An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Just Call Me Stevie Wonder

No, I don't have a braille keyboard upon which I blog my life's sweet, sweet music. But I am definitely full of wonder. Like a slightly autistic child or a cat, my mind goes goes to and fro effortlessly and with little restraint or order. I drive around or zone out in my chair at work with all the aplomb of a hormonal teenager, at half-mast under his desk, pondering the color and proportions of his Algebra teacher's nipples when he's in his American Government class.

I'm full of wonder, motherfuckers. Here's a taste of what I wonder about:

I wonder...

* many people who drive around with commemorative D.A.R.E. license plates are drug addicts and/or dealers. I'm pretty sure the owner of the lowered, jet-black Lexus with 22-inch DUBS and mirror-tinted windows was. Of course, he could just as easily have been an off-duty cop. Sometimes it's so hard to tell the difference.

* ...why people think wearing pajamas out in public is acceptable behavior. Personally, I blame high school teachers and college professors, who are among the first supposed authority figures who permit it. I also blame Nicholas Cage, because I don't like him.

* ...what would happen if I forsook anonymity on my blog. Sometimes I think what I'm scared of is way worse than anything that could possibly ever happen in real life. Like middle-eastern commandos raiding my parent's house with machine guns and hand grenades-- just one of the scenarios that used to keep me awake at night when I was a small child. I mean, if I told you my name, would you still love me in the morning?

* ...what the fuck is wrong with cats. Are they all bipolar? One second they're wriggling around on your lap in total ecstacy, and the next they're puncturing your femoral artery with their claws or their scratching your face off. I'm fine with emotional instability in people, but I'm not attracted to it in animals. Not even for, like, five minutes.

* ...what I was thinking. This applies to the vast majority of the decisions that I've made since I was around eleven years old. This does not include my decision to go on Jdate, get married, (that first one led to the second) buy a house, or shave off all my pubes that one time in 2001 because, really, that's something every guy has to try at least once, even if it means that you're rubbing your crotch up against furniture because of the 3-day-later itch.

* anybody who writes what I write could even fleetingly consider forsaking his anonymity.

* ...what has happened to my family. I asked my oldest sister this question, almost in passing, on the phone last night, and she started crying. Three minutes later, she was in absolute hysterics, recounting a totally incomprehensible story about roofers working on the house and her answering the door wrapped in a blanket with a towel on her head. She and my mother were laughing like a pair of strung-out mad hatters. Maybe they're cats.

* ...why my parents didn't put me into therapy as a child. You would have thought that a 9-year-old me recreating the PAN-AM Flight 103 explosion over Lockerbie, Scotland using a model hearse painted in gold spray-paint and Playmobil action figures wrapped in Kleenex "bodybags" in front of my entire family (and one of my sister's friends) would have set off some alarm bells. But it didn't.

* ...who wrote the book of love. 'Cuz that shit should have been a picture book-- with scratch-n-sniffs. N'yah mean?

* ...why we can't figure out some way as a society to prominently label and identify fat people who are fat because they're goddamn lazy, repulsive, and pathetic, and another way to prominently label people who are fat because they have some sort of disease, glandular condition, politically correct excuse for being overweight that would exempt those in the latter category from large-scale, organized abuse and/or taunts. Because, really, everybody loves making fun of fat boys and girls. But we don't want to get in trouble over it.

* ...why a Jew hasn't been elected President yet. I mean-- I'm not running, so don't get excited, I'm just sayin'...

* ...why noted film director and Egon extraordinaire Harold Ramis felt it was necessary to show Beverly D'Angelo's breasts in "National Lampoon's: Vacation." I mean, they're wonderful-- at least, in 1983 they were, but I don't think it was really essential to the overall flavor of the film. I mean, I'm sure, if he'd asked nicely, Ramis could have seen them whenever he wanted.

* ...when it became acceptable to "drink your breakfast!" for people who aren't in the intensive care unit of a hospital.

* ...why the makers of the "Need for Speed" series of driving-based video games haven't developed and released "Need for Speed: Texting, Road Rage & the GPS Whore" for the PS3.

* ...why any number of celebrities/ordinary people/members of my extended family haven't sued me for slander and/or libel yet. Good thing I've still got that anonymity thing going for me.

* ...who thought making a Broadway show out of "The Addams Family" was a good idea, and why have we not brought back public flogging expressly for this thoroughly misguided and psychologically maladjusted individual.

* ...what I/these blog entries would be like if I drank.


  1. My cat's pretty predictable. 90% of the time, if he's out in the open, he either wants to be fed or he wants to be fussed over. This is not to say he's a lap cat - he would never deign to sit on somebody's knee. Or even curl up next to anybody. But he likes when you scratch his chin and he'll plonk his fat ass on whatever you're reading (newspaper/book/keyboard) just so you don't somehow forget that this hairy lump of lard exists.

    The 10% of the time that he's not out in the open (that is to say, hidden in a drawer, underneath a blanket or anywhere sort of dark) his pupils dilate, he starts to think he's Rambo and he will scratch and bite the shit out of your hand if you try to reach into his space.

    Unfortunately most of the time this space is my sock drawer, so grabbing a pair of socks becomes a perilous mission every morning. I have the cuts to prove it.

    I would still love you by any other name by the way. Except maybe Cornelius. Cornelius is a horrible name and people by that name become horrible by association.

  2. I'm going to continue to disprove the "blognomenon" you coined on my blog and only talk about more than one thing. I get so self-righteously angry when people are in public wearing pajamas. I was just shopping in the college town next door and I felt out of place IN JEANS. Unwashed miscreants.

    And yes, I wonder what your REAL name is. I have some theories, based on nothing other than that I know you're Jewish. But I don't think your name is Ira.

    Is it?!

  3. Pajamas in public might be my number one pet peeve, that or sweatpants with things written across the butt, because these are worn either by pre-pubescent girls, or ridiculously too old women.
    However I drink my breakfast, and usually my dinner too (but that's more of the alcohol kind), so I can't get behind that rant.

  4. I'm a teacher, and the only reason I allow pajama pants in my classroom is because I work in a kiddy jail (is that politically correct?) and shit bro, it's either pajama pants, joggers, or they're showing up in their skivvies, and I am not down with that.

  5. I'm pretty sure Nicolas Cage is responsible for all the world's evils.


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