I was listening to AC/DC this morning in the kitchen (making breakfast) and my two year old daughter came in and started dancing…
Me – Do you like AC/DC?
Daughter – Yes I do…
Me- That makes daddy very happy
Daughter (starts singing) A, B, C, D, E, F, G…
Blogging to the melodic sound of the Basset licking his butthole on the bean bag. The soundtrack of my life (I wanted the Ode to Joy, but apparently its was taken). My wife and I diverge (like a road through a yellow wood) on parenting techniques for the hound dog. I’m happy to let him lick his derriere. Clearly his rusty sheriffs badge is in need of maintenance, who am I to stick a spanner into the works? My wife however finds the concept of him rim-jobbing himself unsettling. First will come stern words. Then even sterner words with sinister undertones. (personally I would surrender at this point) And then some form of thrown object. And then… depending on the wayward trajectory of said object… possibly getting up and engaging the basset hound in some form physical confrontation. Sometimes this works. But mostly he’ll just glare at us, and then move off to some other location to continue his tongue to ass action.
I point out that this likely qualifies as an act of futility, before pouring half a bag of Skittles into my mouth. We (my wife and I) briefly discussed the ethics of eating the progenies party pack. Turns out we are both okay with it. Basically we are honorless Ronin who burn villages, prey on the defenceless and spurn seppuku. We’re saving her from a lifetime of sugar addiction and hardship…. this is how we justify our actions.
Besides I could do with the energy, I woke up before dawn to take the dogs for a walk…
It was quiet and misty out. There was no one around. Except for someone donned in camouflage setting up their fishing gear and little row-boat. I worry about those people. And not only because of their woodland attire. Well… why you would need to ‘Vietnam level’ concealment to cast a line for catfish concerns me. Clearly a caste of beings whose mindset I don’t necessarily understand. I write it off as too much Rambo – First Blood when they were young and impressionable. I’m inclined however to believe that once you’re plumbing the depths of a suburban water source (for an inedible fish) dressed in Tiger stripe I think you’ve reached some sort of mental event horizon where I can no longer see you. Pun may or may not be intended.
In any event it got me thinking, as he pushed off from shore.
You know that lifeboat morality trolley problem? And everyone has agreed that cannibalism is the only way to survive. And now everyone is debating how best one should go about deciding who gets eaten? The egalitarian/libertarians are arguing about drawing straws.
While all this is going on… you should probably nonchalantly pick up an oar. And then viciously… but surprisingly… smack the fattest person on head as hard as you possibly can. Even if you don’t kill them… you can argue their… eh… disability now marks them as the weakest link in your lifeboat. Sure people might be angry with you for bypassing the process. But really, since they are still alive… they will (likely) be relieved. Also you have an oar… and have demonstrated that you’re not afraid to use it.
Also, doesn’t it make sense to eat the fattest person first?
Obviously this is more of a long term survival thing. Smashing people in the head with oars when Captain Sully has just splashed you down in the Hudson is a less desirable course of action…. and may be frowned upon.
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I am never taking a Gillette Mach 3 to my dome shaped melon head ever again! Or to any other body part for that matter. Okay, that’s a lie. I wanted to try some outrage on for size, see how it fits. Turns out outrage isn’t really my color or indeed my cut. (see what I did there)
In the spirit of full disclosure (and other body parts) I did try shave my legs once… which… if anyone had walked in on me would have had them hauling my plus sized carcass out of the bathtub and frantically bandaging me up… all while giving me a serious oration about how ‘life is worth living’. APPARENTLY there is little to no skill transfer in being able to shave your face and being able to the navigate round the curvature of your knees and ankles with a razor blade. Who knew.
While I roll my eyes at corporations who wants to moralize and preach ideology in their commercials and press conferences I don’t really mind if they do. I mean really, who cares? Apparently though we do care… enough to get a little bent of shape, suggest boycotts on social media, debate the state of the world (which is completely fucked btw) with our co-workers around the water-cooler and listen to angry soliloquies from our favorite podcast or youtube personality on our morning commute. That doesn’t really feel like time well spent… but maybe thats just me.
Razor blades is a tough space. It looks competitive and while you can make a commercial that glorifies a macho lifestyle the net effect is likely a zero increase in razor blade sales for that particular brand. If you want to blame someone… blame the hipsters and their penchant for facial hair and beard oils. Might as well try a change of tack and appeal to a different market segment… the one who is likely still doing the shopping. But hey, if it doesn’t work out for us… consumers are fickle… and unlikely to remain outraged for long. Strategically, I think its probably not a bad idea.
In any event, while I don’t agree with Gillettes eh… attempt to school me in acceptable behaviour, I am inclined to take the stoic approach to their machinations. If you choose not to be offended… you won’t be.
Easy peasy. Japaneasy.
I fumbled and dropped my Tupperware on the way to the kitchen this morning, which resulted in my chicken being distributed in a large circumference around my personage. I briefly considering eating it anyway. But the questionable hygiene of the office firma and the judgmental stares of my co-workers swayed me away from this endeavour.
This, as it turns out, has been indicative for my day so far – basically rubbish. I’m trying to take it my stride with stoic resolve and fortitude but I’m hungry and entering the realm of ravenous hostility that comes from not eating for three hours.
I’m wallowing, (mostly) in self pity but also achieving some more general type wallowing that comes from feeling disconnected from my privilege. I’ve tried to infuse a modicum of imperturbability into my psyche by looking at pictures of suffering. I have a folder for just such occasions, aptly named, ‘Pictures to make you sad’.
Its not doing anything for me today. As an aside, Kevin Carter (who took this picture, that won the 1994 Pulitzer prizes for photography) killed himself in a park near my house. As a child I used to catch tadpoles and crabs in the river there. Unfortunately these days as an unsupervised minor undertaking such a venture you are more likely to catch Diphtheria, experience unbidden sodomy and then have your organs harvested in room lit by single flickering light bulb. Which as I understand it, is less amusing than keeping river creatures in a glass jar until they belly up and die after a few days. I’m glad I got to kill larval stage animals without compromising my sphincter integrity or losing a kidney. It doesn’t seem like a good trade off. (ah, the good ol’ days)
Speaking of creepy crawlies (after reading Caroline Paul – Fighting Fire) my wife and I have become very cognisant of not letting my two year old daughter develop irrational fears. Ie. We have been super careful not to unfairly demonize snakes, spiders and hexapodal invertebrates… its cute when she says ‘hello’ to the Daddy-long-legs or the Christmas beetle. But obviously less endearing when she tries to offer salutations to a Black Widow or tries to high five hornets. My mother muses out loud that her grandchild is a Hindu. I think she means a Jain… but I don’t really want to get into it with her. To my mother all Indians are Hindu. In any event I have become this weird black-helicopter parent*. Which in invalidates 90% of the concepts I imagined about being a parent. It certainly wasn’t how I was raised…
* which is basically like a regular helicopter parent, but supposedly working in the background in stealth mode (with varying degrees of success) and only intervening under dire circumstances. Sometimes I wonder if I’m coddling her.
In other news I’ve taken four Tramadol (not all at once) in an effort to rid myself of this throbbing headache. So I’ve been pumping myself full stimulants and opioids since I woke up. I marking today down as a failure for cleaning living. Just thought I would mention it.
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I forgot to lock my front door last night.
Terry Pratchett has this great paragraph about how, in Ankh-Morpork, there are actually very few murders. Mostly dead bodies are considered suicide. Walking in the Shades after dark for example, is suicide.
While Johannesburg likely wasn’t used as a template for this Discworld metropolis (as far as I know) I feel it definitely ranks in the top five most Ankh-Morporkian cities on this particular plane of existence. The most glaring difference (which precludes Jo’burg from the top spot) is that instead of a brass bridge lined with hippos over the river Ankh (primarily used to dispose of dead bodies) we have a bridge over a train yard. (which broadly serves the same function). Also a bridge made of brass would have been stolen ages ago.
In any event, not locking your front door in South Africa is broadly considered suicide. (glad we made it!)
In all fairness in order to get into the master bedroom to murder us they’d still have to make it past the booby traps (the playroom strewn with caltrops/Lego), the vicious guard basset (oh who am I kidding) and there’s always the chance they might trip over the German Shepherd in the passage. I sleep like the dead, but all the commotion might wake the missus (who will then punch me, ‘Your turn’.)
Back when I was an (irresponsible) bachelor I slept with a Glock (.40S&W) underneath my pillow, 1UP and ready to rumble. It caused me endless frustration when girlfriends wanted to sleep over. (where is the Glock going to sleep?) Although savvy enough NOT to suggest they go sleep in the other room due to their presence deteriorating the defensive integrity of fort Joey, it generally elevated my already simmering levels of anxiety. (Clearly I had other qualities which glossed over some of the other more serious psychological… eh… deficiencies)
Marriage has mellowed me somewhat (or turned the liquid cloudy, depending on how you look at it). These days instead of rolling out of bed and into my body armour I first have to go the cupboard and take it off a coat hanger. I also have to waste precious time taking my Glock out of the safe and cycling a round into the chamber. All this while under the added pressure of being murdered.
Its all very inconvenient.
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So in order to get the classical heart shape we’d actually have to stitch two regular hearts together….
This seems illogical to me.
I haven’t made new years resolutions in years… because that would imply the need to improve… and (in my opinion) I’m pretty maxed out in general awesomeness. To cram anymore in there would be dangerous to those around me and run the risk of painting my surroundings in O positive and fecal matter.
. To quote Calvin and Hobbs…
But this year… with the big four oh fast approaching… I thought maybe I should try something new.
This is how its going so far…
Weight loss. My wife has just birthed our latest progeny… after a December of first world excess and skirting dangerously close to pre-diabetes… we are now racing each other back down to goal weight. I am nothing if not competitive… If I win she will buy me the Lego Rollercoaster… if she wins she gets the equivalent value in new clothes (with the added caveat that I have to go shopping with her… this is obviously pretty terrible)
As of this morning… I’ve lost… 10lbs (in 15 days). Which is pretty good I think? My bad carbohydrate intake for the month so far has been a single piece of toast. And zero sugar. Plus I’ve been working out everyday. The wife is however murdering me with her weight loss. I even renegotiated a handicap in the form of the weight of the child… plus some allowance for amniotic fluid… I’m still getting killed. So I may be going to the mall soon. Ergh!
Coffee intake. I tried to give up coffee completely… which worked… until I went back to work. And then fell (hard) back onto the caffeine crutch. I’ve managed to limit myself to three cups of the black stuff per day. For me… that’s (essentially) going dry… so I’m chalking it up as a win.
News. I have… eh… had (maybe that’s better) news cycle addiction, so I decided to try and take a break from it all. This was really, really, really hard. Government shut downs… Brexit… Imminent financial collapse. But having struggled on through… that old chestnut, ignorance is bliss… it really is. I thought that feeling of being an uninformed, ignorant noob would be too much for me… but as it turns out not knowing how (supposedly) fucked everything is, is quite nice. I still have a vague sense of whats going on out there in the world… you catch some outrage on Reddit and occasionally your co-workers talk about ‘stuff’… but the minutiae of it escapes you. I should have done this ages ago!