Posts
Monday, June 11, 2012
The Plight of the Romney Woman
As i sat in my tiny studio apartment watching a sixty-second documentary, my heart went out to a woman who was utterly destroyed by the Obama administration, and wasn't afraid to speak out on the subject. There she sat, in her lovely two-story home which had a flawlessly landscaped yard outside and a kitchen to die for on the inside, pouring her heart out over her lovely Lenox china. It seemed that the children she'd been able to afford to put through university educations had not been able to find jobs. Worse yet, these children and their children were underfoot again because they couldn't find jobs that met their socio-economic requirements. To top it all off, the woman aged fifteen years before our very eyes in the course of sixty seconds. If she'd had more time, she probably would have crumbled into grave dust as she downgraded from a Jaguar to a Jetta. I don't think i would have been able to bear it.
Good Lord, what does this country expect our children to do nowdays? Actually go out and accept any honest work they can find?! That's ludicrous! Next thing you know we'll be asking them to take responsibility for their own finances and debt accumulation! Can you imagine the shame of having to spend Christmas in Vale instead of Gstaad?! What's this world come to?
I don't know how this woman sleeps at night anymore. The poor dear probably lies awake worrying herself sick until her health care covered prescription of Ambien kicks in. She may have to let go of one of the under-gardeners to make up for the increased amount of sessions she now requires at the psychologists office. Two things she desperately needs are a weekend at Elizabeth Arden and a first-rate colourist. If this keeps up she may also need corrective vision laser surgery as well because she might have to actually research investment analysts to find one who graduated from Yale instead of Harvard. Oh, the injustice of it all!
Well, i'll keep my fingers crossed for the poor dear and hope she finds a way to carry on. At least i can take comfort in the suspicion that she probably managed to cover her personal masseuse for the year with her earnings from the ad...um... documentary.
Lily Robertson, who has nothing but sympathy for the delusional until they start voting, can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com,on Facebook, or right here in front of everyone.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Saving Dad's Butt
Ladies, it's almost Father's day and perhaps you're still wondering what to get for the man who sired your children. I'm here to help. Regardless of your economic status, this is the item every man should have, and you can help yourself by gifting him with this item on your own terms. It's a win-win.
The man-cave used to be called the garage. It was his sanctuary. It was the place he could go kid and wife free. He had rules for his garage. We didn't touch his tools without permission, and God save us if we put one back in the wrong place or left a mess he didn't make. Whether it was full of boxes and cans that were tagged and categorized or just crammed into odd spaces, he knew his territory and could usually find anything in the garage at a moment's notice. He hid his girly magazines in there. He designed and built tools that would help you get things off the top shelf or open stubborn jars when he wasn't home. Sometimes he would just turn on a power tool and let it run so he could make you think he was working on something while he cleared his head. Power tools can sound far more soothing than a pack of shrieking toddlers. Unfortunately, there's been a decline in garage ownership.
For many, the sanctuary moved into the house. It didn't involve tools. It involved the ugliest, most offensive piece of furniture ever created, and i'm including Byzantine torture benches in this equation. It never went with anything else in your home, and he'd rather sell you and the kids than get rid of it. It was ugly, but it was also the most comfortable place on earth. It said, "There, there. You've worked hard all day. I understand." He could lean back in it and it would elevate both his aching feet and his soul. He would frequently examine the back of his eyelids in it while snoring like a psychotic buzz saw. Sometimes we'd let him stay there all night because he just looked so happy. But damn, that thing was hideous!
Somewhere along the line, men became interior decorators and found themselves in the unique position of understanding the needs of both men and women. We need our home to look like we didn't pick up random pieces of furniture off the sidewalk the day after college got out for the summer. Men need a chiropractor/foot-lifter/sprawling device that gently embraces them and doesn't ask them to take out the trash. Luckily, there is such a thing. Men speak its name with reverence: La-Z-Boy. When their friends come over they show them off. "Sweet living room ride, dude!" And now these chairs come in every size, shape, colour, pattern and texture imaginable to designers. They come in both standard and automatic. Best of all, they feel exactly the same as they did when they were ugly.
Save your egg money. Get financing. Have bake sales. Extreme coupon for a few months. If you're a young bride, this is especially important because if you don't get him this chair, one of his friends will upgrade his nasty chair and you'll end up with a castoff, hideous and possibly smelly fixture in your living room that you'll have a hell of a time removing. They may seem a little pricey, but they cost far less than a divorce lawyer. When you've had enough of his nonsense, you can park him in it and go do your own thing without worrying about him destroying the house while unattended. This one material object will also secure his lifelong appreciation for you, as long as you never try to sit in it.
Lily Robertson, who is in no way affilliated with this chair, misses her dad but not his insanely ugly butt cradle. She can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com or you can just rant about how sexist this is right here.
The man-cave used to be called the garage. It was his sanctuary. It was the place he could go kid and wife free. He had rules for his garage. We didn't touch his tools without permission, and God save us if we put one back in the wrong place or left a mess he didn't make. Whether it was full of boxes and cans that were tagged and categorized or just crammed into odd spaces, he knew his territory and could usually find anything in the garage at a moment's notice. He hid his girly magazines in there. He designed and built tools that would help you get things off the top shelf or open stubborn jars when he wasn't home. Sometimes he would just turn on a power tool and let it run so he could make you think he was working on something while he cleared his head. Power tools can sound far more soothing than a pack of shrieking toddlers. Unfortunately, there's been a decline in garage ownership.
For many, the sanctuary moved into the house. It didn't involve tools. It involved the ugliest, most offensive piece of furniture ever created, and i'm including Byzantine torture benches in this equation. It never went with anything else in your home, and he'd rather sell you and the kids than get rid of it. It was ugly, but it was also the most comfortable place on earth. It said, "There, there. You've worked hard all day. I understand." He could lean back in it and it would elevate both his aching feet and his soul. He would frequently examine the back of his eyelids in it while snoring like a psychotic buzz saw. Sometimes we'd let him stay there all night because he just looked so happy. But damn, that thing was hideous!
Somewhere along the line, men became interior decorators and found themselves in the unique position of understanding the needs of both men and women. We need our home to look like we didn't pick up random pieces of furniture off the sidewalk the day after college got out for the summer. Men need a chiropractor/foot-lifter/sprawling device that gently embraces them and doesn't ask them to take out the trash. Luckily, there is such a thing. Men speak its name with reverence: La-Z-Boy. When their friends come over they show them off. "Sweet living room ride, dude!" And now these chairs come in every size, shape, colour, pattern and texture imaginable to designers. They come in both standard and automatic. Best of all, they feel exactly the same as they did when they were ugly.
Save your egg money. Get financing. Have bake sales. Extreme coupon for a few months. If you're a young bride, this is especially important because if you don't get him this chair, one of his friends will upgrade his nasty chair and you'll end up with a castoff, hideous and possibly smelly fixture in your living room that you'll have a hell of a time removing. They may seem a little pricey, but they cost far less than a divorce lawyer. When you've had enough of his nonsense, you can park him in it and go do your own thing without worrying about him destroying the house while unattended. This one material object will also secure his lifelong appreciation for you, as long as you never try to sit in it.
Lily Robertson, who is in no way affilliated with this chair, misses her dad but not his insanely ugly butt cradle. She can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com or you can just rant about how sexist this is right here.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Abercrombie & Flesh
Chapter 3, in which piglet offends the parents of prostitots...
Abercrombie Kids, as most of you know by now, has come out with a line of bikinis for the 8-12 set. They come with padded bikini tops. Because, well, every right thinking parent in the world wants their kid to look like little Heidi-Ho, yes?
Here’s what I don’t get. Moms are constantly raising their fists at the government for not sending door-to-door alerts that there’s a potential child molester in the neighborhood, then they rush out and buy their darling pre-deb clothes that would be appropriate for any dark street corner in a red light district. Yet, most of these broads have more sense than to hand-feed an antelope carcass to a lion. Maybe the sense of protection only kicks in when it’s directly related to their own bodies. When it comes to their daughters, I suppose they expect the police, teachers and other authority figures to do all the guard dog work.
Abercrombie Kids is well aware of this, and they’re capitalists who do their job well. Sales of these particular bikinis will probably net them a bundle. News shows are yelling that parents are outraged and want this line removed from the shelves. Well, the line probably will be removed from the shelves. Little girls will yell and scream that the other little girl down the street has a padded bikini and it’s not fair if they can’t have one, too. Then the moms will rush right out and buy them to keep their daughters fashionable. The line will be removed, complete with receipts and credit card statements.
What these moms really don’t want is to have to spend money on padded bikinis for grade school girls. What they just don’t seem to understand is that the best way to accomplish this is to remove the damn market for them. Don’t. Buy. Crap. Try to remember for once, just exactly which one is the child and which one is the parent.
The alternative is to shut the hell up. Either shut up about how Abercrombie Kids does business or shut up about pedophiles. This option has an astronomically high improbability factor because today’s moms (in general) would rather yell at a system or business than yell at their own kid. Whatever the problem is, it isn’t the mom’s fault, and it’s certainly not their precious little angel’s fault.
Two-piece bathing suits that are just cute rather than twisted attempts at sexy actually exist for little girls. Third-graders parading around as junior SI swimsuit issue models is just a little creepy. And frankly, it’s just plain mean to those who are genuinely trying to overcome a nasty, predatory predilection. Yes, I have compassion at the oddest moments, but anyone trying to better themselves gets a high rating on my list. I don’t imagine these same moms would think it was one bit cool to suddenly find out that they weren’t allowed to walk into an organic grocery store without taking home a double-fudge cupcake.
A few months ago the moms threw a fit about Walmart’s cosmetic line for tweens. Now they’re throwing a fit about the beach baby bimbo line. All I’m saying is that if they keep buying these things with the same exuberance they use to yell about them, next year they’ll be able to throw fits over a Victoria’s Secret cupid cup catalogue. And the hits will keep on coming.
Lily Robertson, who used to think the height of glamour was to go clomping around the house in her mom’s heels once in awhile, can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com, on Facebook, or you can over-expose your opinion right here.
Abercrombie Kids, as most of you know by now, has come out with a line of bikinis for the 8-12 set. They come with padded bikini tops. Because, well, every right thinking parent in the world wants their kid to look like little Heidi-Ho, yes?
Here’s what I don’t get. Moms are constantly raising their fists at the government for not sending door-to-door alerts that there’s a potential child molester in the neighborhood, then they rush out and buy their darling pre-deb clothes that would be appropriate for any dark street corner in a red light district. Yet, most of these broads have more sense than to hand-feed an antelope carcass to a lion. Maybe the sense of protection only kicks in when it’s directly related to their own bodies. When it comes to their daughters, I suppose they expect the police, teachers and other authority figures to do all the guard dog work.
Abercrombie Kids is well aware of this, and they’re capitalists who do their job well. Sales of these particular bikinis will probably net them a bundle. News shows are yelling that parents are outraged and want this line removed from the shelves. Well, the line probably will be removed from the shelves. Little girls will yell and scream that the other little girl down the street has a padded bikini and it’s not fair if they can’t have one, too. Then the moms will rush right out and buy them to keep their daughters fashionable. The line will be removed, complete with receipts and credit card statements.
What these moms really don’t want is to have to spend money on padded bikinis for grade school girls. What they just don’t seem to understand is that the best way to accomplish this is to remove the damn market for them. Don’t. Buy. Crap. Try to remember for once, just exactly which one is the child and which one is the parent.
The alternative is to shut the hell up. Either shut up about how Abercrombie Kids does business or shut up about pedophiles. This option has an astronomically high improbability factor because today’s moms (in general) would rather yell at a system or business than yell at their own kid. Whatever the problem is, it isn’t the mom’s fault, and it’s certainly not their precious little angel’s fault.
Two-piece bathing suits that are just cute rather than twisted attempts at sexy actually exist for little girls. Third-graders parading around as junior SI swimsuit issue models is just a little creepy. And frankly, it’s just plain mean to those who are genuinely trying to overcome a nasty, predatory predilection. Yes, I have compassion at the oddest moments, but anyone trying to better themselves gets a high rating on my list. I don’t imagine these same moms would think it was one bit cool to suddenly find out that they weren’t allowed to walk into an organic grocery store without taking home a double-fudge cupcake.
A few months ago the moms threw a fit about Walmart’s cosmetic line for tweens. Now they’re throwing a fit about the beach baby bimbo line. All I’m saying is that if they keep buying these things with the same exuberance they use to yell about them, next year they’ll be able to throw fits over a Victoria’s Secret cupid cup catalogue. And the hits will keep on coming.
Lily Robertson, who used to think the height of glamour was to go clomping around the house in her mom’s heels once in awhile, can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com, on Facebook, or you can over-expose your opinion right here.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Voice For All
Yesterday a young man stood alone to show his support of people he’s never met, and who may never know him.
Yesterday a high school principal transformed himself into a Tiananmen Square tank.
I’ve never witnessed such a beautiful act of bravery before in my life.
Dylan Anderson of Hampton, New Hampshire read about Governor Walker’s underhanded tactics in Wisconsin and was outraged. He was especially moved by the idea that teachers had lost their collective bargaining power. Dylan, normally not a political activist by any stretch of the imagination, has a very firm sense of right and wrong. He will stand up for what he believes in. He learned about the national walk-out movement and decided he wanted to participate.
He spoke to his friends at Winnacunnet High School. They all agreed with him and said they would stand with him to show their support for the teachers. They planned the ten minute walk-out very carefully. They made flyers that stressed the importance of conducting themselves in a respectful fashion. They made it very clear that the point wasn’t to bail out of school early, and everyone would return to class in a quiet, orderly way after the ten minutes were up. They made posters to hold during the walk out. Dylan made an announcement on the school television station the next morning. This was the point where Principal William McGowan had a truck load of opportunities to be an educator. This was the point where McGowan chose to become a dictator.
During the course of the day, McGowan sat Dylan down and told him that if support was going to be shown, it would be done McGowan’s way or no way at all. Dylan expressed his eagerness to participate in whatever McGowan had planned, but would also stick with his own plan. McGowan informed Dylan that if he walked out of class, he would be suspended. Dylan said he understood the consequences but would still show his support for the teachers in Wisconsin promptly at 2pm.
McGowan made announcements to the school stating that any student participating in the walkout would also be suspended, and that all teachers were required to take down the names of students leaving the classroom and report them.
At 2pm almost every student in the school felt too intimidated to leave class. Three students arrived in front of the school at 2pm, Dylan, the school tv station videographer, and the school paper’s photojournalist. The first thing McGowan did was tell Dylan to go back to class. Dylan respectfully and calmly declined. The second thing McGowan did was commandeer the services of a handy police officer to remove the rest of the posters from the premises. The third thing McGowan did was take away the school videographer’s camera and made him watch as he deleted everything on it related to the walkout. He then proceeded to bark at the little photojournalist who’d wanted to take pictures for the school paper. She was so frightened she had an asthma attack. While McGowan remained outside, he displayed no issue with the students on the second floor of the building who leaned out the windows to heckle Dylan. Though the hecklers were disrupting school, they had remained in class. That was just fine with McGowan.
In the end, one young man stood alone, in front of the school, McGowan, a police officer, and all his peers, holding up a poster with three words; “Voice For All”. At 2:10 p.m., Dylan calmly thanked the second story hecklers for their support, and then returned to class.
Dylan’s the only one in school who now has Monday off.
McGowan had a chance to teach students the importance of standing up for what you believe in without being belligerent. McGowan opted to teach students that if you colour outside the lines, you’ll be punished regardless of whether you’re doing the right thing or not. McGowan had the opportunity to encourage an aspiring photojournalist to do precisely what a real photojournalist does. McGowan chose to introduce her to censorship. McGowan could have shown that he stands behind the schools pro-active effort to put an end to bullying. McGowan showed the students that bullies get their way. McGowan could have shown students that their voices count. McGowan taught students that rather than a voice for all, there was only a voice for one…McGowan’s voice.
Dylan’s father firmly believes that his son learned far more by standing up for his beliefs than he could have learned in class on Monday. Dylan’s father may or may not agree with what his son believes in. Dylan’s father, however, firmly believes in his son.
Lily Robertson, who was too furious to type this yesterday, can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com, on Facebook, or you can express yourself freely right here.
Yesterday a high school principal transformed himself into a Tiananmen Square tank.
I’ve never witnessed such a beautiful act of bravery before in my life.
Dylan Anderson of Hampton, New Hampshire read about Governor Walker’s underhanded tactics in Wisconsin and was outraged. He was especially moved by the idea that teachers had lost their collective bargaining power. Dylan, normally not a political activist by any stretch of the imagination, has a very firm sense of right and wrong. He will stand up for what he believes in. He learned about the national walk-out movement and decided he wanted to participate.
He spoke to his friends at Winnacunnet High School. They all agreed with him and said they would stand with him to show their support for the teachers. They planned the ten minute walk-out very carefully. They made flyers that stressed the importance of conducting themselves in a respectful fashion. They made it very clear that the point wasn’t to bail out of school early, and everyone would return to class in a quiet, orderly way after the ten minutes were up. They made posters to hold during the walk out. Dylan made an announcement on the school television station the next morning. This was the point where Principal William McGowan had a truck load of opportunities to be an educator. This was the point where McGowan chose to become a dictator.
During the course of the day, McGowan sat Dylan down and told him that if support was going to be shown, it would be done McGowan’s way or no way at all. Dylan expressed his eagerness to participate in whatever McGowan had planned, but would also stick with his own plan. McGowan informed Dylan that if he walked out of class, he would be suspended. Dylan said he understood the consequences but would still show his support for the teachers in Wisconsin promptly at 2pm.
McGowan made announcements to the school stating that any student participating in the walkout would also be suspended, and that all teachers were required to take down the names of students leaving the classroom and report them.
At 2pm almost every student in the school felt too intimidated to leave class. Three students arrived in front of the school at 2pm, Dylan, the school tv station videographer, and the school paper’s photojournalist. The first thing McGowan did was tell Dylan to go back to class. Dylan respectfully and calmly declined. The second thing McGowan did was commandeer the services of a handy police officer to remove the rest of the posters from the premises. The third thing McGowan did was take away the school videographer’s camera and made him watch as he deleted everything on it related to the walkout. He then proceeded to bark at the little photojournalist who’d wanted to take pictures for the school paper. She was so frightened she had an asthma attack. While McGowan remained outside, he displayed no issue with the students on the second floor of the building who leaned out the windows to heckle Dylan. Though the hecklers were disrupting school, they had remained in class. That was just fine with McGowan.
In the end, one young man stood alone, in front of the school, McGowan, a police officer, and all his peers, holding up a poster with three words; “Voice For All”. At 2:10 p.m., Dylan calmly thanked the second story hecklers for their support, and then returned to class.
Dylan’s the only one in school who now has Monday off.
McGowan had a chance to teach students the importance of standing up for what you believe in without being belligerent. McGowan opted to teach students that if you colour outside the lines, you’ll be punished regardless of whether you’re doing the right thing or not. McGowan had the opportunity to encourage an aspiring photojournalist to do precisely what a real photojournalist does. McGowan chose to introduce her to censorship. McGowan could have shown that he stands behind the schools pro-active effort to put an end to bullying. McGowan showed the students that bullies get their way. McGowan could have shown students that their voices count. McGowan taught students that rather than a voice for all, there was only a voice for one…McGowan’s voice.
Dylan’s father firmly believes that his son learned far more by standing up for his beliefs than he could have learned in class on Monday. Dylan’s father may or may not agree with what his son believes in. Dylan’s father, however, firmly believes in his son.
Lily Robertson, who was too furious to type this yesterday, can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com, on Facebook, or you can express yourself freely right here.
Friday, January 14, 2011
The Annual Oracle
2010 in review and predictions for 2011
I must admit, I unplugged myself from the news for a chunk of this year so I got a lot of it third hand and still didn’t pay much attention. Here’s what happened in the world this year through the eyes of someone with DADD (deliberate attention disengagement disorder.)
The Gulf Oil Spill caused stock in Dawn dish detergent to skyrocket.
Lassie alerted the media that some miners were stuck in a hole.
Those of us who went through school bullying were told to be aware that there was such a thing as school bullying. Scientists did not manage to create cajone implants for kids so they started dropping like flies every time someone wrote something mean about them on Facebook.
Although I haven’t flown for years, I managed to get on three planes this year. Despite public claims of certain acts, TSA still refused to grope me. My self esteem plummeted. (Screw the peanuts… give me a reacharound!)
Massachusetts elected a republican. People freaked out. The republican turned out to be a RINO. People breathed again.
I slaughtered a ton of zombies and my headshot stats rose incrementally.
Someone created an app that removes all references of that irritating Justin Bieber kid from a computer.
Oprah announced, to my delight, that she was ending that preposterous Queen for a Day show. I rejoiced. Oprah announced, to my irritation, that she was starting a whole Oprah Network. I decided that so long as we have to pay to watch it, I’m safe for now.
Someone lost a mobile home and still there are no warning labels on the things telling people not to buy them if they live in Kansas.
Healthcare reform happened in theory but I still can’t get in to see a doctor.
God finally fired George Steinbrenner.
And now, here are my predictions for 2011:
They won’t figure out a way for me to have affordable healthcare insurance but they will find a way to charge me for not having any.
Someone will write something idiotic on my Facebook page and I’ll get over it. I will receive no media coverage for this.
The New England Patriots will win the Super Bowl and either Wes Welker or Brandon Merriweather will send me a jersey. Ok, the second bit is just wishful thinking.
It will snow in New England so much that people will get sick of brushing their vehicle roofs and drive around sporting snowhawks.
A fat, pampered groundhog will be startled by 75 camera flashes and dive back for the safety of his hole, leading us to believe we’re all in for 6 more weeks of winter, which will be true through no predictatory skills of the oversized rodent.
People will whimper and whine about a lot of stuff our forefathers wouldn’t have batted an eye at, but there will still be dancing.
Someone will lose a mobile home.
Mayan fans will start stockpiling things and building shelters for 2012. Scientists will fuel the people’s paranoia by announcing impending planetary alignment events, then snicker all the way back to the lab.
Orange County will secede from the state of California. Nobody will notice.
Someone at UbiSoft or CapCom will finally recognize the fact that old people like to play video games, too, and they’ll slow the zombies right the heck down and make you think your way out of situations. They’ll rake in bucks that Halo only hinted at.
Someone will recognize the fact that I’m oddly brilliant, set me up in a beach house, and pay me to finish some of these almost finished books that are hogging up all this space on my laptop. Ok, the jersey thing is more probable. I, however, believe that anything is possible, just not necessarily likely.
Lily Robertson, who can't predict what will happen in her own house in the next ten minutes, can be ignored like Cassandra at canopicjargon@gmail.com, on Facebook, or right here on in this comment box.
I must admit, I unplugged myself from the news for a chunk of this year so I got a lot of it third hand and still didn’t pay much attention. Here’s what happened in the world this year through the eyes of someone with DADD (deliberate attention disengagement disorder.)
The Gulf Oil Spill caused stock in Dawn dish detergent to skyrocket.
Lassie alerted the media that some miners were stuck in a hole.
Those of us who went through school bullying were told to be aware that there was such a thing as school bullying. Scientists did not manage to create cajone implants for kids so they started dropping like flies every time someone wrote something mean about them on Facebook.
Although I haven’t flown for years, I managed to get on three planes this year. Despite public claims of certain acts, TSA still refused to grope me. My self esteem plummeted. (Screw the peanuts… give me a reacharound!)
Massachusetts elected a republican. People freaked out. The republican turned out to be a RINO. People breathed again.
I slaughtered a ton of zombies and my headshot stats rose incrementally.
Someone created an app that removes all references of that irritating Justin Bieber kid from a computer.
Oprah announced, to my delight, that she was ending that preposterous Queen for a Day show. I rejoiced. Oprah announced, to my irritation, that she was starting a whole Oprah Network. I decided that so long as we have to pay to watch it, I’m safe for now.
Someone lost a mobile home and still there are no warning labels on the things telling people not to buy them if they live in Kansas.
Healthcare reform happened in theory but I still can’t get in to see a doctor.
God finally fired George Steinbrenner.
And now, here are my predictions for 2011:
They won’t figure out a way for me to have affordable healthcare insurance but they will find a way to charge me for not having any.
Someone will write something idiotic on my Facebook page and I’ll get over it. I will receive no media coverage for this.
The New England Patriots will win the Super Bowl and either Wes Welker or Brandon Merriweather will send me a jersey. Ok, the second bit is just wishful thinking.
It will snow in New England so much that people will get sick of brushing their vehicle roofs and drive around sporting snowhawks.
A fat, pampered groundhog will be startled by 75 camera flashes and dive back for the safety of his hole, leading us to believe we’re all in for 6 more weeks of winter, which will be true through no predictatory skills of the oversized rodent.
People will whimper and whine about a lot of stuff our forefathers wouldn’t have batted an eye at, but there will still be dancing.
Someone will lose a mobile home.
Mayan fans will start stockpiling things and building shelters for 2012. Scientists will fuel the people’s paranoia by announcing impending planetary alignment events, then snicker all the way back to the lab.
Orange County will secede from the state of California. Nobody will notice.
Someone at UbiSoft or CapCom will finally recognize the fact that old people like to play video games, too, and they’ll slow the zombies right the heck down and make you think your way out of situations. They’ll rake in bucks that Halo only hinted at.
Someone will recognize the fact that I’m oddly brilliant, set me up in a beach house, and pay me to finish some of these almost finished books that are hogging up all this space on my laptop. Ok, the jersey thing is more probable. I, however, believe that anything is possible, just not necessarily likely.
Lily Robertson, who can't predict what will happen in her own house in the next ten minutes, can be ignored like Cassandra at canopicjargon@gmail.com, on Facebook, or right here on in this comment box.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Jet Blue Movies
I don’t like flying. The minute I get on a plane, I know something’s going to explode or shut off at an inopportune moment. I feel even worse for anyone who has to sit next to me because my filter is disabled the second my butt hits the seat and every slight turbulent bump will have me announcing our imminent demise. In that sense, this flight was good luck for fellow passengers because the red-eye left enough open seats to allow me major sprawledge. I had the entire row to myself.
The flight itself was incident free. The airport, however, was not. Surprisingly, I have absolutely nothing to complain about regarding the TSA folks. They were wicked polite and non-invasive. Long Beach has a good little crew. I’d let them investigate me any day. However, the baggage check in was another matter altogether.
I had two suitcases to check. One was fairly massive, but hey, the first one goes free (weight, height, colour and planet alignment restrictions may apply.) It turned out the massive one that I’d had to stand on to close was five pounds over. The nice lady at the counter suggested I’d save paying an extra fifty bucks if I pulled five pounds out of that bag and cram it into the smaller suitcase I’d also had to stand on to shut. Why I couldn’t just average the suitcase weights is beyond me, and how they came up with a ten buck a pound figure is mind boggling. Nonetheless, the lady was trying to save me money and I’m all over that.
After a bit of an argument with the zipper, the two of us managed to open the case enough for me to reach in and try to find a few bulky things. I located something largish, yanked, and out it came with enough force to rocket skyward, carrying with it a comet trail of underwear. There were bras on the scale. There were panties on the counter. The whole place looked like a Bruce Springsteen concert stage. I noticed that everyone at the counter had turned to see what sentence would accompany an unmentionable explosion. I simply said, “Yes… well… there’s that.”
This was the point where the very nice counter lady became noticeably less helpful. I can understand having my undergarments suddenly turn invisible, but I also seemed to vanish into thin air. Granted, she and the rest of the folks at the counter were having a difficult time keeping a straight face, but the woman managed to not look at me once during the entire cramming and shutting portion of the second suitcase. Or handing me the baggage claim ticket. Or while she muttered something about Jet Blue not having any liability if my suitcases popped in flight.
Everyone wants the TSA people to take sensitivity training classes. Fine, but while they’re at it perhaps they should offer the counter help a course in stoicism. I mean really, the nice lady at the counter could have had much worse things to worry about if I’d opened the side pocket instead. Some of the items crammed into that pocket bounce.
Lily Robertson, who would rather face a perfect storm at sea than a perfect plane in the air, can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com, on Facebook.com, or you can airdrop a comment here.
The flight itself was incident free. The airport, however, was not. Surprisingly, I have absolutely nothing to complain about regarding the TSA folks. They were wicked polite and non-invasive. Long Beach has a good little crew. I’d let them investigate me any day. However, the baggage check in was another matter altogether.
I had two suitcases to check. One was fairly massive, but hey, the first one goes free (weight, height, colour and planet alignment restrictions may apply.) It turned out the massive one that I’d had to stand on to close was five pounds over. The nice lady at the counter suggested I’d save paying an extra fifty bucks if I pulled five pounds out of that bag and cram it into the smaller suitcase I’d also had to stand on to shut. Why I couldn’t just average the suitcase weights is beyond me, and how they came up with a ten buck a pound figure is mind boggling. Nonetheless, the lady was trying to save me money and I’m all over that.
After a bit of an argument with the zipper, the two of us managed to open the case enough for me to reach in and try to find a few bulky things. I located something largish, yanked, and out it came with enough force to rocket skyward, carrying with it a comet trail of underwear. There were bras on the scale. There were panties on the counter. The whole place looked like a Bruce Springsteen concert stage. I noticed that everyone at the counter had turned to see what sentence would accompany an unmentionable explosion. I simply said, “Yes… well… there’s that.”
This was the point where the very nice counter lady became noticeably less helpful. I can understand having my undergarments suddenly turn invisible, but I also seemed to vanish into thin air. Granted, she and the rest of the folks at the counter were having a difficult time keeping a straight face, but the woman managed to not look at me once during the entire cramming and shutting portion of the second suitcase. Or handing me the baggage claim ticket. Or while she muttered something about Jet Blue not having any liability if my suitcases popped in flight.
Everyone wants the TSA people to take sensitivity training classes. Fine, but while they’re at it perhaps they should offer the counter help a course in stoicism. I mean really, the nice lady at the counter could have had much worse things to worry about if I’d opened the side pocket instead. Some of the items crammed into that pocket bounce.
Lily Robertson, who would rather face a perfect storm at sea than a perfect plane in the air, can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com, on Facebook.com, or you can airdrop a comment here.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
My Big Brother is Stealing My Toys!
How do you get away with legalizing the sentence, “If you aren’t elected to a public office, you’re stupid.”? You do it by telling people you’re only trying to help. Do-gooders should really stick to helping little old ladies across the sidewalk.
Their latest outrage happened in San Francisco. The city has banned food establishments from including a toy with any children’s meal that has a designated amount of calories, fat and sugar. Happy meals are no longer happy. Now you have to buy SSDD meals.
The city did this under the pretext that America is fighting a battle with childhood obesity and it just wasn’t going to happen in their back yard. Right. They did it because while they were sitting around polishing their halos one day, they found yet another way to tell people they’re too stupid to make up their own minds. Supervisor Bevan Dufty (yes, apparently that is actually someone’s real name) voiced the opinion that they were going to do this even though a lot of folks would say it was just good old San Francisco being its good old crazy self. He’s wrong. He’s not acting crazy. He’s acting mean. With a godson like him, it’s no wonder Billie Holiday sang the blues.
Here’s what happens when people pass laws of this nature. Parents are absolved of any responsibility for raising their own children. Children, in turn, learn nothing about taking responsibility for their own actions. Is this what we want our children to learn? Is this what we want for ourselves?
Admittedly, if you fed your child on nothing but happy meals, the child would not be the healthiest kid on the block. If, however, you gave your child an occasional happy meal, you’ve done the equivalent of giving the child a couple cookies on a day where they had a healthy breakfast and supper. Are happy meals in and of themselves evil because they aren’t made entirely of fruits and vegetables and therefore harmful to children? Try feeding a diabetic child a couple of nectarines and see what happens. Does including a toy in a happy meal turn it into a diabolical ploy to make our children butterballs? It does not. Do parents have the option when they do buy a happy meal of choosing apple slices and juice to go with it? Yes, they do.
I am enormously fond of happy meals. I don’t eat much, and they’re just the right size to fill me up. It’s also nice that they have cool little toys that I can scatter across my desk and play with when I’m a little short on writing inspiration. Would I buy them every day? No, I would not. Will I buy them every once in awhile? Yes, I will.
If you live on a steady diet of donuts, you’re not going to be healthy. If you feed your child nothing but cake and strudel, your child is probably going to be round and the kid’s teeth will fall out. When I have occasional treats, I know I’m going to be fine. When I overindulge, I don’t whine about it the next day because I’m responsible for my own actions. If I fed my child on nothing but sweets and fat, I sure as hell wouldn’t go crying to Oprah that the world had conspired to turn my kid into a planetoid. When I was raising my son, I tried to be responsible about what I fed him, and he got sweets to balance out the broccoli. He was not a round child, and when he left for college he didn’t go on a mad Milky Way binge. The bottom line here is that sometimes everyone needs a cookie, and I don’t need the government to decide how I get to eat it.
Lily Robertson, who thinks elected officials have better things to do than take toys away from children, can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com, on Facebook, or you can leave a message here in the comments section.
Their latest outrage happened in San Francisco. The city has banned food establishments from including a toy with any children’s meal that has a designated amount of calories, fat and sugar. Happy meals are no longer happy. Now you have to buy SSDD meals.
The city did this under the pretext that America is fighting a battle with childhood obesity and it just wasn’t going to happen in their back yard. Right. They did it because while they were sitting around polishing their halos one day, they found yet another way to tell people they’re too stupid to make up their own minds. Supervisor Bevan Dufty (yes, apparently that is actually someone’s real name) voiced the opinion that they were going to do this even though a lot of folks would say it was just good old San Francisco being its good old crazy self. He’s wrong. He’s not acting crazy. He’s acting mean. With a godson like him, it’s no wonder Billie Holiday sang the blues.
Here’s what happens when people pass laws of this nature. Parents are absolved of any responsibility for raising their own children. Children, in turn, learn nothing about taking responsibility for their own actions. Is this what we want our children to learn? Is this what we want for ourselves?
Admittedly, if you fed your child on nothing but happy meals, the child would not be the healthiest kid on the block. If, however, you gave your child an occasional happy meal, you’ve done the equivalent of giving the child a couple cookies on a day where they had a healthy breakfast and supper. Are happy meals in and of themselves evil because they aren’t made entirely of fruits and vegetables and therefore harmful to children? Try feeding a diabetic child a couple of nectarines and see what happens. Does including a toy in a happy meal turn it into a diabolical ploy to make our children butterballs? It does not. Do parents have the option when they do buy a happy meal of choosing apple slices and juice to go with it? Yes, they do.
I am enormously fond of happy meals. I don’t eat much, and they’re just the right size to fill me up. It’s also nice that they have cool little toys that I can scatter across my desk and play with when I’m a little short on writing inspiration. Would I buy them every day? No, I would not. Will I buy them every once in awhile? Yes, I will.
If you live on a steady diet of donuts, you’re not going to be healthy. If you feed your child nothing but cake and strudel, your child is probably going to be round and the kid’s teeth will fall out. When I have occasional treats, I know I’m going to be fine. When I overindulge, I don’t whine about it the next day because I’m responsible for my own actions. If I fed my child on nothing but sweets and fat, I sure as hell wouldn’t go crying to Oprah that the world had conspired to turn my kid into a planetoid. When I was raising my son, I tried to be responsible about what I fed him, and he got sweets to balance out the broccoli. He was not a round child, and when he left for college he didn’t go on a mad Milky Way binge. The bottom line here is that sometimes everyone needs a cookie, and I don’t need the government to decide how I get to eat it.
Lily Robertson, who thinks elected officials have better things to do than take toys away from children, can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com, on Facebook, or you can leave a message here in the comments section.
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