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."

Showing posts with label people are funny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label people are funny. Show all posts

Saturday, June 25, 2011

I Hope They're Not Boys

So, I promised that this wasn't going to turn into a Daddy Blog, but, as those little buggers are kind of on my mind (and on my wife's bladder) a lot, I'm allowed to nattle on on about it a little bit, aren't I?

When you announce that you're having twins, people say stupid shit to you. They can't help it, though-- they're sort of like dogs who impetuously slam their muzzles into your balls. You can't really yell at or blame the dog, it's just something it does. People who have heard that you're having twins are no different. Except for the fact that they're not (usually) placing their faces in your crotch.

I won't go through the litany of annoying and repetitive questions people ask you, but there is a pre-determined formula or script, believe me, and, somehow everybody knows it, because everybody recites it with very little variation and, at work, I go through this kind of annoying Q&A session with people regularly.

My wife brought home this book called "Twinsense" from the library, and it was written by some chick whose name is "Dagmara", which is funny to me because, obviously, if you're reading a book about twins, you're thinking about baby names. And there is no way in hell you're going to be thinking about "Dagmara".

You know, unless you're an idiot. But you're reading this blog, so, clearly, you're not. Unless you're one of those idiots who got here by Googling the phrase "donkey porn". Do me a favor? Stop Googling my site looking for donkey porn.

Anyway, this book, "Twinsense" features the exhaustive list of things people say to you/ask you a.) When you tell them you're having twins and b.) Once you've had and are parading around with your twins. It's funny, because people really do say this shit. What's even funnier than that is that she goes on for quite a while about how politeness is the way to deal with people who ask inane/inappropriate/annoying questions about twinnage. And I was reading that thinking, "Mm, that's mature." Except that, on the next page, she creates an intensive list of fresh/snappy/snarky retorts that you can use to answer every single question/comment listed on the previous page. And I was thinking, "Mm, that's mature."

Mrs. Apron and I are going to find out the gender, in approximately six weeks. We're not going to tell you, though, or anybody, really. It's not going to be a secret, because we'll know, but it'll be our secret, because we'll know. If it were just one, we'd leave it alone until birth but, with two, we feel like we need to know.

Mostly, in my opinion, to cut down on the amount of names we need to come up with. Seriously, it's no fucking joke. Girl names we're good on. In fact, the more baby name books I read, and the more websites I look at, I end up adding more. Boy names are, um...

Well, let's be blunt: boy names blow. They suck. They're for shit. They're fucking awful. And most of the good ones end in the letter "n", and my last name begins and ends with the letter "n", so those "n"-ending names are pretty much out, because, with my last name, those names sound ridiculous.

Let me tell you something, if these kids both turn out to be boys, we're really fucked. Not only is there going to be pee ABSOLUTELY EVERYWHERE, and I'm including our walls/ceilings/hair/food as part of "ABSOLUTELY EVERYWHERE", but these kids are most likely going to end up with some terrible-ass names.

She likes Jewish names.

I am trying to convince her that our children will have the map of Israel tattooed on their faces and their airplane hangar-sized noses such that they will not necessitate being branded with Hebjew names that scream out "JEW, JEW, JEW!"

I like names descended from the U.K.

Surprised?

Regardless of the ethno-friction between us delicious little marrieds, the simple fact remains that, even if we agreed on which nation/people the boy names ought to be descended from, they're all basically awful.

I mean, sure, there's "Hrothgar". But what if they're both boys? What boy name goes well with "Hrothgar"?

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

The Age of Innocence

Uh-oh-- I'm a little in love.

It's not with an antique Volkswagen Beetle, or a song from the Victorian era, or a retro-chic men's dress shirt, and don't worry Mrs. Apron, it's not with some tight Villanova law student either.

No. I'm in love with some random schmegeggie who somehow found his or her way to my humble little blog by engaging in a Random Act of Googness.

Every day or so people come here, sometimes intentionally, sometimes accidentally, and, really, I'm not picky. I'll take either. I love all who enter here, because you're choosing to take some time out of your app-filled day and pull your bar stool up next to mine.

And I appreciate that. It may not seem like it all the time, but I do.

While I definitely have love in my heart/trousers for each and every person who reads "My Masonic Apron," whether it's once or 794 times, there's one person out there for whom my love is exponential, Freudian, all-encompassing, and damn well near Terpsichorean.

Yes, it's true. I'm in love. I'm in love with whomever arrived at my blog after typing the following question into the vastness of Google:

"What does 'pull my pud' mean?"

God. I could kiss you-- on your pud, even-- I love you so much. (Hopefully you're not a minor.) I was just filled with such a sense of immense delight when I say that somebody had Googled "What does 'pull my pud' mean?" and got to... ME!

ME!!!!

Pull my pud! I say that! And I LOVE saying that, and other stuff like it! And I don't know if this random Google-face got the answer s/he was looking for by arriving at my blog, and I don't care, because it's not about conferring information to people-- it's about broadening their horizons, about creating question flowers out of question seedlings, it's about painting with all the colors of the wind.

How high does the Sycamore grow? Who gives a tit? What does 'pull my pud' mean? That's a real question, Pocafuckinghontas.

You might find this difficult to believe, but I, as a true vulgarian of the highest, apron-wearing order, love innocence, and the charming naiveté inherent in the asking of a question like, “What does ‘pull my pud’ mean?” makes me very, very happy—over the moon, in point of fact. I’m like the goddamned cat with the runcible spoon when I encounter sweet, cherubic questions like these. I have to believe that the only people alive today who don’t know what “pull my pud” means are formerly home-schooled, sack-cloth-wearing Iowans, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there is an unjaded, unmaligned sector of the population out there that faces the world with a St. Olaf-like glint in its eye. And, if that’s the case, then I’m glad they’re out there, asking their questions and getting their answers.

(Whoa—second Disney reference?)

Because, really, in a world where U.S. Presidents cigar-fuck their interns and I.M.F. heads sexually-assault chambermaids with their sloppy, yogurt-dicks, the fact that some random somebody, somewhere got to my blog by Googling “What does ‘pull my pud’ mean?” is just about the last, breathless hope for humanity.

And I think that’s fucking beautiful. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go put on a pair of black mambos and strengthen my armadillo.