Thursday, October 29, 2015

Emails from my father-in-law

The background is this: Uncle Paul (Tony’s brother-in-law) has just sent an email attempting to arrange another Sedona hike this winter. Here is Tony’s response, sent eight days after the original email, for what it’s worth:

Hi my BOYS,
I like something with the  with tectonic plates shifting and grinding and twerking below ground SO I'm in
Let's discuss some dates please

Time for the BREAKDOWN.

Hi my BOYS,

The BOYS in all CAPS, to me, represents Tony’s excitement at the all-guys nature of this nature hike. I do not fault him in the least for this. He was similarly excited for our participation in the Tough Mudder when he passionately suggested our team name should be FORCE FLEX.

I like something

I think this is a good start to any email. We all like something. This is relatable. I am hooked.

I like something with the  with tectonic plates

It’s safe to say no one in the history of the world has ever penned these words exactly as such. Listen—typos are typos, and the extra space between the typo is such a minor oopsie. It’s just that … this email, like many of Tony’s emails, appears as if it were written from his phone, with one hand, the left hand, while telling the Home Depot worker whom he had just tracked down to find weather stripping to hold on while he finishes sending this email because, you know, he’s going on a hike with the BOYS. My wife is convinced he sends most of his emails through the voice dictation feature as he's driving, but I disagree. This is too Tony to be a rough translation.

I like something with the  with tectonic plates shifting and grinding and twerking

I don’t even know. I’m as surprised Tony is aware of twerking as I am that he—as far as twerking can, in any possible way, verbally describe the movements of tectonic plates—kind of, sort of used it in proper context? I don’t know, but this is by far the most sexual description of how land masses are created that I have read. I’m imagining Tony as a trying-too-hard-to-be-relatable science teacher, wearing a backwards baseball cap: You kids like to twerk and grind on each other, right? Well guess what? The earth's tectonic plates have the same urges!

Hi my BOYS,
I like something with the  with tectonic plates shifting and grinding and twerking below ground SO I'm in

He is in for the hike. Like the hike itself, the journey here was much greater than the destination.

I made this point to my brother-in-law Anthony, one of the BOYS: Lost in the magnificence of this email is the fact that Tony is either a) welcoming a terrible earthquake that will crush us as we hike, or b) letting us know that HE knows how mountains are formed, which: OK.

Let's discuss some dates please

Here was my reply:

Dad, I need a date just to discuss this email.

Here was his response:

Mike call me today anytime I need to also ask you something

What he needed to ask me was to go to his mailbox in Arizona and see if his home security system company sent a mailer with their new address because he didn’t have time to look it up online.

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

My friend Steve

I think it was second semester when Steve walked in—late, of course—to computer class during our freshman year of high school. He was assigned to sit right next to me, and I decided fairly quickly that I pretty much hated him. He had a casual arrogance, an indifference to everything, the required shirt and tie as sloppy as possible yet mostly hidden behind an absurdly large winter coat that went to his knees. I could smell the smoke and sleep on him the second he sat down. I was annoyed. He seemed to me like a “bad kid” cliché.

Being forced to sit next to someone every day will either heighten the angst or relieve the tension, and in this case, it was the latter. We found the common ground of making fun of Mr. Mulligan, our large, red-faced computer teacher. Our seats were in the back corner, against the wall and shielded by a sea of computer monitors, and, combined with Mulligan’s laissez faire style, we could get away with most anything. One day Steve said, “Watch this …” showed me the tremendously mucus-y booger on his finger, and wiped it on the arm of the kid sitting on his other side. The kid flipped out, Steve just laughed and I thought, What kind of maniac am I sitting next to here? He was no cliché; surely there was no one like him.

If anyone single-handedly, for better and worse, brought me out of youthful naiveté and into reality, it was Steve. His reputation at school preceded him; everyone liked him, but most kept him at a distance. I tried to do the same, but I somehow found myself as part of his inner circle. In retrospect, I guess everyone else at the time seemed boring by comparison.

When you’re a freshman, a senior seems like a full-fledged adult, unapproachable. Seniors approached Steve, giving him a pound, telling him they’d catch up with him later. He walked around like he owned the place, convincing everyone he did. He would scoff at the notion of someone at school being tough, instantly dismissing them based solely on their presence at school and in spite of his own enrollment—“Yo, he goes to St. Joe’s. How tough can he be?” He had an unflappable, sometimes unfounded confidence that, as someone who second-guessed things constantly, I couldn’t help but admire.

Some days Steve just wouldn’t show up for school. But after missing a string of days, I asked him if he was sick or something and he said, as nonchalantly as a person could say such a thing, that his dad died. He didn’t give me time to awkwardly fumble for condolences before adamantly expressing how indifferent he was to this fact. I never brought it up again, but it provided some insight to help explain this charismatic but troubled person I now called a friend.

I would discover that Steve dealt in a lot of things, but what mattered to me was that we dealt in humor. Dumb, stupid humor. He’d yell down the hallway to ask if I still had diarrhea. I’d pull his chair out from under him. For any and all occasions, Steve would give the kind, aloof, foreign-born Spanish teacher a sack of nuts, just so he could say to her, “I hope you enjoy my nutsack.” We convinced the front desk to call several fake and inappropriately-named students to the office over the intercom. Nothing seemed out of bounds, and I thought, This must be what it’s like to have brothers. What was remarkable about Steve was that his well-cultivated “don’t eff with me” persona never interfered with hijinks among friends, which is to say he could dish it out and take it. One time I worried I went too far when, while at his house for the weekend, I snuck behind him and lit the shoelaces of his Timberlands on fire when he was playing a video game—the thought that I might have gone too far occurred to me when his feet were engulfed in flames—but he found it funnier than even I did. “You got me, Kenny. Dammit, you got me. I liked those boots, too.”

Most of the crew did not make it through sophomore year, and Steve was the first to go, following through on the notion that no one like him belonged at an all-boys Catholic school steeped in the traditions of respect and discipline. If it was unlikely that Steve and I would become friends in the first place, it was even more unlikely that we’d maintain and evolve that friendship after he left school. But that’s exactly what happened.

He moved to Toms River—his wonderful mom married a great man—and I spent many a weekend there. Our moms talked often; mine could see the charm and goodness in Steve as easily as I could, and his mom could trust me. We became closer than ever, and I felt immersed in the family. We once hid his step-dad’s lawn mower in Steve’s sister’s bedroom, which didn’t exactly go over well, if I recall. We moved his step-brother’s car to a nearby park when he was sleeping and convinced him the car was stolen; he was on the phone with the insurance company for 10 minutes before we told him. Others surely tired of all the nonsense, but we never did. My family rented a house in Lavallette one year, so Steve and I spent that whole week together. We talked for an hour on the phone leading up to the vacation, mapping out all the dumb stuff we would do, and laughed ourselves silly at the plan to rent one of those multi-seated bicycles and ride around Seaside. It was one of the few things we didn’t follow through on, but that was only because it proved too expensive.

I certainly wasn’t unaware of the things Steve was involved in—some of our most ingenious ideas were discussed over 40s in a smoke-filled room—but the extent escaped me. I visited him at an apartment in Seaside before heading back to college one summer day, and the atmosphere was far removed from a hilarious bike ride. I discovered a few days later the apartment was raided by police. A couple years later, Steve managed to call my mom from somewhere in Georgia, panicky but politely asking for money. My mom stood firm, but lovingly assured him he always had a place to stay if he made it up here.

He seemed to recover, and I was beyond happy to see him—all muscled out, the result of a healthier addiction—at one of his family’s famous barbeques. He met my wife. We talked about the good ol’ days, about all the dumb staff. We laughed and laughed.

I had just been thinking about him, randomly but not quite considering I think about him often, hoping that the next time I heard about him it wouldn’t be something I feared. In spite of that, I still cannot believe it.

Much of Steve’s persona was a mask that hid his insecurities, that shielded him from hurt and that ultimately enabled his addictions … not unlike a large winter coat that hid a disheveled state and housed a pack of Newports. His unshakable confidence could, on a dime, morph into frustrating stubbornness. There is no doubt that his weaknesses and ways caused untold grief, friction and fear for his family, something I personally, as a friend who embarked on a separate path, was never forced to confront. In that regard, my story of Steve is incomplete, and there is a sense of guilt in reliving the glory days when much tougher days followed, and I wasn’t there.

Still, I do wholeheartedly believe that Steve was at his truest self when he was laughing, that the wonderful aspects of him—there were so many—were revealed in these lighthearted moments. His fierce loyalty, his humor, his creativity, his brutal honesty, his uncanny street smarts, his love for life. This is how I’ll always remember him. When I think of Steve, he is laughing, taking in the joy that life, in spite of all its challenges, has to offer. I’m not saying that in a forced, nostalgic way—it is literally the only way I see him, my natural, default setting. It’s how I saw him most, by a landslide.

In so many facets of life, we couldn’t have been more different, but at the core of love and laughter, we were exactly the same. You got me, Steve. Dammit you got me. May you rest in peace.

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Facebook meme of the week



HAPPY TUESDAY MOTHER EFFERS

EVERY TUESDAY SHOULD BE VALENTINE’S DAY IMO

HERE ARE SOME ROSES

PLEASE PUT THEM IN YOUR TUESDAY VASE

ALSO I WROTE YOU A LETTER

THE LETTER IS HEARTS

OPEN THE HEARTS THEY SAY “HAPPY TUESDAY MORNING I AM MENTALLY UNSTABLE”

YO SUN, CHILL WITH THE COFFEE, SON

EYES ABOUT TO POP OUT YOUR SUN HEAD

DAMN SUN YOU ARE HIGH ON TUESDAY AND ALSO PCP MAYBE

ALSO YOU GOT A HEART MUSTACHE LOL

OR A CLEFT HEART LIP IN WHICH CASE, SAMSIES

HEARTS STRAIGHT POPPIN’ OUT YO’ COFFEE WHAT IS HAPPENING

ALSO HOW ARE YOU EVEN HOLDING THAT MUG WHERE ARE YOUR ARMS

MAYBE YOU ARE PACMAN WHO CARES HAPPY TUESDAY

I LOVE THIS PICTURE ANYONE ELSE


IT MAKE ME HAPPY, TOO

“BECAUSE IT MAKE ME HAPPPPPYYYY” – PHARRRELL, ALSO PATRICIA

BTW PHARRELL’S BIG HAT LOL


DAMMIT BOBBI THE MESSAGE WAS “HAPPY TUESDAY” GET A GRIP


I’LL HAVE WHAT SHE’S HAVING

YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS TO THIS MEME ARE BEYOND REPROACH, JOYCE GRANNY


HAPPY TUESDAY ONE COUSIN

RELAX, AUNT—I’LL HOLLA AT YOU ON THURSDAY AIIIIGHT


HOW IS THIS EVEN POSSIBLE


THIS MEME IS RACIST


DEBORAH I JUST SENT THIS TO YOUR NOTICIFOCK



DAMMIT DEBORAH WHAT THE HELL IS FACEBOOK

Friday, October 23, 2015

Facebook meme of the day



DANG WALMART PRETTY SURE YOU JUST GOT OWNED BY SYLVESTER THE CAT

IT’S ABOUT TIME SOMEBODY OR A CAT SAID THIS

OPEN ALL THE REGISTERS WALMART OR ELSE

WE’LL MAKE ANOTHER MEME

AND GET LESHAUNDA ON YOUR ASS


YOU GOT SERVED, HOW IS WALMART EVER GONNA SHOW ITS FACE AGAIN IN PUBLIC

ACTUALLY MOVE OVER SYLVESTER THE CAT AND LESHAUNDA—LAVERNE IS THE NEW LEADER OF THE MOVEMENT TO NOT WAIT LIKE THREE EXTRA MINUTES

LAVERNE, PREACH


WALMART: UHHHH YES

ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO LAVERNE’S COMMENT ON THIS CARTOON MEME FROM A WEIRD FACEBOOK PAGE, BILLION-DOLLAR RETAIL CONGLOMERATE?


I DON’T KNOW WHAT A HOADER IS BUT THIS IS A GREAT COMMENT, VERY RELEVANT TO THE DISCUSSION AT HAND

FOUR LIKES

KAREN BE WAITING IN LINE AT WALMART WITH A SHOPPING CART FULL OF BOOKS LIKE “I HAVE NO TIME TO READ THESE LOL THIS REGISTER IS CLOSED I GUESS”


AND ON THE SEVENTH DAY HE SAID, “THOU SHALT BE A WALMART TO TEACH THEM PATIENCE AND SELF CONTROL”

JOB: WHAT'S UP WITH ALL THESE REGISTERS BUT NOBODY IS HERE. WHAT IS MY STRENGTH, THAT I SHOULD WAIT?

GOD: LOL


BLESS THE HEARTS OF THE REGISTERS

EVERY LAST ONE

THANK YOU KATHY FOR TALKING YOURSELF OUT OF A DIATRIBE

AFTER ALL LAVERNE IS THE LEADER


CARLOS CANDY IS THE NEW LEADER

HE LIKES WALMARTS

"DRAW THE LINE" THE NEW DOCUMENTARY STARRING CARLOS CANDY - WATCH AS CARLOS CANDY BRAVELY DOESN'T GO TO WALMARTS ONE TIME AND THEN WALMARTS DIES


GOSH WHERE DO WE START, EDWARD. FIRST GOD CREATED ADAM …

Wednesday, October 21, 2015

Spam email of the week

Subject: YOUR URGENT ASSISTANCE NEEDED FOR INVESTMENT OF 42.5M

OK. I am dope at investing. (dopeinvesting.com, promo code “2dope”)

Dear Friend.

“Friend” need not be capitalized; that should be a comma or colon, not a period; I am not your friend. Other than that, solid start.

RE-42,500,000.00(FOURTH TWO MILLION, FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND EURO) INVESTMENT.

Technically it’s negative fourth two million, five hundred thousand euro, but I don’t want to be that guy.

I wish this proposals will not embarrass you as I had no previous correspondence with you.

I’m not sure why I would be embarrassed since “this proposals” was your idea and also (falls down stairs, pants fall down, farts, gets up, brushes self off, elongated fart) … Go on.

I am Mr.Ali Rohit,a Libyan nationality. My objective is to establish a viable business relationship with you.

Objective: met. I just sent you a link to Go To Meeting. Let’s get our business relationship on.

I was a member of Late.Col.Muammar Gaddafi 's regime. At the peak of rebel attack against our Government, it was unanimously agreed that every member of the cabinet fought to ensure we were not humiliate out of power,

You seem hella obsessed with not being humiliated. I respect that, and will treat this email with dignity on my blog.

Col. Muammar Gaddafi: OK guys, looks like we’re gonna lose this rebel attack. But let’s not go out humiliating ourselves, m’kay?

Mr. Ali Rohit: Sure thing, boss! (salutes, pants fall down, elongated fart)

Rebel attackers: LOL

Col. Muammar Gaddafi: Sheesh, Rohit. I mean really.

but at last the superior power of NATO some how disorganized our war plan. Hence the need for every one to stamped for safety.

“Welcome to the safety zone, please form a line. Ladies free until 10 p.m., two-drink minimum, no weapons. (stamps hand of attractive girl) ’Sup girl."

And to hide or take refuge in any opportunity. Whilst am yet in a hide out since then trying to find my way out of Libya territory.

Can’t find the way out of Libya, SOML. I don’t know why that place isn’t on a grid, for real.

But my most predicament

#mostpredicament

is the available cash (Ђ42,500,000.00) at my disposal which I am willing to part to or your organization in OVERSEA

I’m not sure if you are stating that America is across the ocean from Libya or asking me to oversee the investment, but either way this is a big ‘ol [sic] made more enjoyable by the fact that you’ve yelled it.

there so you could invest it wisely into viable and profit yielding venture in your country. It is my cogent believe that the profit so accrued from the investment placement annually may be plough back to me for upkeep in any place or country I may finally granted refuge.

Farmer 1: (chewing on piece of straw) I’ll say there, fella, looks like your harvest might have yielded third, fourth million euro this year. You’re working hard there, I see …

Farmer 2: I’ll say, pard’ner. (spits out tobacco). Trying to plough this investment crop all the way to Libya.

Farmer 1: I’ll be darned. I reckon that’s OVERSEA, ain’t that right?

Farmer 2: I say you reckon correct, dear friend. 

I am ready to dialogue

Did you not get the Go To Meeting link? Can emails travel OVERSEA? Ugh this is my most predicament.

Friday, October 16, 2015

Internet teaser link of the week



You know what they say— give a man a good chart and blow his mind for a day. Give a man 10 good charts and feed him for lifetime. Because one of those charts is bound to be about fishing. Anyway, that is the saying.

This teaser link is interesting in that it’s not overtly sexual; however, I should mention that I did not actually click on the link, so it very well might be—probably is, actually—10 sex charts. That will blow a lot of minds.

But even if this link isn’t about sex charts, good luck getting me NOT to click a teaser link about charts … despite the fact that I recently admitted to not clicking on this particular link. I was busy at the time and then I forgot. My point is that I love charts and enjoy having my mind blown by the intensity of various charts. Charts4dayyysszz is my motto and also my Instagram handle. Instagram is another good place to go for charts. If you follow me. Most people there post pictures, which is hella lame. #charts

The chart on this teaser link is titled “THE AMERICAN NATIONS TODAY,” and it’s pretty mind-blowing. Lot of colors going on there … also some spots. Not sure what’s going with the American nation I once knew as Mexico, but far be it from me to question neekly, the trusted source for charts.

In conclusion, charts.

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

Facebook meme of the week



UH NO

WHAT

I DON’T

WHAT

GHOST BE POPPING OUT OF A PUMPIN AND DROPPING BIG SLOPPY WHITE DIARRHEA ALL OVER THE PLACE

AND THIS GUY BE LIKE



WHAT IS HAPPENING HERE

DOES ANYBODY UNDERSTAND



WHAT IS JOT WITH POOP

EITHER WAY YOU SHOULD PROBABLY GET A NEW JOB

MONSTER.COM

GET IT? BECAUSE OF HALLO-



THANK YOU SHANKAR

SERIOUSLY WHERE AM I

IS THIS ALL A DREAM

WHO CAN MAKE SENSE OF THIS



SOLID POINT NELISSA

PERSONALLY I’D RATHER BE HIT WITH NO SHITS

IS THAT AN OPTION

EVERYONE COMMENTING HERE IS A FULL-GROWN ADULT FYI



YES MARTHA THIS *IS* GREAT

REALLY GREAT

VERY GREAT

SO GREAT

THE GREATEST

LMFAO


Friday, October 09, 2015

Facebook meme of the day part II

GUY HIT A FIELD GOAL

THE FIELD GOAL WAS GOOD, IN LAYMAN'S TERMS

IT WAS THE KICKER ON MY FAVORITE FOOTBALL TEAM

THAT’S THREE POINTS FOR US

THIS IS BIG NEWS ON THE FOOTBALL FRONT

HOW DO I CAPTURE MY EXCITEMENT





THIS IS STRAIGHT FIRE

COULDN’T FIND A PICTURE OF THE FIELD GOAL SO I USED A PICTURE OF HIM KICKING OFF

BUT I THINK I MADE MY POINT

SPEAKING OF POINTS CHECK OUT THE DOUBLE EXCLAMATION POINTS

THAT WAS FRANK’S IDEA

CHECK OUT CARDS CORNER FOR MORE BLAZING HOT MEMES

CARDS IS SHORT FOR CARDINALS

MY FAVORITE FOOTBALL TEAM

Facebook meme of the day



PREACH, DONALD DUCK

DONALD DUCK ‘BOUT TO CHANGE THE GAME WHEN IT COMES TO STANDARDIZED PERCEPTIONS OF BEAUTY

IF YOU HAVE A BIG HEART AND A BIG BUTT THAT IS GOOD

SMALL HEART AND A SMALL BUTT THAT IS BAD

SMALL HEART AND A BIG BUTT I’M NOT SURE

FOR YEARS I’VE BEEN JUDGING PEOPLE BY THE SIZE OF THEIR JEANS

I EVEN JUDGED MJ



I WAS WRONG THO

“DON’T JUDGE PEOPLE BY THE SIZE OF THEIR JEANS.” – PANTSLESS DUCK

ALSO THE BIBLE MAYBE

LET’S GO TO THE COMMENTS



YES, FINALLY, I HAVE NEVER HEARD THIS SENTIMENT BEFORE IN MY WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE THIS IS GROUNDBREAKING STUFF WELCOME TO THE INTERNET MELODI, YOU SHOULD GOOGLE SIR MIX-A-LOT



THAT IS A GOOD PRAYER

NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP, I PRAYER GUYS WILL TALK TO ME EVEN THOUGH  I HAVE A BIG BOOTY AND NO PROFILE PIC AMEN



IF THAT’S HOW YOUR BEAUTY TALK IT MIGHT BE BETTER IF WE JUDGE YOU BY YOUR BUTT



SERIOUSLY STOP TALKING HILDA



SORRY ABOUT YOUR HEART, OROBAS BLACKFANG



OK PEOPLE LET’S NOT CONFUSE THINGS DONALD DUCK SAID WITH THINGS YOSEMITE SAM SAID



DAMMIT SHAHBAZ WHO LET YOU IN HERE




UH OK WE’RE GONNA SHUT THIS DOWN NOW THANKS EVERYONE

Thursday, October 08, 2015

Internet teaser link of the week


Well here I am thinking I know everything there is to know about the Ivory Coast. Here are 18 things I DID know about the Ivory Coast:

1)      It’s a place.

2)      It’s coastal.

3)      It’s where ivory comes from (?).

4)      Dudes are mad buff.

5)      “Welcome to the IC, bitch.”

6)      Oh it’s on Wikipedia.

7)      It is a country in West Africa.

8)      Its capital is Yamoussoukro.

9)      Felix Houphouët-Boigny's one-party rule was not amenable to political competition.

I could go on—my 18 and yours are probably samsies—but you get the point. This teaser ad is right in my wheelhouse because most of my time spent on the Internet is a subconscious search for obscure Ivory Coast information that I can shove in other people’s faces at parties. The parties I am talking about are children’s parties because I haven’t been to a real party in five years. Tryin’ to get a one-party rule up in herrrrr like my boy Felix Houphouët-Boigny.


Anyway, I didn’t click the link. Sorry/not sorry.

Tuesday, October 06, 2015

Two kids on the block

I had the girls for a few hours, SOLO, over the weekend. I decided, hey, let’s do something fun! It should be mentioned that this thought process never produces positive results, but I was convinced that this time it would. I am a sucker.

It was the first day since April that it wasn’t 100-something degrees, so I thought we should take advantage. (I remember being a kid in New Jersey when it would hit like 50 degrees on a random late winter day, and I’d excitedly venture outside wearing shorts and a T-shirt. It’s the same thing here, just the complete opposite—it’s 99 degrees and slightly overcast, so I put on a hooded sweatshirt and search the neighborhood for signs of life amid the scorched earth.) I grabbed the Razor scooter our youngest had received for her birthday and the bike that was ALSO hers but that I would let our oldest ride. They spotted me putting air in the bike’s tires and darn near lost their minds at the realization we’d be riding around the neighborhood. Now, it’s supremely difficult to fill up the tires on this bike with the pump I have because I cannot get an angle in between the spokes and training wheels to lock it into place. The girls’ strategy while I’m trying to do this is to stand there and stare and ask me when we’re leaving and to start arguing about who will be riding the bike and also when are we leaving? This was the beginning of the end, and I should have foreseen as much and called everything off.

But I didn’t. Here is the list of major arguments that ensued during what ultimately became a six-minute ride around the block.

·        I don’t want that helmet; I want the Anna and Elsa helmet.
·        This helmet is too tight.
·        Why can’t I put Mac’s leash on my handlebars?
·        I can’t ride this!
·        This is too hard!
·        Let’s trade.
·        You’ve been riding the bike for a whole year and now it’s my turn!
·        I'm hungry.
·        Dad, look—the bike makes these cool black tire marks on the driveway.
·        Because I didn’t HEAR you when you said to stop!
·        I can’t ride this!
·        Owww my knees are burning!
·        I’m trying to just walk next to it but it keeps hitting me.
·        This is a baby helmet and I'M NOT A BABY.
·        Why can’t we go swimming?

When we finally, mercifully arrived back at the house, I promised them that I would never take them outside again, ever, for anything. Everyone was crying—me, on the inside—including the dog, whose leash was tangled up in the spokes of the bike I had knocked over in frustration.

Somehow, without me demanding they do, the girls retreated to their play area and became … quiet. Eerily quiet … the kind of quiet that, when I realize it’s happening, I panic. This time I did not panic, however, because I did not care about anything anymore and I was working on regaining my sanity.

Eventually, while I was sitting in the living room, our oldest emerged, walked toward me and handed me a note. The note read:

“Daddy I am sow sore xoxoxo”

She asked me to turn it over and on the other side was a drawing of her and her sister happily riding a bike and scooter, in some alternate universe no doubt, and it read, “I love you.”

Dammit, she got me. I hugged her and thanked her. She retreated back to the play area and returned a few minutes later with a note that read:

“Do you for
giv me”

Yes, I assured her, and she went back to write another note, this time on an absurdly large piece of paper, and it read:

“I Love
You I
eom sow hppy
you for geiv me”

I thanked her again, hugged her again.

The notes continued—“I like to do sduf with you”—and I couldn’t seem to find a way to gently request that she cool with it with the notes.

Our youngest, seeing the positive results her sister’s remorse notes were achieving, wanted a piece of the action. From her I received a note, on an absurdly tiny strip of paper, that had her name, a heart that was crossed out and in its place, somehow, the Star of David.

When my wife arrived home, she asked me how everything went. I said it started off rough, but … it was good. They were good. I am a sucker.



Friday, October 02, 2015

Facebook meme of the week



SOMEBODY PICK UP THE PHONE AND CALL GARFIELD

JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVEN’T HEARD FROM GARFIELD DOESN’T MEAN HE DOESN’T LOVE YOU

HE WAS BUSY EATING LASAGNA AND HATING MONDAYS, GIVE HIM A BREAK

BESIDES, IT WORK BOTH WAYS

THIS IS GOOD, PRODUCTIVE DIALOGUE

NO ONE IS SPEAKING TO EACH OTHER

BUT WE CAN COMMUNICATE THROUGH PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE MEMES

WITH GARFIELD AS THE ARBITRATOR

HOW YOU FOLKS DOING TODAY?




HERBERT IS SORRY

NOT SURE WHO HERBERT IS TALKING TO OR IF THAT’S SARCASM

CLASSIC HERBERT

SOMEBODY CALL HERBERT ASAP




ANNA WILL STRAIGHT DELETE A BITCH FOR NOT CALLING BACK

AIN’T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT

BEST TO STEP UP YOUR CALLING BACK GAME LEST YOU FEEL THE WRATH OF ANNA

THANKS ANNA



DAMMIT I AM GOING TO CRY




SHOUT OUT TO JIM JIM

I WONDER IF JIM JIM IS JIM DAVIS, CREATOR OF GARFIELD

PROBS



LEONARD JUDITH IS KEEPIN’ IT MAD REAL

COMMENTING ON TYPO-FILLED GARFIELD MEMES IS AS REAL AS IT GETS

HEADS BETTER RECOGNIZE




SOMETIMES YOU JUST NEED SUDHI CHAI COFFEE POSITIVE TO PUT EVERYTHING IN PERSPECTIVE

REAL FOOD NOT ARTIFICIAL FOOD

HEAR THAT GARFIELD? PUT AWAY THE BOXED LASAGNA

AND CALL ODIE


IT WORK BOTH WAYS