I’m sure we all agree that we ought to love one another, and I know there are people in the world who do not love their fellow human beings, and I hate people like that.
So there are a few
million things and people in this world that drive me crazy. To keep from having to write a list of hundreds of items at the end of this year, here’s this week’s list.
Snaps. The only thing wrong with the name of Kaz’s blog is that it’s missing a word. It should be I Hate $#%&*@#! Snaps. I’d like five minutes out back with the guy–and you know it was a guy–who thought that putting snaps on kids’ clothes was a good idea. And I have something to say to the guy who puts buttons on kids’ outfits: Here’s your cigarette–up against the wall. Smoke fast.
Being blessed. I know that I live in Dixie, and I know that almost everyone in this country is more Christian than I am, and I know that they’re all aching to tell me about it because I’m getting blessed for everything these days. Instead of saying “hello” or “goodbye,” it’s “have a blessed day.” If I’m traveling somewhere, it’s “have a blessed trip.” How far does this extend–“change a blessed diaper”? Oh, it’s been blessed all right, but that’s not holy water.
It’s not that I mind the content of the message, but I do mind the intent of the message–it’s a way for those Christians who say this (because you know that it’s not the Jews and Buddhists saying this) to get in a little message: I’m saved and you should be too.
Look, as a wise man said, if you want to send a message, use Western Union; if I want to be saved, I’ll call 911. Furthermore, why not just say “good bye,” which means God be with you? And so it was that, with all of my feelings of brotherhood, we pulled up behind a hulking red–of course–Dodge SUV, with a license plate that read “GOD B USAL.”
Mama, ever the kind philosopher, suggested that it meant that we’re all God, or that God is in all of us. I proffered my theory that it meant “God bless us all, you know, as in ‘God bless us all, every one.'”
At which she started yelling at the back of the lumbering PCV (phallic compensation vehicle), “Who are you, Tiny $#%&*@#! Tim? Better get an extra long crutch so you can reach the gas pedal in that SUV, Tiny Tim.”
Oh, I do love Mama so.
ADD-Inducing Car Seats, High Chairs, Blankets . . . Out of necessity, 3B went from this booster seat (thanks, Brother #2, it’s served us all well) . . .
. . .to this high chair . . .
We needed something more stable, since 3B was lunging sideways in the booster, mostly to get his hands to Barky–who would lick them clean, causing 3B to chuckle. At 20 pounds or so, 3B was in danger of toppling over every time he did that, unless one of us was right there to stabilize the chair.
But I’m not convinced that we needed this ADD-inducing add on.
The stated purpose of this gizmo is to entertain our child while we’re preparing his food–because apparently we’re too stupid to prepare his food before we put him in his high chair. Let’s assume that we’re that stupid–does he really need all of this to entertain him for two minutes? He’s seen this thing half a dozen times now and he’s still so stunned by it that he’s immobilized.
Let’s think about the real purpose of this gizmo–we all know that Fisher Price, Graco, and the other kids’ product manufacturers must have purchased large shares of Duracell, Energizer, and any other battery company they could get their hands on. They must have; why else would they have us inserting 23 D batteries into a toy rather than just dangling a cord from it, so we can plug it in? That means that part of the true purpose of this device was to trick Mama and Papa in to buying more batteries. Nothing doing. We have enough rechargeables to power Ed Begley Jr.’s house.
What most of you don’t know is that those stock purchases by Fisher Price, Graco, and the rest were paid for by subsidies from the APA and Big Pharma, which are making a fortune off of the skyrocketing rates of ADD in American kids today. Look, if 3B develops ADD, I know that the Casino Royale that we bought him and my multiwindow web surfing are likely causes, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t still assign a percentage of the blame to someone else, like the manufacturers of this plastic rendition of a rainforest tree, complete with a ferris wheel at the top. I am an American, after all. It can’t all be my fault; there’s gotta be someone I can sue for it.
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