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Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Apparently, I Need to Write it Down

I sat down on Saturday night (be thankful that I'm not cool) and said to my wife something I have definitely said before:

"What am I blogging about? Shit-- I've had at least six different ideas in the last two days and I know I've said, 'Oh, that would be a good idea for a blog...' and now I can't remember fuckall any of them."

"Well," said the venerable Mrs. Apron, "you need to write these things down-- you don't have the memory of a... a..."

"A sixteen-year-old?" I suggested.

"No, not that," she said.

Then what? A tree-sloth? I don't know. I'm reasonably convinced that my mind is about on-par for where I am chronologically in life and gender-- slightly deteriorating, with some gaps and air-holes, cluttered with information that is largely irrelevant, and thoroughly involved in pondering the perplexing and pugnacious profundities of pussy.

But my dear lady wife is right: I do need to write things down, lest I forget them.

My memory for important things, like when I'm supposed to be working, and the order in which paperwork is to be completed during the 7:00am shift, is stunningly bad. I have wasted untold amounts of copy paper at work because I have photocopied 114 treatment sheets before signing off on them, having to throw out all the copies I made, sign off every single sheet, and start all over again with the photocopier. I can actually feel the searing glares of nurses burning the hairs off the back of my neck while I monopolize the aging Xerox machine. It's rather unfortunate.

Ridiculous trivia, though, I'm spot on for. Hit me up for some stupid, banal bit of nonsense, and I'll be right there-- as long as it has to do with airline disasters, bits and pieces of any Volkswagen Beetle manufactured from 1958-1979, "Monty Python", the Victorian era, or the Civil War and you'll get a spontaneous reply that has at least an 87% chance of being correct. I can tell you how many buttons Graham Chapman's vest had on it in the "Confuse a Cat, Ltd." sketch from Season 1, Episode 5 of "Monty Python's Flying Circus."

[Answer: 6 buttons (and he stammers slightly on the word "Stockbroker Syndrome")]

But, clearly, when I have to be somewhere, it needs to go into my phone with an alarm that goes off one hour prior to the event. I have never actually needed this reminder to remind me of an event I'd previously forgotten about, because I guess the mere act of putting the appointment in my phone is rehearsal enough to remember the event, but I'm sure the time will come when an alarm will go off and I'll say,

"Holy shitballs! That was TODAY?!" and I will be very grateful for modern technology and I will thumb my nose at the Amish who still insist on writing things down and sleeping with horses FTW ("for the warmth.")

Because I need to write down blog topics for the future, I've come up with some that weren't (obvs) the ones I forgot, but I'm hoping that, when my well runneth dry as wells sometimes do, I'll look back on this post and go, "Holy shitballs! There are some perfectly Apronworthy blog ideas RIGHT HERE!" Also, if any of these blogprompts appeal to you and your vanity, feel free to get thus inspired.


This blog topic would center around the greatest what-if of all: What if I were a super-hero? I mean, I am, but one with a costume and powers and a girdle and such. What would my powers be? Would I look good in a wetsuit and a cape? Would I fight for good or evil, or both? Or would I be the sort of super-hero who is, um, a pacificst? If I were a super-hero, would I still think about pussy all the time? God, I hope so.


I think this was an actual post that I'd thought of writing, and might have even discussed with Mrs. Apron in the car somewhere-- where paper & pen isn't always handy. My father's uncle perished in Israel a while ago, and ever since, my father has been engaged in supercomplex legal wrangling (mostly over the phone, but, recently, for four days in person in Israel) to sort out the very topsy-turvy nature of my uncle's will. When I mentioned my father's difficulties to an Israeli friend of mine, she expressed an interest in talking to my father because her own father passed away in Israel and she's having a hell of a time getting his affairs in order, too.

"What? Is dying in Israel that fucking complicated?"

"If it's such a hassle," my wife said, "nobody should ever die there."

"Right," I said, "El-Al should start a "Flights for the Dying" program, and have specially-outfitted planes with no seats, just mountings for ambulance cots to click into and they could ferry terminally ill motherfuckers to countries where dying is less involved. They could call these specially-designed planes, "Morad Flights."

That's funny because my grandfather's name was "Morad" and, in Hebrew, it means, "On the way down."


This wasn't anything specific, but I've started to notice that there is a fair amount of nonsense and horseshit on this blog, so I thought maybe I'd try to write something halfway meaningful one day. You know, give it kind of my best shot and then basically go back to being a retard.


Um, this idea is stupid, but it just popped into my head, and I have kind of a reputation for saying whatever pops into my head, so here we go:

I thought I'd write a spoof of Harry Potter where all the characters are Jewish. Um, that's it. Hilarity, righteous indignation, and semitic offense ensues. And I get sued by the Anti-Defamation League. It's a hot party. Complete with lox and bagels.


1 comment:

  1. I'm interested in hearing more about this Jewish Harry Potter.


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