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Expectant

My father was a high school basketball star. Captain of the team and what not.

And it has often occurred to me, that, perhaps "five foot six, asthmatic child" would not have been a likely request tendered to any wish granting leprechaun storks within earshot.

Now, this isn't some existential diatribe about me and father. If I am a disappointment he has hidden this fact from me well, as any proper Minnesotan man should. And, having been versed in the art of genetics, I've made peace with the fact that the issue of my height is a burden more properly placed on the legacy of my mother's side than on my own glass existential shelf of meaning.

Over the past years, the only time I have imagined being a father, involves me crafting how I could teach my hypothetical child an important life lesson I just learned or formulated. In my mind, the child is attentive, and quiet, and completely appreciative of the depth and nuance of my meaning.

This is, of course, a pretty tall order, as I myself am absolutely terrible at receiving advice. I rarely think to seek it, and almost never recognize it when given, until well after the fact.

And so I often have to remind myself, that any hope for a patient child who will sit attentively, enraptured by my stories of wisdom was lost the moment I was involved in its conception...

(more)

The Basement Ceiling is for Porn

More porn has been found hidden in the basement ceiling!

Those confused by my use of the word "more", should first read up on part 1 and part 2 of the saga of the mysterious video tape.

Sadly, Penthouse magazines are far less conducive to wild speculation as to their purpose. However, just to be sure, I did flip through them looking to see if they were being used to keep meticulous records of stolen car sales.

Unfortunately I did not find any such interesting records, however, somewhat ironically, I *did* end up being chased across the rusted beams of a warehouse by armed goons that day. El mundo es truly un pańuelo.

Instead of interesting things, I found an article entitled "Sexy Scents: How to get Her Hot and Ready". Now, I know there are differing views about the harms of pornography consumption, but I think we can all agree that articles like that are uniformly unhelpful to anyone who reads them, since they seem to seek to root the fantasies portrayed as attainable via product purchase. Maybe the proliferation of easy access porn via the Internet is in some ways, a boon, in that it means less and less people are being exposed to such gibberish.

Saddest in the collection of magazines, was the $3.50 20 page magazine entitled "Chat". Which, from what I could tell, would only be purchased by someone who wanted something easier to hide and or was very bad at guessing 800 sex line numbers.

And, for some reason, picturing the previous resident of the home weighing products on both lust satiation and ability to conceal from others makes me far sadder than simply the existence of a secret stash.

The magazines are now sitting in our recycling bin, where, even if they are happened upon by a budding 13 year old, I have no doubt they'd be tossed down again in confusion, as if he had been handed a handful of vacuum tubes.

State Fair

Forgive me Internet, for I have gorged.

I went to the State Fair yesterday, and here's the stuff I ate:

  • Pronto Pup brand corn dog
  • Spam Burger (with cheese) *
  • Mini-donuts
  • A couple bites of Elyssa's corn on the cob
  • Cheese Curds
  • Half a jumbo glass of 1919 draft root beer
  • Sweet Martha's Cookies
  • All the milk I could drink (which given line logistics was one glass of "White" and one of "Chocolate")
  • Lime Sno Cone
  • Honey Ice Cream Sunday

* My fair colleague and partner in Spam Burger eating, Pete, commented about how the Spam Burger with cheese tasted suspiciously like the ham and cheese sandwiches we would be served in high school.

Muckraking and digestion distress, all in one!

In other news, it is physically impossible not to grin like an idiot while going down a several story high slide on a burlap sack. It's like trying to hold your eyes open while sneezing, a physical impossibility.

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