Is This Anything?
Page 23
I don’t know how he did it.
Was there a little Eskimo guy in there handing it to him?
Parent Style
I am not a huge fan of the parenting style of the current generation,
in which I include myself.
I have no idea what happened, but somehow we got
just a little too all into it.
Where did we learn this?
When we were kids, our parents didn’t give a damn about us.
Here’s how you grew up.
You were born to people.
You lived in their house.
The day you moved out you turned around and went,
“That was insane.
I did not understand 90% of the last 18 years.
But I appreciate it.
And will be back to visit
the minimum acceptable number of times.
Nice doing business with you.”
(handshaking)
* * *
We couldn’t wait to get out of that house.
Our kids can’t wait to stay right where they are.
They know there’s nothing better out there.
When mine were little, getting them to sleep every night
was like a Royal Coronation Silver Jubilee Centennial.
That’s how many different steps and moments there were to it.
It started with my wife and I picking up the back of their little bathrobes,
and holding them off the floor,
(taking one step at a time like holding a royal wedding gown)
as we proceeded down the hall to the bathroom,
for the brushing, flossing, plaque rinse and dental appliance ceremonies.
Then to the bedrooms
for the pillow arrangement
blanket adjustment
and stuffed animal semi-circle of emotional support.
To help the little cretins get through 9½ hours without
constant positive reinforcement.
I had to read each kid eight different moron books.
You know what my bedtime story was…?
DARKNESS.
My favorite character was the complete absence of light.
That was the book I read every night.
Piñata
When I go to kids’ birthday parties now, I envy the piñata.
I wish I was hanging by a neck cord,
getting beat on by an angry mob of children with bats and sticks.
At least I’d feel involved.
When the piñata comes out you can feel the tone of the party changes a bit.
“Today you’re five.
It’s time you learned about blind rage and senseless violence.”
Holding little four-year-olds’ shoulders,
“You wail on this ignorant beast, you hear me?
Just beat the snot out of him.
And whatever falls out of his ruptured carcass,
just grab it and eat it right in front of his face.
And when we’re done with him,
we’re going to put a picture of his brother on the wall,
everyone’s going to get a pin, and we’re going to nail his ass.”
I don’t know why there’s a lot of donkey abuse at these things…
Gutter Ball
You don’t think we’re horrible parents?
You take a kid bowling now, they have these rails that come up out of the gutters.
So when the stupid kid rolls the ball,
it has to hit a pin.
Has to.
We eliminated the gutter ball.
Nice preparation for life.
I think the gutter ball is really the only life lesson a kid really needs to have.
You either do the thing you’re doing right,
or there’s a huge ka-klunk sound
and total public humiliation.
Just roll the gutter ball.
Roll it!
Walk back…
Take another bite of your Nestlé Crunch bar.
You tell your friend he sucks too, and you’re done.
Parents, if your child is traumatized by a gutter ball, the kid’s not going to make it, okay?
Just forget the whole thing.
Don’t even finish raising them.
We can’t use these people.
If we were good parents,
we’d be putting extra gutters down the middle of these bowling alleys.
“You want to know what it’s like out there, Timmy?
It’s all gutters, get ready.”
A Marriage Moment
Marriage is a beautiful thing.
Full of fascinating moments.
I actually saw this the other day.
Husband in the car.
Wife on the street.
He’s picking her up after work.
And he did not bring the car to a full and complete stop for her to get in.
She had the car door open.
She was hopping with one foot,
trying to get some kind of leverage on the armrest of the door.
You can only get one foot in a moving car.
One can only imagine the spirited exchange of ideas
that took place inside that car the rest of the drive home.
But that’s what marriage is.
It’s two people.
That’s it.
Trying to stay together,
without saying the words “I hate you.”
Which you are not allowed to say.
Don’t say that.
You can feel it.
That’s okay.
Just don’t let it come out.
Say something else.
Anything.
Say, “Why is there never any Scotch tape in this god damn house?”
“Scotch” is “I.”
“Tape” is “hate.”
“House” is “you.”
But it’s better.
It’s better to say,
“You know, no normal human being leaves a bathroom floor that wet.”
Than,
“You’re stubbing out my soul like a cigarette butt.”
You just don’t say, “I could kill you right now.”
You say,
“You’re so funny sometimes.”
Dual Zone Climate Control
You are not alone in marriage.
Society, culture, technology even
is helping you on your journey.
For example, in your car,
dual zone separate buttons on each side climate control systems.
Gee, I wonder if it was a married person that thought of that?
Thought this could possibly come in handy,
if you are with a certain person that you are perchance legally bound to for the rest of your life,
and you need them to shut the hell up about the temperature.
“I’m freezing. I’m roasting. I’m boiling.
It’s blowing on me.”
When my wife says,
“The air is on me.”
It’s the equivalent of a normal person saying,
“A bear is on me.”
That is the emergency level we are at.
And I respond at that level too.
“Oh my god, an evil breeze from a hostile vent is attacking my mate and life partner.
Who, incidentally, bore me three children without anesthesia.
Probably could have caught the babies herself if no one else was around…
But cannot survive a waft of air,
three degrees off her optimum desired temperature.”
And I’m sure this stupid Dual Zone thing totally works too.
To keep different-temperature air molecules from co-mingling
Inside a three-foot-wide closed compartment of an automobile.
Because when I go to my coffee place in the morning,
I like to get my coffee black on the left side of the cup, cream and
sugar on the right.
And that’s no problem, they can do that.
Or you go to a fancy restaurant,
they ask you,
“Do you want still or sparkling water?”
I say,
“Both. Same glass. Keep them separate.
I do it in my car all the time.”
Just Honks
Communication technology inside the car, so sophisticated.
Every possible interface.
Outside—just honks.
That’s it.
Like cavemen grunting.
“Maaaa. Maa—maaaaanh.”
“Light—green.”
“What? What is it?
What do you want?”
“My lane. Maaaa…
This my lane.”
Family Vacation
We just came back from a nice family vacation.
Or what I like to call,
“Let’s pay a lot of money to go fight in a hotel.
Let’s fight on bikes.
Let’s use profanity on a pristine white sand beach.
Let’s get abusive on a water slide.
Let’s have a blowout screaming match at a complimentary continental breakfast.
Let’s fight about how well behaved those other children seem to be.
I wonder if they were out on the hotel balcony last night
with $12 minibar cashews, trying to hit the other guests in the head?”
When we take a trip,
it’s six days and seven nights of
scapegoating, mutiny, exploiting the weak
and crushing the human spirit.
And when we get home we feel refreshed.
Because we destroyed something.
Together, as a family.
Vacation Me
I do not do well on vacations.
My wife hates going with me.
My kids hate it.
I’m in a bad mood instantly.
I don’t like that someone else thinks they know what I would like.
I don’t like that.
When I do something that I want to do.
My idea. My choice.
50-50 chance I’ll like that.
So what’s this other person’s chances?
Not good.
Zip Line
If this resort is so much fun to be at, why are they putting up Zip Lines?
Because everyone’s so bored here they’re willing to
risk decapitation to find out what it feels like to be dry cleaning.
I would Zip Line if I could do it inside a clear plastic bag with cardboard across my shoulders and a twist tie on top of my head.
Then leave on a hook in the back of someone’s car.
Let me really see what it’s like.
And if any one of us does get injured on this thing,
I’m sure we’ll have no problem navigating the court system
in this Fifth World Island Nation
that seems mostly to be run by Komodo Dragons.
Stand-Up Paddle Board
Then you go to the stand-up paddle board.
Because so many people were asking,
“Do you have anything so unstable that my legs shake
like a baby giraffe standing for the first time?”
What is the difference between stand-up paddle board
and being a migrant farm worker?
Here’s stand-up paddle board.
Here’s breaking rocks on a chain gang.
Here’s stand-up paddle board.
It’s the same motions.
The Jet Ski
The Jet Ski.
More aquatic sadness.
To take your mind off the utter futility of everything.
“No, come on, Jerry.
Jet Skis are cool.”
What can you do?
You can speed up.
Turn.
Go back around to where you just were.
Catch up to your friend on the other Jet Ski.
Talk for a minute…
“Hey, what do you think the meaning of life is?”
“Not this.”
Father’s Day
Father’s Day isn’t a celebration, it’s a reminder.
It’s, “Oh My God We Completely Forgot About Dad Day.”
“Let’s buy him a gift that shows him how little we know about him.”
Like those silver balls that hang from the strings…?
You pull one out and it knocks the other one.
This is the ultimate, “I don’t give a rat’s ass” present you can buy for another human being.
And every father seems to have one on his desk.
Dad Is a Helium Balloon
Nonetheless, the father remains proud.
Dressing in bizarre outfits around the house
on the weekends.
All fathers essentially dress in the clothing style of the last good year of their lives.
Whatever a man was wearing, around the time he got married,
he freezes that moment in fashion history
and just rides it out to the end.
You see fathers on the street,
“… ’05… ’91… ’83…”
And it’s fine.
It’s all fine…
Nobody’s really looking at Dad anyway.
Dad around the house is like a day-old helium balloon.
Just floating somewhere between the ceiling and the floor.
Should we play with it?
Should we pop it?
Why is it even here?
The helium balloon.
Truly, the cycle of man.
In the beginning, the woman holds on to him tight.
Doesn’t want him to fly away.
In the end
… can’t even hold up his own string.
Kids Don’t Want Parents
It’s tough being a mom, too.
You’ve got to do all the work.
Give all the love.
I don’t think moms get enough appreciation.
There seems to be this whole tradition of TV shows
based on the premise of how much fun life would be
if we could just get rid of mom.
Bonanza
Family Affair
My Three Sons
Flipper
The Courtship of Eddie’s Father
Johnny Quest
My Two Dads
Two and a Half Men.
* * *
In the Superhero World both parents have to be disposed of immediately.
They have to be dead, lost or missing.
Or no kid is going to be interested in this story.
Batman: Just murder them in the first scene and get them right out of the way.
Spider-Man: Leave the old, senile aunt around. She’s a pushover anyway.
Superman: Blow up the whole planet with the parents on it before the story even starts.
There are no superheroes with parents.
Can’t have it.
If there’s parents, what’s the fantasy about?
Flying around in a costume?
No, not good enough.
You want criminals caught, parents dead.
That’s the fantasy.
Now you’re free to do whatever you want.
Superpowers and not having to make that call on Sunday.
That sells comic books.
Superman really seems like something written by a kid.
Planet exploding and the only escape
is a rocket only big enough for you to get in.
99% of the Brain
Food and sex occupy 99% of the human brain.
The other 1% of your brain accomplishes everything you achieve in life.
Which hopefully leads to nicer restaurants where sexier people are eating better food.
What is the difference between food and sex?
Well, obviously with food we have fewer relationsh
ip issues.
Whatever you want to do, food wants to do it too.
I never had a bag of Doritos Cool Ranch that wasn’t in the mood to open.
Never had a sleeve of Oreos go,
“Hang on, this is going a little too fast for me.”
Never had a cupcake say,
“Put me down. You’re disgusting.
Give me back my little folded white paper panties.
I’m going home.”
(wiggles back into paper)
That was a cupcake getting dressed.
Pop-Tarts
Different foods hit you different at different ages.
When I was a kid,
and they invented the Pop-Tart,
the back of my head blew right off.
We couldn’t comprehend it.
It was too advanced.
When we saw the Pop-Tart in the supermarket, it was like an alien spaceship.
And we were just chimps in the dirt playing with sticks.
You open the box.
The Pop-Tarts are not even visible.
They’re sealed.
Inside special packets, too precious and valuable to be exposed to the air.
The packets had this silvery lining.
Some metallic alloy from NASA, in case of a Russian satellite gamma ray attack.
Once there were Pop-Tarts, I did not understand why other types of food continued to exist.
I’d see my mother cooking in the kitchen.
“What are you doing? We have Pop-Tarts now.”
You’ve got to think back to when the Pop-Tart came out…
It was the ’60s.
We had TOAST.
We had orange juice,
frozen decades in advance.
You had to hack away at it with a knife.
It was like a murder to get a couple drops of liquidity in the morning.
We had Shredded Wheat.
It was like wrapping your lips around a wood chipper.
You’d have breakfast, you had to take two days off
for the scars to heal so you could speak again.
My mother would make Cream of Wheat.
She didn’t understand the recipe.
“Mom, the amount of water in this dish… IS CRITICAL.
You’re making it too THICK.
I can’t even move my little kid spoon in the bowl.