbol into Bruce Campbell from Army of Darkness. Here, isn't this better:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://cdn.wg.uproxx.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/bruce_campbell_army_of_darkness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="http://cdn.wg.uproxx.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/bruce_campbell_army_of_darkness.jpg" width="258" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #0c343d;">Daily Horoscope for Ophiucus </span></strong></div><br />
<span style="color: #93c47d;">After a week of feeling like you've been kicked in the tender parts, Ophiucus, things are starting to look up. Today you found a hilarious blog post that makes you feel better about your miserable life. Today would be a good day to let your aura shine, but for Christ's sake, don't let anyone see it. Today is also a good day to shoot zombies in the face, but come on, Ophiucus, isn't it always a good day for you to shoot zombies in the face? It is. Your lucky numbers are 5, 2 and a schwa with an umlaut.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-84228284860363927012011-01-02T17:13:00.000-08:002011-01-02T17:13:57.910-08:00There Ought to be a Law <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3D0Au-19s0DfzeVwIhFVzv5kMU2GwacyTg_xhsYETQEv3I3ZJQNIwPmCQBW0OgqBKRQzGqaC5pXYHdyudWK5jgFqLslbFMczEUiD29Zktx05OiJJl9dTmesui0iMUuHukd4TAiEXndHe/s1600/DSCN0033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="cssfloat: left; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3D0Au-19s0DfzeVwIhFVzv5kMU2GwacyTg_xhsYETQEv3I3ZJQNIwPmCQBW0OgqBKRQzGqaC5pXYHdyudWK5jgFqLslbFMczEUiD29Zktx05OiJJl9dTmesui0iMUuHukd4TAiEXndHe/s320/DSCN0033.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">The other day, after a massive puddle jump in the parking lot, I led my soaking-wet kid into my Y and sheepishly explained to the young man at the desk that Snappy has always loved water and it was damn near impossible to keep her away from it. Uh. I don't know why I felt the need to explain myself to a 22 year old Y-employee. Maybe it's because we parents are used to so much constant scrutiny, judgmental comments and backhanded compliments that we end up automatically apologizing for everything that we do.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">But the kid just smiled and said, "Actually, there's a law here in San Francisco that you can't stop a child from jumping in a puddle." </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">"Cool! So next time someone tells me that I'm an idiot for letting her get soaking wet in the middle of winter, I can threaten to call the cops?" I replied joyously. (It's not often that parents are told that they've done something right, so we tend to celebrate those moments a bit excessively. )</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0lhrsVve-Fop1c1k2Xz87Sgz0Ntwu-EWm4ixPzN_jcE53Y7HAvBlMAusOZpoSWdBbslZpM_0X1SDcEICXetceRYoLxkyBEC_QoRP_5r_cLTYCY-3ZhUBykLhJJ8BZAKOdGge09NuGBixf/s1600/DSCN0030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0lhrsVve-Fop1c1k2Xz87Sgz0Ntwu-EWm4ixPzN_jcE53Y7HAvBlMAusOZpoSWdBbslZpM_0X1SDcEICXetceRYoLxkyBEC_QoRP_5r_cLTYCY-3ZhUBykLhJJ8BZAKOdGge09NuGBixf/s320/DSCN0030.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Back at home, a quick Google search proved that he was right. I found that particular strange law listed on a website called, aptly enough, <a href="http://www.rcasteel.com/StrangeThings/laws.aspx">Strange Laws</a>, and while all the laws listed there were, in fact, strange, many of them make a strange kind of sense. For example: it's against the law in Massachusetts to put tomatoes in clam chowder. Well, duh! Massachusetts is no place for Manhattan clam chowder. In San Francisco it is illegal to pick up confetti on the ground and throw it back in the air. Yeah, that's just unsanitary. In Iowa, kisses may not last longer than five minutes. Good! After five minutes of making out, it's time to move on to something else--or take a cold shower. In Memphis, a woman may only drive a car if a man walks in front of her to warn other pedestrians and drivers. Brilliant! What better place for a male chauvinist pig than in front of the car of the very woman he is denigrating? </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I've got an idea for a law that seems strange, but actually makes a lot of sense. It should be illegal to be self-righteous about your parenting skills. I would recommend a light punishment of course. I mean we all do it. We all say things like: "I would never do that!" Or the more obnoxious: "I'm glad we don't do that in our house." If they started hauling us all away, the prisons would be jammed! </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I got this idea from a Babble blog called "<a href="http://www.babble.com/kid/kids-learning/no-santa-claus-for-our-kids/index.aspx#fbConnectSection">In Our House There's No Santa Claus</a>" by Krista Pfeiffer that was causing quite a bit of controversy for adding"lying" to your kid about Santa Claus to the latest in a <a href="http://sfeasyrider.blogspot.com/2009/10/open-letter-to-ny-times.html">long list</a> of Parental No-Nos. Whatever. If you want to tell your kid that magical fairies fly out of their butt to deliver their waste to a poop-eating dragon that lives in the potty, that's your decision. If you want to read your toddler Grey's Anatomy every night, that's up to you. But Pfeiffer actually admitted to feeling self-righteous because she didn't use an <a href="http://www.elfontheshelf.com/#/home">Elf on the Shelf</a> to control her kids at Christmas time. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm not saying she should be hauled off or that guys should be sent to her house, but she should get a hefty fine: 300 dollars or so. Self-righteousness does not belong in parenting! You know where it does belong? Olympic sports. Arm wrestling tournaments. How can you possibly be self-righteous about a job that has not been done yet? Unless you raised a president, what makes you think you have all the answers? Even if you did: shut up! George Washington's mom probably gave him hourly beatings and treated all his boo-boos with leeches, so who in the heck does she think she is? Until your children are grown (and <u>not</u> murderers), you should not be allowed to judge anyone.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Hmm. I think we might have to make an addendum that grandparents are not allowed to be self-righteous with the advice they give to their kids--no matter how well they turned out. Face it, Grandma, it's all the dumb mistakes you made that have led to your children doing stupid things like ruining Christmas for their kids by telling them there is no such thing as Santa Claus.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Oops. Good thing it's not a law. I'd be out 300 bucks.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTec5_t12yyP7CE21ggiTPCKc3pRVpGZ7Z15pBicyWVIyQD_GboJNxCyGohRnaXPB6wDf5bpL3S3hWRCMsAUuDJK76s3sF6wO7yRuOQEMLFLdpDVVv4-hc8RL6HlNgPJb6jZNdltM7frFm/s1600/DSCN0031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="cssfloat: left; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTec5_t12yyP7CE21ggiTPCKc3pRVpGZ7Z15pBicyWVIyQD_GboJNxCyGohRnaXPB6wDf5bpL3S3hWRCMsAUuDJK76s3sF6wO7yRuOQEMLFLdpDVVv4-hc8RL6HlNgPJb6jZNdltM7frFm/s400/DSCN0031.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-85104267738577348272010-10-25T12:37:00.000-07:002010-10-25T23:40:51.186-07:00Go to Karaokathon for Camp<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.thehungryreader.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/05/gtc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nx="true" src="http://www.thehungryreader.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/05/gtc.jpg" width="317" /></a></div>For her fourth birthday, my mother gave Snappy a plethora of <a href="http://www.berenstainbears.com/">Berenstain Bears</a> books where the Bears Go places like the dentist, the doctor, school and in one particularly self-serving entry: Grandma's House. Snappy immediately gravitated towards Go to the Doctor, and used the skills that Sister used to brave the dreaded SHOT to get through her own set of ouchie stingies without so much as a tear.<br />
<br />
It was a while before I even made it to Go to Camp, and at first, Snappy found the idea of a sleep-out at Skull Rock scary (scarier than Doctor Bear with a giant needle), so she would often ask me to stop half-way through. To help her get over her fear, I told her that her aunt and I had also gone to a camp similar to Grizzly Bob's when we were kids. I told her the story of our sleep-out night and how I had seen an owl in one of the trees on my way back to my cabin. After that, Snappy was brave again, and Go to Camp moved ahead of Go to the Doctor on the "Snappy's Favorite Bedtime Books" list.<br />
<br />
So when Andrew from the Stonestown Y approached me and asked me to help raise some money for some of the various community programs the Y provides, such as the free senior center, as well as programs for underprivileged kids including Back-to-School backpacks and, yep, summer camp, I jumped at the chance. He started to explain the importance of these programs, but I stopped him with, "Oh I know how important the Y is, I went to Y Camp." <br />
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Although I know we did not always have very much, monetarily speaking, when I was a kid, there were times when I felt like I had everything, like those warm, summer mornings, sitting on a big yellow bus with my sister, a<a href="http://www.marshmallowfluff.com/pages/homepage.html"> fluffernutter</a> in a paper bag and whole day of rowing lessons and acorn-collecting ahead of me. And now, blahdiblah years later, when I get to do things like chase away my four-year-old's fears with a story about seeing an owl, chilling on a tree branch at a YMCA camp in Merrimack New Hampshire, I <em>know</em> that I had everything. <br />
<br />
So that is why I'll be asking everyone to come out to the <a href="http://www.dirtytrix.com/">Dirty Trix Saloon</a> at 408 Clement St in San Francisco on Tuesday, November 2nd at 8 pm for <strong>A Karaokathon for Camp!*</strong> All proceeds go to the Stonestown Y, who will be using it to give some local kids everything. If you can't make it out to sing with us, send me a line and I'll tell you how you can donate: <a href="mailto:easyriderblog@gmail.com">easyriderblog@gmail.com</a> Keep tabs on this event <a href="http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=156082711093654&num_event_invites=0">here.</a><br />
*Thanks to my KJ Eileen and Lee at Dirty Trix for also jumping at the chance to help out the Y.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-20732102785643441992010-10-21T11:36:00.000-07:002010-10-21T11:40:07.206-07:00Letters to Toys I Hate: Part 1 Play Foam.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg92Yn55w_dHDvx1WQzAKLGl8kuGwUoG-7HXp4UX_Au-DW8bD_HQKIAy0HRYoWQYEh9b3HKTWxP4LRwEQZKIeis_-LUnmRXQO_onCnVDHT7jAL38x6sz8ebpsdrvBKGzYPLqJ9WxgaQ3i5F/s1600/DSCN2117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg92Yn55w_dHDvx1WQzAKLGl8kuGwUoG-7HXp4UX_Au-DW8bD_HQKIAy0HRYoWQYEh9b3HKTWxP4LRwEQZKIeis_-LUnmRXQO_onCnVDHT7jAL38x6sz8ebpsdrvBKGzYPLqJ9WxgaQ3i5F/s320/DSCN2117.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Die, <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41y82OZLkbL._SL160_AA160_.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.amazon.com/s%3Fie%3DUTF8%26keywords%3DFloam%26rh%3Dn%253A165793011%252Ck%253AFloam%26page%3D1&usg=__xlv6Vq_o-mymBezb3vzG3c7dM9I=&h=160&w=160&sz=9&hl=en&start=13&sig2=vQM6h_D3arDFzPO7Zf8K_Q&zoom=0&itbs=1&tbnid=0VR6NgnbzINvOM:&tbnh=98&tbnw=98&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dsuper%2Bfloam%26hl%3Den%26rls%3Dcom.microsoft:en-us:IE-SearchBox%26rlz%3D1I7ADFA_en%26tbs%3Disch:1&ei=-oTATOeZEZT6swPVhtXICw">Play Foam</a>! You suck. Look at you! With all your bright colors and irresistible squishy, sticky texture. You deserve to rot in a hellish corner of my closet, suffocating in the mounds of dust, hair and crumbs that you attracted to your sad excuse for a surface five seconds after I took you out of the package. But instead, I'm just going to throw you in the garbage while the kid is at preschool. Good-bye, Play Foam. Say hello to yesterday's coffee grounds and today's cat litter. You deserve each other.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4910794585407952957.post-44218348333185581152010-10-01T14:52:00.000-07:002010-10-01T15:29:45.252-07:00Everything you've always wanted to know about the previous decade but forgot to ask.Has anyone noticed how many people are still writing 2009 instead of 2010? It seems excessive considering it's October. My theory is that we just can't believe that the decade is over, but it is, oh children, it is.<br />
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If the trajectory of my freelance career continues as is (and I sincerely hope it does not), I will one day be hired to write The Entire History of The Whole Fucking Universe for less than 10 bucks an hour. In honor of finally realizing that another decade has come and gone, here is what I will say about the Oughts!<br />
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<em>On the decade called the Oughts, or The Naughty Oughts (to be truthful, no one called them the Oughts or the Naughty Oughts, but they didn’t really call them much of anything, so I’ll just call them the nasty, dirty, filthy naughty Oughts, or just The Oughts for short.)</em> <br />
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In actuality, The Oughts (specifically the late Oughts) weren’t as much naughty as haughty! (Well, I guess that’s not really true, they weren’t so much haughty as narcissistically self-aware and self-promoting, but that doesn’t rhyme with anything.) At the beginning of the decade, America was the all about spending and showing. The most popular items or services were those that not only cost a lot of money, but also had the appearance of costing a lot of money. Early-oughters loved to shop, which wasn’t much different from previous (or future, for that matter) decades, but instead of trying to get the most from their money, buying the best bargain, early-oughters tried for the worst deal, the least for the most. They never bought anything on sale, if they did, it was purely by accident, and they hoped none of their friends would ever catch them doing that. Who cared if you spent 10,000 bucks on a toe ring, if no one saw you do it. It was like that whole tree in the forest thingie. Only in the oughts, it was more like: if you spend money and no one knows about it, is it really gone?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfRRHu1_D2GMIKbDbbJAxqCT7q6nGTiThKWrYJvrl2Thl8Q4Xw6CEkAx9f52kIwQtJI22rBsCjBvLADtrclvIhQIqb-V3VnDOJjq9xtPl249NN9JWsX9i7h_mf9lgODlECBDuzVJW81MKx/s1600/paris-hilton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfRRHu1_D2GMIKbDbbJAxqCT7q6nGTiThKWrYJvrl2Thl8Q4Xw6CEkAx9f52kIwQtJI22rBsCjBvLADtrclvIhQIqb-V3VnDOJjq9xtPl249NN9JWsX9i7h_mf9lgODlECBDuzVJW81MKx/s320/paris-hilton.jpg" width="269" /></a></div><br />
For example, nanny’s salaries were pretty consistent. There was pretty much a standard pay scale that most of them got, but the savvy Oughty parent would choose the nanny that looked the most expensive, the one that said, “I like to spend money.” So when given the choice between two nannies with the exact same experience and pay scale: one is Mexican, speaks fluent Spanish, English and a fair amount French, but is ten pounds overweight and often wears an old Madonna Truth or Dare Tour t-shirt to work while the other is French, speaks fluent French and a bit of English, is ten pounds underweight and willing to wear a uniform, the early to mid Ought parent would choose the French nanny because back then, in order of ostentation, France beat Mexico. (France, in this case, beat Spain as well because if you had a Spanish-speaking nanny, your neighbors would assume she was from Mexico, even if she had just gotten off a plane from Barcelona.)<br />
The early Oughter wanted the other nannies at the playground to think, " Uniformed nannies? How retro! And French? Ooh la la! Tres cher!" The other nannies never thought this, of course, but were more likely to wonder where the foxy Latina got her genuine Truth or Dare tour t-shirt: those things were worth a fortune!<br />
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In 2007 two things happened that made everyone stop spending so much money: one, a democrat was elected president, and no one liked spending a lot of money in front of democrats, it just didn’t seem polite. And two, we ran out of money. It was bound to happen sooner or later. A lot of the people spending money during the oughts money weren’t spending actual money, they were spending credit. Credit has a weird habit of appearing smaller as it gets bigger. When you get your first credit card bill and it’s say, 45 dollars, you think, oh I should pay that forty-five bucks, I’ll pay it in the middle of the month when the rent isn’t due. Then, a few years and a few thousand dollar toe rings later, that number becomes more like forty-five thousand dollars. And you happen to make 13 dollars an hour as a receptionist at a company that exclusively makes expensive boxer shorts, and your rent is fourteen hundred dollars a month, it doesn’t take a genius to realize that no matter how long you lived, you would not be paying back that forty-five thousand bucks, so why even worry about it? Why not just throw another ten thousand dollar toe ring on the pile and while your at it, a thousand dollar cheeseburger? Eventually the credit card companies realized that they were ones footing the bill for all that stuff and no one had offered them so much as a French fry. <br />
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It was around that time that we saw the advent of the hipster (see also: Hipster, history and eradication of). Where the early oughter (also called The Spendster) liked to ostentatiously spend money, the hipster would ostentatiously <em>not</em> spend money. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEdSlZhaa0Zs5DBO1yreIdcodiGu2Mm3AdtV9gIkwIiQAxGUYDDlnL4YJ-pKpPwRMv5-V7IY9YNKSz6Pea8DRG8_POn3kznhQ7XnM3lbWxGTksoaypFMZqLOVSzXDoq1i5_5xvvvy5t6VE/s1600/hipster-bingo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEdSlZhaa0Zs5DBO1yreIdcodiGu2Mm3AdtV9gIkwIiQAxGUYDDlnL4YJ-pKpPwRMv5-V7IY9YNKSz6Pea8DRG8_POn3kznhQ7XnM3lbWxGTksoaypFMZqLOVSzXDoq1i5_5xvvvy5t6VE/s320/hipster-bingo.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><br />
Hipster exchanges often went like this: <br />
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“I found a bar last night that served 5 dollar pitchers of PBR.”<br />
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“Big deal. I found one that sold PBR on tap for 25cents.”<br />
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“Epic! After a couple of pitchers, the Taco Lady came in, and it was the end of the night, so all her tacos were cold and congealed, and she was selling them half off.” <br />
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“So? I stopped at the bacon-wrapped hot dog salesman at the corner of Mission and 22nd, and the dude dropped my hot dog on the sidewalk.”<br />
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“Gross. I puke on that sidewalk.”<br />
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“Yeah, but he gave me the hot dog for free as long as I promised not to tell anyone.”<br />
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“But you’re telling me.”<br />
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“I’m telling everyone, dude. I got drunk and fed for a buck seventy-five!”<br />
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“FTW!”<br />
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FTW is internet speak for “For the win” and someone who spoke it out loud in initial-form, with or without irony, was either a hipster or a douchebag or both. (People who were either a hipster or a douchebag did not know which one they were. It was kind of like how no one knows if they pronounce the first vowel sound of either and neither with a long I sound or a long E sound, and you can’t just listen to yourself speak because then you will be self-conscious and you might start talking with a British accent or something.) Internet Speak (made popular by <a href="http://icanhascheezburger.com/">websites that featured lol catz</a>: pictures of cats so funny, they cause anyone who sees them to laugh out loud.) was very popular. So popular, it seemed like everyone was using it, and therefore that made it okay. <br />
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The late Oughts made it okay to not spend money, more impressively, it made it okay to not have money (even rich people didn’t have money). Just as importantly, they also made it okay to laugh out loud at cats, especially funny cats. It was as if we’d finally clued in to this whole <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VUpLiJfV4_A&feature=related">Free to be You and Me</a> thing 30 odd years later. This might have just been a passing I’m okay, you’re okay fad, if it were not for a Harvard drop-out by the name of Mark Zukerberg, a scrawny sandy-haired young man whose only interesting feature was a strange penchant for wearing shower shoes to the office (which does not seem strange at all when you realize that among other things, wearing shower shoes to places other than the shower was also deemed okay in the late-oughts).<br />
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In 2004 (when it was still not quite okay to wear shower shoes in public) Zuckerberg decided that it was also okay to tell everyone what you were doing at the exact time you were doing it. We’d been trying to do that for years, take the example of the ostentatious nanny or ostentatious sidewalk hot dog. But we couldn’t really tell EVERYONE about it. Until Facebook came along and suddenly, a generation that was in need of more warm fuzzies and fewer cold pricklies could suddenly brag about the fact that their Nanny needed the day off for Bastille Day or they've contracted tetanus from free street meat to everyone they knew at the same time. It left a lot of free time for doing things like eating food off the sidewalk, and fucking around on Facebook.<br />
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Soon after, Twitter came along and we could tell everyone, absolutely everyone everything. And because everything we did or thought was okay, we felt no qualms about revealing ourselves in 140 characters or less. We twittered EVERYTHING. Diarrhea? We tweeted it. Yelled at an old woman on the bus? Twatted. Found a funny picture of a cat? Spread it around so everyone can laugh out loud at it. Of course by now we are all painfully aware that all this tweeting and ostentatious meat-eating eventually led to the downfall of civilization, but at the time it was hilarious.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07349777197274945217noreply@blogger.com0