A new holiday has just come about and I can’t even pretend I understand it, but boy if I did the article that follows sure might make some sense.
As I understand it, this whole “holiday season” deal comes around, what, once in a lifetime, right? As I understand, it was just recently invented by Hallmark. I mean, I was born a really long time ago and this is totally new to me.
It starts off innocent enough. Holiday tradition number one is get in the car and start driving all over the place, more or less at random. What a great way to use up gas while at the same time getting a bit road-queezy.
Next you have the part where you are re-introduced to everyone you’ve ever met in your life. Everyone over three feet tall insists they are an aunt or uncle (which seems like an excessively large family, but who am I to judge) and everyone under three feet insists they’re your buddy. Oh yeah, and all of them insist on cheek pinching and wanton kissing.
The biggest thing is you must have time to eat. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to bring my own and get started in the car. Oddly, instead they gave me absurd (yet requested) amounts of potatoes, stuffing, fruit salad, chips, pie, bread and turkey. Hey man, I got more gobble than a turkey any day of the week, and if you don’t believe me just ask my cheeks.
One important thing to keep in mind (among many I’m sure) is to not fall asleep in your food. I’ve only done this once in my life so far, but on this particular day, I made very sure that I didn’t. Bad PR, you know? Must maintain my sterling image.
And of course, if you are planning to genuinely honor the Hallmark holiday intention, it’s critical that you get thinking about a Christmas tree. I’m not entirely sure what Christmas means, but deducing from the trees I’ve seen, I’m pretty sure it’s defined as “plastic.” So start thinking about Christmas trees.
My Christmas tree, which I just remembered I left in the car, smells just like a fresh pine tree, even though it’s artificial. Technology today, man, I just can’t get over it.
If you missed out on this big event, don’t worry, the customer relations people at Hallmark insist it was a big enough success that they will be having a sequel next year, in addition to the other kinds of holidays they have planned for the rest of this year. I think at least for now, this is a trend that’s going to stick around.
As an American born and raised I feel it’s my duty to serve my country. If that means killing or dying in a strange land for a cause, even ones other than self defense, then I say “Huh? Um, okay, I guess.”
I know murder is illegal and also against the Ten Commandments, but if it’s my job to kill someone and/or die, then I suppose it’s just patriotism, right? I’m not sure why I’d want to do that, but I am sure it would be okay with me.
The more research I do on this subject the more sense it seems to make. All American men are required by law to register for the draft before their eighteenth birthday. Otherwise, how could we be expected to muster an army of 30 million (abject) soldiers overnight? You’d think the cause would be strong enough to warrant willful recruitment, like it was in World War I and the sequel, but you’d be wrong. Lots of people want to understand why they are fighting and whom but, then again, some people vote, so I guess it takes all kinds, ya know?
Fortunately, men do sign up for the draft — or Selective Service as they call it. After all, not everyone is lucky enough to be selected — because if they don’t, they start losing rights they were born into. That ought to teach them. The good news here is that even those crazy few who would rather have peace or peaceful negotiations are welcome to take up arms alongside their fellow American. Well, as long as they don’t admit to being gay.
Why are people so fussy about this? It’s not like it’s a life or death situation, though technically it (among very few other things in life) is.
So if we’re going to be ready when “the big one” comes we need to train early and train often. The jungle gym game is cool. It’s fun because it’s a challenge, and because it’s practice for the real thing where standing up equals an unwelcome piercing from someone shooting at me… and why would they be shooting at me? Because some people just don’t understand why I would be sent there, to their home, to kill them… wow, I’ll never understand savages.
Of course serving your country has other benefits as well. While contributing the already record-breaking deficit (which I’m sure we’re all very proud of) we can, ourselves, earn an exceptional living which is often above the poverty level.
If you’re going to raise a family, as many of our fine servicemen and women do, it’s important to instill family values such as blind patriotism. But there are many other important lessons kids can live while mom or dad is away killing foreigners, such as independence and how to cope with separation. This comes in especially handy if one of those rabble rousing meanies overseas destroys mom or dad in the name of freedom. What do they know about freedom? We’ve always been allowed to elect our own president, in all cases save one.
I hope people in other countries understand that not everyone in America feels the same about military actions taken by the United States. It’s important to note that a lot of people find it unnecessary, foolish and outright despise it. Don’t worry, though, you’ll rarely hear about them. We’ve got a conservative media to keep them from getting press, and here we didn’t even have to make the government directly control them!
I don’t know who came up with this wonderful alternative to child-rearing, but it is an amazing device. I think these have been around for a million years, so I won’t bore you with the details, but there’s a few great things I just have to point out.
First of all, I’m a guy. No, I’m not pointing that out, that’s just preface for what comes next. I’m not saying that being a guy is some kind of bragging right or anything — though I’m told there’s all kinds of advantages when it comes to shaving, peeing and just about everything else that goes on in the bathroom — but still, this is not my point. I’m just saying that guyhood gives me a different appreciation for the hypno-box.
At first I thought it was just me who felt the draw, but apparently guys the world over have the same genetic defect that makes the box so alluring. When it’s on, there is nothing else. No people, no crisis, no sound, no want.
It’s a great tool to use for many, many purposes. For example, in some families babysitters have been completely phased out, automating them in a way, by passing the job over to the hypno-box. It works so well because oftentimes the children are so transfixed that they would have no way of knowing that their parents had slipped out for a day or two.
Since it works so well as a babysitter many parents have elected to let the hypno-box take over their job as well. It’s much easier than raising a child and the parents never know what a bad job it does, so everybody wins. In those cases parents just send in an attendant every two or three days to add more gruel to the feeding troughs and maybe tidy up a bit, but that’s optional. No need to sweat over the raising of the kids, after all there’s always public school for that.
Then you’ve got your cartoons… oooohh, sweet senseless cartoons. Hey, it’s not like I’m going to teach myself Kung-Fu or how to race cars through crowded city streets. If it wasn’t for Saturday mornings, I probably wouldn’t even know what a gun is. Let’s be thankful for all the educational opportunities afforded here. Also, since it is a self-attending system, I can choose to watch whatever I want and no one gets in my way and says “that’s too violent” or “shouldn’t she be wearing something?”
What’s better is, you don’t even have to move to watch it to it’s fullest power. The kindly inventors gave us a remote control. When it comes to having a remote, I say, “Hands off.” If I have to put it in my mouth to protect it, I’m going to. I must have exclusive control of what the box tells us, and at what volume. Technically, I also control if it tells us in Spanish. It’s gotten so bad that just holding it makes me foam at the mouth like a maddened dog of the best kind. I don’t think that’s a desired consequence, but it is a sweet, sweet side affect.
If you love your children, show them. Do it with television. Put down that dull book, stop trying to go out in the yard and play catch, just plug the kids in and let the joy flow through on it’s own. Take a moment now and listen to what the hypno-box has to say to you, and remember, prices may never be this low again. This may be your last chance to get in on these incredible savings. You’d look better in a new car. You can lose weight fast. And of course, the American people all support the war effort. Act now, operators are standing by.
For weeks now someone has been going through the kitchen stealing food and leaving behind a mischievous mess. This isn’t just disorganized, but outright vandalized. This Perplexing Times exclusive takes you inside the Caper’s Caper.
No one would come forward to confess throughout the investigation. This required more thorough detective work, which fortunately, has ended in apprehending the culprit mid-perpetration.
There were five key suspects to watch: Mama, who had admittedly very little motive since it’s her food and she did most of the clean up. That wouldn’t make much sense, so she was pretty much ruled out.
Daddy-o, also an unlikely candidate for the same reason, though he could have done it in order to cause the extra work for Mama. His alibi checked out, though, since he was nowhere in the area at the time of the alleged crimes.
Brother Patrick was a prime suspect since he has a long rap sheet of crimes just like this. His motive was foggy, but his means and lack of alibi made him look mighty guilty. He didn’t crack during the interrogation though, so he was eventually cleared.
Me AKA Brendan, AKA Baby B, AKA Mr. Giggles. Well clearly I didn’t do it. I’m too little and weak, right? Of course I have a motive and no, I don’t have an alibi, but that doesn’t make me guilty. Innocent until proven otherwise. Can I point out my height again?
Baby X is who I had pegged as the vandal. We don’t know this kid at all, never even seen his face. And yet, he’s living here under the same roof. He doesn’t eat dinner with us so he could be hungry enough to steal. Until I’m shown I’m wrong, I’m saying that Mama’s onboard munchkin did it. She contends he can’t sneak out of the womb undetected, unlike a marsupial, but I think he can, and I think he did so on numerous occasions.
I’ve had the unique opportunity to interview the alleged criminal, and been given permission to quote comments on the condition of anonymity. As he explains, “items stolen from the fridge are only stuff I’m not allowed to have, like straight coffee creamer, straight guacamole, straight balogna and straight salsa. I’m not a criminal; I was just trying to meet the needs in my life that I am forbidden. Everyone deserves a fistful of salsa,” I said — I mean, he said.
Vandalism has included leaving kitchen utensils on the floor, such as the potato masher, wire whisk, salad tongs, and a few others that “make good noises.” Also, very suspiciously, all of the original artwork featured for display on the refrigerator gallery was torn down and defaced, but only under the 36″ mark. There’s a clue in there somewhere, I suspect.
Further, aluminum foil (aluminium, for our English readers) was repeatedly removed from the drawer and crumpled up into useless balls. Who would commit such an act? What goes on in the mind of such a person? Rest assured, you may never know.
With Salsa-gate winding to a close, the suspect, whose name has not yet been released, is being held under house arrest with constant supervision until he can meet with his own attorney and “really Cochran his way out of it.” If convicted, he will face up to ten years supervision, as required by State law. At this point, he will be tried as a minor.
Oh boy, my gummies hurt worse than a double dose of hungry and tired el combino. Chewing anything at all helps, but what to chew is the real debate, and herein lies my rebuttal.
Any noun is fit for mastication, as any fool should know, but my review focuses on the two logical choices; teething toys and real life, handsome, footsome, jetsome ol’ shoes. Allow me to e’splain.
Teething toys -
Let’s face it, these munchy-type toys are great for gummy slobbering, indeed they’re designed for the very purpose. Teething toys are:
Designed with human non-gaggery and non-poisoning, non-dying deathery in mind.
It’s hard to beat, isn’t it? Hard, oh yes, but not impopsicle. Read on, you tooth-breaking novice, read on.
There’s other things you can chew on too. Like I spoketh ad introductum, any noun works ipso perfectum. Let’s just pick one, so we’ll use human footy shoes for our comparison. Shoes are great because they’re:
Soft on top, chewy on the bottom.
Varied. Soles, tongues, and strings with flugelbinders are just the tips of their respective texture bouquets.
Off-pavement treads work miraculous wonders on the breaking gums.
Shoes are stylish way beyond any chewy-tidbit.
There’s always a pile of them by the front door.
Always on hand, even if on foot.
While I can’t tell you verbally which of the two oral routes is best to soothe your own aching gums, I only say that both have pleased me to greatest chompery ends.
I’ve just been handed a note. It says something about a report that Brendan wrote, a remarkably similar article to this one a long time ago. It doesn’t say if he ever published it though, hmm… not sure how to address this. Give me a moment.
It’s been nearly a lifetime since my bio was first posted, so it strikes me there’s no better time than now to update and upgrade it to it’s very own page.
(Click here to see the full sized version of the biography photo.)
There’s so much to say about myself. I’m a young, little, big old journalist who has worked diligently in news and reporting for almost all of my life. I’ve been read here on Perplexing Times as well as on many other syndicated outlets over the past few years, but I haven’t let the fame go to my head or anything, even though my head does look a little big for my body.
I’m a sleepy dreamer and a visionary of 20/20 caliber without so much as a manacle to tie me down. Hopefully that means I’m still grounded, but not literally grounded because that wouldn’t be any fun.
Hardly a day goes by that I don’t write, edit, publish or pose for pictures, all of which are designed to advance my causes, prove my points and enlighten and enliven my loyal readers.
I foucus my writing energies in reviewing interesting places, events and attractions, covering news and dishware that breaks around me and otherwise investigatively reporting the very good (though sometimes bad) in the world around me.
I love my Miss Mama and Mr. Daddy-O and am very sad without them. My pair of brothers are my very best friends, and I’m sad without them too. I’m shy for many minutes around others — except MissLissa — but quickly warm up to most any stranger, specifically those with candy.
I hunt, peck, slap the keyboard and let the elder folks run spel chuck and best guesstimate systems to ascertain my meaning. Some-old-the-how it magically comes out as a pale shade of brilliance, though I never read it and I’m just as infrequently aware it even goes to print. I’ve got a good support staff, what can I say?
My dad’s commitment to me is to keep over-documenting my childhood life, growth, and development, and my commitment to you is to continue sharing it. Some days are better than others, but there’ve been too many people who’ve professed their affection and connection with what we do, so I promise to continue on.
No less than any nor all of it, it’s important to point out that 90% of the contributions and ad reveue goes to the college funds of us boys. The other 10% goes to children’s charities to help those slightly (and significantly) less fortunate than us. It ain’t that our parents love us more than those of other kids, it’s just that our push is a little more public. Still, we feel we’ve just got to share the love, and by that I mean our perplexing times.
Original Bio page
Dominic Benjamin’s Bio
Patrick Joseph’s Bio(Click here to see the full sized version of the biography photo.)
I don’t know who invented this clever, spring-scented product, but despite the ease of grip and handling, the side effects are just too many.
As a laxative, it works great. Not that I needed one, I didn’t. If I had, however, I’m sure it would have made any traffic jam move smoothly, no pun intended. In my case it just made a normal commute into a road race.
It has many other benefits too. You can use it to wash your hands or even to disinfect. That’s a pretty versatile product by any account.
The first problem I had with it was the taste. Despite smelling fresh and clean, it was pretty nasty on the taste buds, as you can see above. I know they make chocolaty laxatives and I’d recommend them to you if you have a weak stomach.
The next problem was how it made me feel; kind of wierd. Not sure how to explain it, but it was a very icky and detergenty feeling. I know what you’re thinking, “He’s not supposed to use detergent as an adjective,” but for that matter I’m not supposed to use soap as a laxative, so cut me some slack here, ya mind?
Then we get to the bubbles… I don’t think anything that goes in your mouth should do that. For the scientists who invented it, I say: “Don’t quit your night jobs.” For the merchants who so gladly sell it, I say: “You should be ashamed of yourselves.” And to the parents who allowed me to eat it, I say: “Come on now people, you know I’ll put anything at all in my mouth, can’t you keep a closer eye on things like this?”
Daddy-O is a pretty good guy, or so I’m told*. He’s the guy who gives up his seat on the bus to those more needy, the guy who gives direction to wayward tourists, and ever & forever the guy who “does the right thing” regardless of the personaly price for doing so. In this case, however, it quite literally came back to bite him.
He gave a coin to a couple who didn’t realize they were on a peak-hour bus rather than the off-peak one they thought they were. He gave three bucks to the elderly tourists who’d hopped on Seattle Metro’s 41 in the accidental “northbound” direction, rather than their intended “free zone southbound” one. He’s even spotted random folks before him in convenience store lines the odd collection of coins to get them their stuffs without their need to sacrifice, but I guess these things sometimes come back to bite you, no? In Dadddy’s case it did.
We were at Fred Meyers picking out some seasonal fare on the curb when we observed a fun, festive and absolutely furious little dog. He was a goodly, albeit portly and arcane sort of dog-fellow, and we pointed gleefully at him in our normal child-like delight.
Doggy-boy surprised us all when he freed himself and ran into the store, but Mr. Daddy-O was already gone after him like the notion of my social security. Off, evaporated, gone like some sort of other earthly wind, f you will… will you>
As the story unwinds, Daddy-O and another random man (who turned out to be a store manager on his day off) took it upon themselves to reign the mad beast back in. They chased him down and put him on his leash so he wouldn’t be impounded, run out in to traffic, or (heaven forbid) bite someone… and that’s where the humor diminishes the last little bit to a sadly quantum of “none at all”.
ABOVE – Here you can see a close-up of Daddy-O’s finger fully four-days after the bite from Sr. Terrier, Jack Russell. 1- This is fang-one, the one that took the slightest nick out of Daddy-O’s finger tip. Pay no mind to the threads poking out, that’s all cotton and it came from the bandage. 2- This is a much more nasty injury as it pierced through his skin and back out, but left no “open flap” by which the hospital could open it to “irrigate” it (nor otherwise impose abuse). 3- This last one is also a gracing blow, but ultimately the one that caused the most problem**. Despite the odd-kilogram of Augmentin he ingested, it still oozed a nasty blood-puss mixture for a week, after it had pretended itself to be healed and closed. I knew better, the darn thing was big and puffy. That’s good if we’re talking balloons, bunnies or televised cartoon characters, but for wounds it’s just not the best thing to suffer.
Daddy-O and Mr. Manager-Man got him on the leash, but not before he bit someone. The dog — I later discovered was named Jack Russell-Terrier — did bite someone… my dad. Oh what a tragic life it is in which we live.
So as fate would have it; doing the right thing can very much come right back to bite you, and I now know this because the dog which dad worked so hard to benefit quite precisely came back to bite him on the hand, though in all fairness it was not the one that feeds him.
Oh man, now that I think about it, this is a real problem for me. With Daddy-O out of the pointer finger picture he so desperately needs to transcribe my brilliance, what-the-heck ever will we do? His primary job is to transcribe my babbling into lesserly maddened madness, but how can he type it with a finger thusly bandaged, bondaged and damageded?
My only solution is a short-term one. I must feign jealousy of his bandage and demand that I wear one of my own to match. It means nothing to me, but I think that Daddy-O, with his infantile sense of humorous sensibility will find it somehow comforting, even if only in my own juvenile ways.
He’s a good man and he deserves good things in equal context to the ills he suffers, but with an infected and expensive dog-bite or not, doesn’t he still have us boys as his trophy either way?
I’d argue he does.
Oh, and in case you’re curious, he got the phone number and contact info from the owners of the dog, but sent them a letter saying he just wants compensation for his medical costs… but with no response from them…
So there you have it on him, Daddy-O’s a total sucker. As yay, want yay, recieve nay. Daddy-O really needs to get compensated from the people that have bit him, even if that means you pal… oh yeah, you know who you are, and we’ve got our eye on you mister!
So think about your life and what you encounter, plus what you can do in the course of any given day to do what little you can to make your world a better place… then, having that info snug in yer noggin’, do what you can to act upon it.
* Mostly by him, but what reason have I to not believe him?
** This side wound has since wound up as a permanent puffy bunch of scar tissue, which looks to forever inflame his ability to poke and even to type… how ever will us junior folk rely upon him now?
Oh, and the bill came in… with the prescriptions and the two visits to the emergency room (the second one for a change in symptoms) the total was $1,067.80… oh my, that’s something fantastic alright.
I’ve complained good and loud about the tall-centric construction in our world, and it seems Home Depot has heard my hollar. Perfect timing too, I was getting hoarse.
Even go-carts are SUVs to me and cramped studio apartments might as well be Carnegie Hall. Only when it comes to reclaiming my hand-me-downs from Mr. Dominic have I found things to be too small… until now.
As you can see in the photo, Home Depot is now promoting bathroom showers designed specifically for people about a foot and a half tall. For reference, that’s about half the height of your standard midget*. What a brilliant move towards equality for half-stacks like me.**
The tall-centric market has been driven by the sadly low income and voting ratios among the sub-three-foot demographic, but all that’s changing. In the past year, employment in the 24-36 inch community has skyrocketed, doubling from .001% to .002% thanks in no small part to Hollywood, illegal sweat shops and illegal Hollywood sweat shops.
And clearly, businesses have taken notice. Kudos Home Depot, if I wore a hat, it would be off to you. They’re too itchy though, and my gorgeous locks demand to waggle in the wind. I’m compelled to oblige, what can I say?
We didn’t end up buying this new-tastical “short shower” as consultation with private counsel suggested it would destroy our damage deposit and already strained relationship with the landlady, and potentially incur some wicked wrath of landlord-tenant liability. That’s okay, it was too short for me anyhow.
* Midgets like to be called “little people” but I’m a little person and I take offense to the confusion. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, you’re a midget.
** Assuming, by “half-stack” you mean I’ll only grow to like 5’4″ or so, as that’s my height times two. Not me, man, I’m eating my vegies!
My life’s been as long as anyone’s (my age) but I’ve never experienced the joy of yachting first-hand, though I’ve long since longed to. I like playing. I like toting myself about the toys, and if it includes some sort of boat or pseudo-boat, I love playing around on boats, even (if not especially) if it leads to personal elitism.
Boats by their very design are all about elitism. You buy one and it means you’ve got a half million clams to spare (and I’ve only eaten about two), and if you’re able to moor one you are likewise a quadruple sucker (as your berthing likely costs more than a normal man’s apartment) but it doesn’t mean I don’t like you, not by any normal sight, not even by a short-sighted myopic sight like Daddy-O’s.
But seriously, if you’re in a place to buy a boat, you totally need to do it. Buy a boat and come on out and give up the love that surely comes with the elitism of the boat-man, boat-ownerous (onerous?) elitist elitism… Boats cost money and you ain’t got none, so who the heck do you think you are?
By this last statement I just mean to imply that I’ve got a boat (which I don’t) and that I’m a superbly wealthy man (which I’m not) and that I’m somehow better than you just because I have one (a boat, which I don’t actually have).
No less I’ve got a super-duper sweet boat here, at least for today. Forget the kids who hang out with me on the playground and their (obvious) desire to hang out with me, specifically on a boat, but I’ve got no time for that. Not for dudes, not for cuties, not for nobody.
Wait, did I say “not for cuties”? That might have been a typo-ma-graphical error on my part. Pay no mind to the photos, I know they speak volumes to my compendia of personal behavior, especially in terms of interpersonal interaction, but no less, I swear I’m not so elite as to preclude the pretty little girls who mean so much to me.
Nope, I lied, the girls are cool and stuff but I’m all about the boat today. I love sitting in it, even with a conspicuous lack of water for miles and miles around, but maybe it’s because my love of turning a random wheel (as pictured) in a boat (as imaginarily real as the non-functional wheel) is so great that I simply can’t bring myself to share it.
But who cares, whatever. I’m still just me and (no matter how much I love the cerebral things) I’m busy playing around in my super-cool speedo-boat.
If you have a boat, won’t you kindly come boat about and play with me?