Won’t Somebody Please Think About the Children?
I don’t know about you, but I cannot stop worrying about kids. Are they eating right? Getting enough sleep? Do they know the exact number of seconds to wash their underbits so that they’re clean without starting to enjoy themselves physically?
And, most of all, are they reading? Because if they are, slap the book out of their hands! Reading is the most dangerous activity around!
It’s just like the parents in Norman told me — reading is destructive and awful. Well, they didn’t “tell” me that so much as they showed it to me by keeping author Ellen Hopkins away from their school.
After all, Hopkins wrote a book about her teen-age daughter who got hooked on meth and ruined her life. This isn’t the sort of thing for teen-agers to read about! What if those printed words about the evils of drug use somehow got into their brains, but the kids were confused and started using drugs?
Better to keep them away from all books, I think. The parents at Whittier Middle School know best. Kids who read do drugs, or something. Stick those kids in front of the TV set instead where they can learn from doctors (like on “House, M.D.”) or police officers (like on “The Shield”) about right and wrong.
In other news, I’m pretty sure the Internet is bad for you, too. And since it used to be transmitted by telephone lines, it’s a safe bet we shouldn’t use phones either. I’m not sold on houses, for that matter.
Just so we’re agreed — we’ll live in caves, not communicate, ban reading and just watch TV. That’s how you strengthen America!
Kanye West is a Jerk? Total Shocker…
I am really enjoying how unhappy people seem to be this morning after Kanye West interrupted Taylor Swift’s acceptance speech to give props to Beyonce. Not because I think Kanye was right or Taylor Swift (who?) shouldn’t have won, but because…this is news?
Kanye West acting like a jerk in a very public and inappropriate manner is about as shocking as putting a dollar into the vending machine, pressing the button marked “Coke” and getting a bottle of Coke.
He’s an ass. He only has two jobs. 1. Perform music. 2. Be an ass. Last night, he did his job. There should be no more controversy about that than when the guy at Krispy Kreme hands you a free glazed when you come inside or when the lady at Wal-Mart greets you.
Stay tuned next week when Donald Trump unexpectedly says something mean about Rosie O’Donnell. And then, prepare to be amazed as Michael Moore makes an un-even documentary.
An Open Letter to the Dude in the T.O. Jersey at the Bar
Dear Sir,
First of all, let me say how happy I am that the professional football season is here once again. I enjoy the camaraderie with friends, spending long, lazy Sunday afternoons at the local sports bar, watching multiple games while drinking multiple beers. I assume you, also, enjoy the NFL, because you routinely return to the bar on Sundays. Granted, you seem less inclined to watch the games and more apt to jump around and shout epithets at your friends and the TV, but this is one of our many differences.
Another point of departure is that you are always clad in your Terrell Owens 49ers jersey and your…how to put this?…douche hat, while my friends and I wear jeans and T-shirts. I like to think what you wear has little bearing on anything, except that your choice of jersey (and hat) seem to reflect your personal lifestyle.
And it is that lifestyle that is at the heart of this letter. I do not know that you are gay or straight, nor do I care. I have no idea about your religious affiliation, if you have one, and that doesn’t matter to me one bit. The only thing I really know about you is that you seem to enjoy standing up, often blocking the TV screens, and shouting a derogatory term for “homosexual.” Over and over and over again.
I certainly don’t wish to impede your right to free speech, but do you think you could stop doing that? If you are trying to make a political statement or even an artistic one, I think you are failing. The only point that is coming across to my friends, or to the many tables surrounding yours, is that you are a loud, obnoxious jerk.
If that is your aim, then I say bravo, sir. You have certainly found the sweet spot.
But, now that we all know you’re an inconsiderate jackass, I think it’s safe to stop getting drunk at 2 p.m. and screaming insults. Point made. Move on to the next point, which we’re all hoping is rehab, or at least a different sports bar.
Sincerely,
Every Single Person Who Had to Endure You Last Year
Ban the Asterisk
As a semi-literate writer of things, like blogs and sentences, I love punctuation. Periods are great, period. Exclamation points are vital to hyperbole, such that I would die without them!
And question marks? Do you even have to ask?
Even semi-colons are important; I should learn to use them someday.
But there’s one bit of punctuation with whom I am very cross: The Asterisk. I’m not saying that little hanging star isn’t useful, but it almost never contains any good news.*
(* Exception that proves the rule: Those must be space pants, because your butt looks out of this world. That seems like pretty good news.)
An asterisk in sports always involves cheating or some other scandal. Barry Bonds hit 71 homers* (while he was juicing). Michael Phelps won 14 gold medals* (despite a goofy grin on his face).
It’s even worse when you’re buying stuff. Nothing like purchasing floor wax that claims “Great on Floors*” only to read “* Not for use on tile, hardwood, laminate, marble, dirt or carpet.”
And sales are always ruined by the asterisk. “20% off all purchases*” isn’t much use when the disclaimer tells you “*purchases must be $800,000 or greater and include a yacht.”
Rather than hide behind the asterisk, I think we should put everything out there. Let people know the deal up front.
Think about how many bad marriages could be avoided if everything was out in the open? Too many people say “I do” without looking behind their soon-to-be spouses to see a big, fat asterisk, just waiting to screw up their lives.
I say we do away with the asterisk once and for all. And I’m looking at you next, parentheses.
(Oh, crap.)
