I recently decided I will no longer read another Curious George story to my kids. Not only do I find the Man with the Yellow Hat‘s supervision skills suspect, Curious George is a shining example of how not to behave. Each one of George’s “adventures” has these key elements:
- The Man with the Yellow Hat decides to leave a juvenile monkey that he stole from Africa and smuggled into the country alone for a moment. This moment is usually prefaced with, “Wait right here, George. I have to go and do this thing….”
- George, unsupervised, gets distracted by something. He then sets off to investigate the distraction thereby disregarding the instructions he received to stay put.
- George causes a problem(s). At the height of said problem(s), authority figures and the Man with the Yellow Hat come rushing in to reprimand George and clean up the mess George created. George gets upset and doesn’t understand why everyone is mad at him.
- George fixes an issue (usually minor) that was the direct result of a problem he created. In Curious George At The Aquarium, for example, George hops into the penguin exhibit and opens the door letting all the penguins out to run amok. As authority figures swoop in to wrangle up the liberated penguins, George sees a baby penguin in the water that cannot swim. He then dives in to rescue the baby fowl in the chaos.
- George is praised and rewarded for fixing an issue that was the direct result of a problem he created. Again, in Curious George At The Aquarium, George is not only thanked for “saving” the baby penguin, he is given passes and invited back to the aquarium to visit “anytime”.
So, George disobeys his slave owner father figure, runs off, causes trouble, fixes something that is a direct result of his actions and is praised for being a “good monkey”? Not on my watch. If one of my kids jump in the penguin exhibit and frees the penguins, the aquarium better not be thanking my kid, giving them free passes and inviting us to come back anytime soon. They better be calling CPS.
Kaye: I never did Whipits but I can tell you that Whipits would not be my drug of choice. I would probably choose cocaine. Seems the most respectable of all the drugs.
Me: Agreed. Meth is too white trash and destructive. Heroin is too involved. You need spoons. Cotton balls. Needles. Basically, you need a kit to get high.
Kaye: I don’t want a kit. That’s for a professional junkie. I want to get high quickly.
Me: Yep. All I want a is a dollar bill and a mirror. Or a hooker’s ass.
Me: Whores and strippers go better with coke, anyway.
Me: I like a drug I can do in the guise of taking a piss, too. “I have to take a piss”. Go into the bathroom. Take a snort. Flush the toilet. Bam! Go back out and party.
Me: Heroin is all about the setup. You need some time. An abandoned stairwell. Or a urine soaked mattress in a vacant lot somewhere.
Kaye: You have really thought about this.
Me: It’s what I do.
Kaye: I have a playhouse that I bought for a friend’s kid for Christmas and she doesn’t want it. Interested?
Me: Maybe. What does it look like?
Kaye: It’s this thing.
Me: The Discovery Kids Playhouse?
Me: I’ll tell what I would discover in that thing. My son touching himself.
You are not interesting or funny. A week old carcass scooped off the road with a snow shovel, sprinkled with organic garnish and served in a trailer is not a meal. It’s a misdemeanor. I am not opposed to eating meat, either. I will consume just about anything that has the misfortune of being below me on the food chain. I am just opposed to eating something whose time of death exceeds its time of refrigeration. And please stop calling yourself an artist. You are not. You are the annoying, alternative, Wiccan priestess, solstice-worshipping, patchouli-stink girl I sat next to in college who claimed to be an art major because you shit out 13 variations of the same Grateful Dead dancing bears painting in one semester. Real artists label themselves “artists”. Insecure girls who work full-time at Kenny Shoes and volunteer once a month at the community center teaching children art classes call themselves “Nomadic Shamanic Artists”.
The wife and I have been doing yoga for the past few months. I enjoy the workout and stretching my aging, longshoreman-like back. I do not enjoy the overuse of an obscure language from antiquity, the smug flexible students that can pull their youthful ankles up through the back of their assholes and the music. Especially the music. It is a combination of Indian restaurant waiting room, New Age spirituality and Yanni Live At The Acropolis. I know the goal of the soundtrack is to relax the soul into peaceful reflection, but it has the quite opposite effect on me. I spend much of my meditative experience fantasizing about tracking down whoever recorded the music and kicking their head through a plate glass window. Then a sense of calm washes over me and I feel alright with the world and my place in it. So I guess in a roundabout way, mission accomplished.
Boy: Daddy, where is Aunt Becky?
Me: Aunt Becky is at work today, buddy.
Boy: Where is Grandpa?
Me: Grandpa is in Ohio.
Boy: Where is Captain America?
Me: Fighting Nazis somewhere.
Boy: Captain America is awesome.
Me: Damn straight.
Me: I think this sums up the entire Rockies 2011 season.
DJ: I think this sums it up better. You and I are the frog in the scenario.
Me: Can you please stop sending me inter-species rape videos? I find it weird I have to ask that.
DJ: I find it weird I have to answer that question, but the answer is “no”.
According to the lunatic fringe, we are only a few days away from the rapture. I wasn’t around for the first coming of Christ but I hear it was awesome. Especially if you were Roman.
I am guessing I will not be lifted up as one of God’s chosen if the rapture hits on Saturday as my life has been lived as far from mistranslated and misinterpreted biblical passages as possible. High places tend to give me vertigo and I do not care much for flying, anyway.
I have a problem with faith because I tend to apply logic, reasoning and critical thinking to most aspects of my life. Those things that I do not apply these aforementioned principles to I get through with a lot of yelling and scotch. I am happy “God” works for some people. I am even happier that grown adults who think the concept of Santa Claus is ridiculous also think that a supreme being not only cares about the good deeds they do but uses said deeds as a reason to love or not love them.
It’s not that I don’t believe in God. It’s that I just don’t care if God exists or doesn’t exist. I have bigger things to worry about. Like a wife to take care of, kids to raise, bills to pay and clients to design for. It seems like God’s “chosen” people think heaven is some kind of exclusionary country club, anyway. If I wanted to be around a bunch of elitist pricks I would hang out at the Cherry Creek Mall on the weekends.
Today hippies, burnouts, college students and losers everywhere will be motivated to do something other than playing Call of Duty Black Ops and running down to area convenience stores for Snapples and bags of Funyons. That something will entail joining mass demonstrations to show the world that smoking weed is totally awesome.
Colorado essentially decriminalized marijuana in 2005 and dispensaries have been opening up all over the state ever since. Some have clever names like “Health Joint” or “Green Room” while others have less imaginative monikers like “Marijuana Store” or “Pot Shop”.
I am indifferent about marijuana and could care less if people smoke it or not. I wish the government would just legalize it (and every other drug) and be done with it. Tax it, sell it and put that money to use somewhere else. Like my pocket.