HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
Wednesday, 25 September 2013
Helloooo Newman: Messing with my Cred (update)
Helloooo Newman: Messing with my Cred (update): Well, it seems like M hasn't followed through with all the threats yet. I think M maybe took a page from the Obama book. Yes, I will bom...
Messing with my Cred (update)
Well, it seems like M hasn't followed through with all the threats yet. I think M maybe took a page from the Obama book. Yes, I will bomb Syria. Well, it'll be a really light and airy bombing, couple of days at best. You won't even hardly notice that we sent in missiles costing the taxpayer one million dollars each. Okay, we won't bomb them. But we still might, or might not…
Poor F. I 've seen F a few times and F always smiles and says hi. I smile and wave back, of course making sure M is at least a few blocks away. Or P (stands for pathetic, old grandmother).
When I say hi to F I kind of feel like the families in Romeo and Juliet, the Montague's and Capulet's. Families that aren't allowed to like each other because of incredible stupidity. Alas, poor F, I knew him well.
When I taught F piano, at the end of the lesson P would always check the clock very closely to make sure I taught for precisely 30 minutes. One time I fooled her and started to leave 2 minutes after I started. P is not a skilled "laugher", shall we say. She needs a continuing education course in humour and how to respond to it. I imagine she probably doesn't have much time left, though, speaking of watching the clock closely. Maybe when she was checking the clock, she was just checking to see if she was still alive. Poor P.
I think F will defeat the unfortunate parenting environment. I completely believe in F, even if F is only 6. I think F will probably move out at the age of 18, although I think it would be better if F left at, say, the ripe old age of NOW.
I am so glad the incident with M occurred. It reminds me that the most honourable trait a person can have is kindness.
Be kind. That's all there is.
Poor F. I 've seen F a few times and F always smiles and says hi. I smile and wave back, of course making sure M is at least a few blocks away. Or P (stands for pathetic, old grandmother).
When I say hi to F I kind of feel like the families in Romeo and Juliet, the Montague's and Capulet's. Families that aren't allowed to like each other because of incredible stupidity. Alas, poor F, I knew him well.
When I taught F piano, at the end of the lesson P would always check the clock very closely to make sure I taught for precisely 30 minutes. One time I fooled her and started to leave 2 minutes after I started. P is not a skilled "laugher", shall we say. She needs a continuing education course in humour and how to respond to it. I imagine she probably doesn't have much time left, though, speaking of watching the clock closely. Maybe when she was checking the clock, she was just checking to see if she was still alive. Poor P.
I think F will defeat the unfortunate parenting environment. I completely believe in F, even if F is only 6. I think F will probably move out at the age of 18, although I think it would be better if F left at, say, the ripe old age of NOW.
I am so glad the incident with M occurred. It reminds me that the most honourable trait a person can have is kindness.
Be kind. That's all there is.
Sunday, 22 September 2013
Helloooo Newman: Hangman's List
Helloooo Newman: Hangman's List: I made a short list of some of the most diabolical crimes an adult can commit in the 21st. century. 1. Allow your child to ride a bike wit...
Hangman's List
I made a short list of some of the most diabolical crimes an adult can commit in the 21st. century.
1. Allow your child to ride a bike without a helmet, even if:
• the bike has 12 sets of training wheels and the child is 3 inches from the ground
• they are not moving
• the bike has no wheels
• they are riding on 3 square miles of a marshmallow-like substance that is firm enough to hold the bike but soft enough that if they fall, they end up harmlessly in one of their favourite treats.
2. Raising children while you ride a bike yourself without a helmet, even under all the conditions of #1.
3. Take a child for a ride in a car without a child safety seat that has been inspected by NASA and tested on the space station.
4. Having a sick child and NOT visiting every medical website, contacting tele-health, assuming it's the brain eating amoeba, rushing to emergency and acting as if your child is the first that has ever had a fever and sniffles.
5. Allowing a child to engage in non-activity that doesn't prepare them for super human abilities later on.
6. Allowing your child to learn piano while you are in another room.
1. Allow your child to ride a bike without a helmet, even if:
• the bike has 12 sets of training wheels and the child is 3 inches from the ground
• they are not moving
• the bike has no wheels
• they are riding on 3 square miles of a marshmallow-like substance that is firm enough to hold the bike but soft enough that if they fall, they end up harmlessly in one of their favourite treats.
2. Raising children while you ride a bike yourself without a helmet, even under all the conditions of #1.
3. Take a child for a ride in a car without a child safety seat that has been inspected by NASA and tested on the space station.
4. Having a sick child and NOT visiting every medical website, contacting tele-health, assuming it's the brain eating amoeba, rushing to emergency and acting as if your child is the first that has ever had a fever and sniffles.
5. Allowing a child to engage in non-activity that doesn't prepare them for super human abilities later on.
6. Allowing your child to learn piano while you are in another room.
Friday, 20 September 2013
Helloooo Newman: Tongue Tied
Helloooo Newman: Tongue Tied: This morning I was exploring my tongue. In the mirror. It really is a strange sort of body part. You know how sometimes you say a word ove...
Tongue Tied
This morning I was exploring my tongue. In the mirror.
It really is a strange sort of body part. You know how sometimes you say a word over and over again and think about it really hard and it starts to lose its meaning? All of a sudden the word is just a group of letters. That's what happened to my tongue. Just a pound of flesh. No real purpose.
Since it lost all meaning, the tongue had to be compared to something, as we humans are wont to explain and categorize and compare everything. The best comparison I could come up with is to that of a leach. The tongue looks like a thick leach housing in our mouths, squirming around for blood. I wonder why we're so afraid of leaches when we carry one around in our mouths 24/7.
Tongue facts are always interesting:
• tongue cleaning is proven to prevent heart attacks, pneumonia, diabetes, infertility and first dates going down the tubes.
• women have shorter tongues than men - no comment.
• a blue whale's tongue is the size of an elephant, has a very good memory, and loves peanuts.
• it's fun to twist your tongue - try saying "Irish wrist watch" fast, or even once, after a few drinks.
• the rest of these interesting facts are on the tip of my tongue, where much of the bacteria in my body lives.
The tongue is so plain looking and pretty uncomplicated as far as design goes, but is amazingly important because we can't speak or swallow without it. The speaking function caught my attention. Far too many people in this world are allowed to use their tongues to speak nonsense.
I think we should issue licences to use our tongues for speaking. That way people who say really dumb things, like Kathy Lee Gifford (who wouldn't get a licence), would receive heavy fines or imprisonment if they used their tongue for speaking. They can use it for chewing and swallowing or whatever other purposes they can dream up, but if they utter one word, a tongue lashing, so to speak, it is.
There is, of course, a long list of people who wouldn't get licences, if I were running the licence office, that is. Just about every politician, on either side of the spectrum. I suppose the first person I would hunt down to revoke their licence is Anthony Weiner, in the U.S. Wow, I think I would keep Weiner and his tongue in separate jail cells for a while.
I'm amazed at the number of people who seem to think it's endearing or clever or interesting to show the world they have a tongue when their picture is taken. What is that? Perhaps they are dying to say something obnoxious, they can't because the photo doesn't record their voice, so their tongue wildly thrashes around in protest, reminding the world that, indeed, it had something important to say at that moment.
I think Miley Cyrus can be credited with bringing the tongue to new levels of grossness. I guess you can't really blame the tongue, though. It's Miley's brain, for lack of a better term, that controls it. I think she should give her tongue up for adoption to someone who can use it for a higher purpose. That would also stop the "singing".
I'm getting chest pains thinking about Miley Cyrus. Time for a tongue cleaning.
It really is a strange sort of body part. You know how sometimes you say a word over and over again and think about it really hard and it starts to lose its meaning? All of a sudden the word is just a group of letters. That's what happened to my tongue. Just a pound of flesh. No real purpose.
Since it lost all meaning, the tongue had to be compared to something, as we humans are wont to explain and categorize and compare everything. The best comparison I could come up with is to that of a leach. The tongue looks like a thick leach housing in our mouths, squirming around for blood. I wonder why we're so afraid of leaches when we carry one around in our mouths 24/7.
Tongue facts are always interesting:
• tongue cleaning is proven to prevent heart attacks, pneumonia, diabetes, infertility and first dates going down the tubes.
• women have shorter tongues than men - no comment.
• a blue whale's tongue is the size of an elephant, has a very good memory, and loves peanuts.
• it's fun to twist your tongue - try saying "Irish wrist watch" fast, or even once, after a few drinks.
• the rest of these interesting facts are on the tip of my tongue, where much of the bacteria in my body lives.
The tongue is so plain looking and pretty uncomplicated as far as design goes, but is amazingly important because we can't speak or swallow without it. The speaking function caught my attention. Far too many people in this world are allowed to use their tongues to speak nonsense.
I think we should issue licences to use our tongues for speaking. That way people who say really dumb things, like Kathy Lee Gifford (who wouldn't get a licence), would receive heavy fines or imprisonment if they used their tongue for speaking. They can use it for chewing and swallowing or whatever other purposes they can dream up, but if they utter one word, a tongue lashing, so to speak, it is.
There is, of course, a long list of people who wouldn't get licences, if I were running the licence office, that is. Just about every politician, on either side of the spectrum. I suppose the first person I would hunt down to revoke their licence is Anthony Weiner, in the U.S. Wow, I think I would keep Weiner and his tongue in separate jail cells for a while.
I'm amazed at the number of people who seem to think it's endearing or clever or interesting to show the world they have a tongue when their picture is taken. What is that? Perhaps they are dying to say something obnoxious, they can't because the photo doesn't record their voice, so their tongue wildly thrashes around in protest, reminding the world that, indeed, it had something important to say at that moment.
I think Miley Cyrus can be credited with bringing the tongue to new levels of grossness. I guess you can't really blame the tongue, though. It's Miley's brain, for lack of a better term, that controls it. I think she should give her tongue up for adoption to someone who can use it for a higher purpose. That would also stop the "singing".
I'm getting chest pains thinking about Miley Cyrus. Time for a tongue cleaning.
Wednesday, 18 September 2013
Messing with my Cred
When I wake up in the morning, as hard as that is for me, I assume that most people I meet will be nice and reasonable. I know, that's a very sunny, positive disposition I have, isn't it? And maybe because I expect this it happens more often than if I didn't expect it.
But every once in a while we all meet people whose sense of reason and proportion is so skewed you wonder who or what raised them. I had the great opportunity to interact with such a person.
This person is the parent of a former piano student. We'll call this parent "M". No, not from James Bond. M=messed up-wow. Kind of like the sham-wow, only not nearly as useful as this wonderful product.
I taught this student, called "F" (standing for "feel sorry for the upbringing") for about 6 months. F is really nice, clever, and a fast learner. We bonded immediately, enjoyed each other's company and made good progress on the piano.
M, as you might expect, saw things differently. M thought F was undisciplined, inattentive and childish (my words). F was 5 at the time.
This was a typical lesson: I would start the lesson and M was sitting 15 feet away watching and listening to every word, mannerism, flinch, impulse, quirk, movement, breath, laugh and smile poor little F exhibited. If F smiled a bit too broadly or laughed a bit too much or perhaps strayed from the topic for a moment, M would harshly interject, "F, listen to your teacher".
M encouraged me to be very firm with F. No laughing, no asking questions, no straying from topic in any way. Did I mention F was 5 at the time?
I guess I should state my teaching philosophy here. When I teach a 5-year-old, I do not call the class "piano university". I call it "let's have fun and learn some piano and hopefully over time something will click". I leave the Gestapo manual at home on my Kobo. Getting a 5-year-old to learn piano is like throwing wet kleenex at the ceiling. You throw a whole bunch, laugh at the absurdity of it all, and hope some sticks, dries and stays there.
When I talk to a 5-year-old, I try not to sound like a PBS newscaster moderating a discussion on geopolitics and the nuclear umbrella. I must confess this is deliberate on my part. I try not to sound like Henry Kissinger, but more like Robin Williams. I suspect if I talked to children in my Kissinger voice, they would reach for the nearest colour pencil and stab me in the middle C section.
So, a while back, M lets me go because F wasn't practicing enough. That's fair. I thought he was making good progress, but M didn't see it that way.
Then a few months after that M wanted me back. F had actually requested me by name. I was flattered, but hesitant. Not because of F. F is awesome. F rocks. M, however, rolls over you like a tank jacked up on a case of Red Bull. When M is not happy, that is.
We speak on the phone. I stated my terms in the tense negotiations. F is now 6, so there is very much at stake. A whole career, perhaps. Many important things are so uncertain in this world. I mean, will Syria actually give up their chemicals? Will M and I reach that happy place?
Um, not quite. I told M I can't teach under the previous conditions. M's brain kick starts. Anger neurons fire all at once. Those neurons are connected to M's mouth, unfortunately, so M can't stop talking. I can't remember what M said. I offered, "find another teacher" and hung up.
Ah, but I do remember what M said after that.
M, the parent, an adult, a grownup, a mature person, left me a voice message stating I should be very worried that M will be canvassing the neighbourhood destroying my credibility. Well, this hits me where I'm most vulnerable. I know many people on these comfortable, tree-lined streets look to me as a bastion of smart, cogent living. There are probably some exceptions, because I kind of remember throwing up on the front lawns of some of these houses after a late night at McSorley's. But then, have they connected the vomit to me? There's still hope.
I've saved that message (thanks to the evil tactics of the NSA for that). I encourage all readers to come over and give it a listen so you can see what it's like on the other side of reality and rationality. Free drinks are included.
This is why I love writing. It's very cathartic. I wonder what M does, cathartically speaking? Poor F. Poor L (standing for lame ass spouse).
I suppose M's catharsis is travelling the neighbourhood trashing my name. I doubt M refers to me as "P". Notice, though, that no one can tell who M really is. I hide identities because I'm a decent person on the right side of rationality.
I'll leave the scariest part of this sweet story for the end. It's not about me. No, no. This is not about me. It's about the children. The poor children.
L & M just had another child.
But every once in a while we all meet people whose sense of reason and proportion is so skewed you wonder who or what raised them. I had the great opportunity to interact with such a person.
This person is the parent of a former piano student. We'll call this parent "M". No, not from James Bond. M=messed up-wow. Kind of like the sham-wow, only not nearly as useful as this wonderful product.
I taught this student, called "F" (standing for "feel sorry for the upbringing") for about 6 months. F is really nice, clever, and a fast learner. We bonded immediately, enjoyed each other's company and made good progress on the piano.
M, as you might expect, saw things differently. M thought F was undisciplined, inattentive and childish (my words). F was 5 at the time.
This was a typical lesson: I would start the lesson and M was sitting 15 feet away watching and listening to every word, mannerism, flinch, impulse, quirk, movement, breath, laugh and smile poor little F exhibited. If F smiled a bit too broadly or laughed a bit too much or perhaps strayed from the topic for a moment, M would harshly interject, "F, listen to your teacher".
M encouraged me to be very firm with F. No laughing, no asking questions, no straying from topic in any way. Did I mention F was 5 at the time?
I guess I should state my teaching philosophy here. When I teach a 5-year-old, I do not call the class "piano university". I call it "let's have fun and learn some piano and hopefully over time something will click". I leave the Gestapo manual at home on my Kobo. Getting a 5-year-old to learn piano is like throwing wet kleenex at the ceiling. You throw a whole bunch, laugh at the absurdity of it all, and hope some sticks, dries and stays there.
When I talk to a 5-year-old, I try not to sound like a PBS newscaster moderating a discussion on geopolitics and the nuclear umbrella. I must confess this is deliberate on my part. I try not to sound like Henry Kissinger, but more like Robin Williams. I suspect if I talked to children in my Kissinger voice, they would reach for the nearest colour pencil and stab me in the middle C section.
So, a while back, M lets me go because F wasn't practicing enough. That's fair. I thought he was making good progress, but M didn't see it that way.
Then a few months after that M wanted me back. F had actually requested me by name. I was flattered, but hesitant. Not because of F. F is awesome. F rocks. M, however, rolls over you like a tank jacked up on a case of Red Bull. When M is not happy, that is.
We speak on the phone. I stated my terms in the tense negotiations. F is now 6, so there is very much at stake. A whole career, perhaps. Many important things are so uncertain in this world. I mean, will Syria actually give up their chemicals? Will M and I reach that happy place?
Um, not quite. I told M I can't teach under the previous conditions. M's brain kick starts. Anger neurons fire all at once. Those neurons are connected to M's mouth, unfortunately, so M can't stop talking. I can't remember what M said. I offered, "find another teacher" and hung up.
Ah, but I do remember what M said after that.
M, the parent, an adult, a grownup, a mature person, left me a voice message stating I should be very worried that M will be canvassing the neighbourhood destroying my credibility. Well, this hits me where I'm most vulnerable. I know many people on these comfortable, tree-lined streets look to me as a bastion of smart, cogent living. There are probably some exceptions, because I kind of remember throwing up on the front lawns of some of these houses after a late night at McSorley's. But then, have they connected the vomit to me? There's still hope.
I've saved that message (thanks to the evil tactics of the NSA for that). I encourage all readers to come over and give it a listen so you can see what it's like on the other side of reality and rationality. Free drinks are included.
This is why I love writing. It's very cathartic. I wonder what M does, cathartically speaking? Poor F. Poor L (standing for lame ass spouse).
I suppose M's catharsis is travelling the neighbourhood trashing my name. I doubt M refers to me as "P". Notice, though, that no one can tell who M really is. I hide identities because I'm a decent person on the right side of rationality.
I'll leave the scariest part of this sweet story for the end. It's not about me. No, no. This is not about me. It's about the children. The poor children.
L & M just had another child.
Friday, 6 September 2013
Helloooo Newman: I only have eyes for you
Helloooo Newman: I only have eyes for you: Well, I'm sad to admit it but it's true. Newman has serious intimacy problems. Oh, he's a normal dog in so many ways. He loves...
I only have eyes for you
Well, I'm sad to admit it but it's true. Newman has serious intimacy problems.
Oh, he's a normal dog in so many ways. He loves to play hide and seek (I hide, he seeks, gives up, lies down and forgets what he was looking for), he can shake a paw (although he doesn't quite get that the other paw is shakeable too) and last night he stood up on the counter and fetched a chicken wing bone from my plate. All signs that things are copacetic with Newman. I was upset about the chicken wing, though. I had already eaten it, which is fine, but I'm a little rusty on my emergency surgery skills to remove chicken bone shrapnel from a dog. This was not covered in any MASH episode I saw.
Real intimacy with Newman, however, is elusive. I measure intimacy through eye contact. In my view, you can never really achieve intimacy with a person or animal unless you can sustain deep, focused eye contact. This probably doesn't apply to Twizzles, our guinea pig. If you stare deeply into her eyes in a loving way, she will make a hissing sound that may or may not include spit in your face, grab a piece of her own poo and run into a corner to dine on it. All very exciting for her but not an intimate meal by any definition.
So when I am lying on the bed with Newman, I will come close to his face and look lovingly into his eyes. He puts up with this for about half a second and then promptly shuns my advances. Could it be my breath? That would be curious, since his breath reminds me of a skunk farting just before its body is sculpted to the road with tire treads.
My last dog, Cosmo, was quite high on the intimacy meter. I could stare into his eyes at a close distance for hours and he would stare back, completely forgetting about his itchy groin. But I could never really hold my breath under these conditions for more than a minute or so.
Perhaps Newman is shy and uncomfortable with intimacy. I have a great solution to overcome that condition. I learned this technique while I was starring in a play at university. That's right, I starred in a play. I stood in for Ryan Gosling, who wasn't born yet.
It was really a very powerful exercise, taught to us by the Director, a strange guy that as I think about it now should have been the offspring of a marriage between Dog the Bounty Hunter and Cameron Diaz. A strange breed, indeed.
The Director had two chairs facing each other, about five feet apart, and me and this cute girl had to stare into each other's eyes for 15 minutes. That's it. I was quite nervous because I didn't know this girl very well and I was a complete spastic, bumbling idiot around all girls. I couldn't rely on the normal 5-10 beers I needed before I could strike up a conversation with the opposite sex. At parties I would often end up speaking vomish, a language combining gurgled words and vomit. The only word out of the girl's mouth would be, "vamoose".
So during this exercise there was nothing between us but the eyes. But what an astonishing effect it had. When we finished I felt totally comfortable around this girl. I felt like I really knew her and could completely trust her. It was as if a long, deep conversation had taken place between us, without uttering a word. We were friends from then on, with nary a beer in sight.
I recommend you try this exercise if you are shy and nervous around someone. It works much better with the other person's cooperation, too. If you pick someone randomly on the subway or in a fast food joint and stare at them for 15 minutes, I'm not so sure it would be effective. They have to be voluntarily staring back at you, not calling the police for assistance.
So that's why the eyes are so important to establishing intimacy. Newman just isn't ready yet. I can feel that on an emotional level. I tried feeling things on an intellectual level and it was too hard.
I just might try the chair exercise with Newman. Although I suspect he'll react more positively to "vomish".
Oh, he's a normal dog in so many ways. He loves to play hide and seek (I hide, he seeks, gives up, lies down and forgets what he was looking for), he can shake a paw (although he doesn't quite get that the other paw is shakeable too) and last night he stood up on the counter and fetched a chicken wing bone from my plate. All signs that things are copacetic with Newman. I was upset about the chicken wing, though. I had already eaten it, which is fine, but I'm a little rusty on my emergency surgery skills to remove chicken bone shrapnel from a dog. This was not covered in any MASH episode I saw.
Real intimacy with Newman, however, is elusive. I measure intimacy through eye contact. In my view, you can never really achieve intimacy with a person or animal unless you can sustain deep, focused eye contact. This probably doesn't apply to Twizzles, our guinea pig. If you stare deeply into her eyes in a loving way, she will make a hissing sound that may or may not include spit in your face, grab a piece of her own poo and run into a corner to dine on it. All very exciting for her but not an intimate meal by any definition.
So when I am lying on the bed with Newman, I will come close to his face and look lovingly into his eyes. He puts up with this for about half a second and then promptly shuns my advances. Could it be my breath? That would be curious, since his breath reminds me of a skunk farting just before its body is sculpted to the road with tire treads.
My last dog, Cosmo, was quite high on the intimacy meter. I could stare into his eyes at a close distance for hours and he would stare back, completely forgetting about his itchy groin. But I could never really hold my breath under these conditions for more than a minute or so.
Perhaps Newman is shy and uncomfortable with intimacy. I have a great solution to overcome that condition. I learned this technique while I was starring in a play at university. That's right, I starred in a play. I stood in for Ryan Gosling, who wasn't born yet.
It was really a very powerful exercise, taught to us by the Director, a strange guy that as I think about it now should have been the offspring of a marriage between Dog the Bounty Hunter and Cameron Diaz. A strange breed, indeed.
The Director had two chairs facing each other, about five feet apart, and me and this cute girl had to stare into each other's eyes for 15 minutes. That's it. I was quite nervous because I didn't know this girl very well and I was a complete spastic, bumbling idiot around all girls. I couldn't rely on the normal 5-10 beers I needed before I could strike up a conversation with the opposite sex. At parties I would often end up speaking vomish, a language combining gurgled words and vomit. The only word out of the girl's mouth would be, "vamoose".
So during this exercise there was nothing between us but the eyes. But what an astonishing effect it had. When we finished I felt totally comfortable around this girl. I felt like I really knew her and could completely trust her. It was as if a long, deep conversation had taken place between us, without uttering a word. We were friends from then on, with nary a beer in sight.
I recommend you try this exercise if you are shy and nervous around someone. It works much better with the other person's cooperation, too. If you pick someone randomly on the subway or in a fast food joint and stare at them for 15 minutes, I'm not so sure it would be effective. They have to be voluntarily staring back at you, not calling the police for assistance.
So that's why the eyes are so important to establishing intimacy. Newman just isn't ready yet. I can feel that on an emotional level. I tried feeling things on an intellectual level and it was too hard.
I just might try the chair exercise with Newman. Although I suspect he'll react more positively to "vomish".
Thursday, 5 September 2013
Helloooo Newman: Life is not at all like a box of chocolates
Helloooo Newman: Life is not at all like a box of chocolates: "Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get." Forrest Gump Bollocks. First of all, you do kno...
Life is not at all like a box of chocolates
"Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get."
Forrest Gump
Bollocks.
First of all, you do know what you're gonna get in the box, if you just look at the damn chocolate chart. No one looks at the chocolate charts. They prefer to smell the chocolate, lick it, bite into it, x-ray it, perform surgery on it, and then put it back in the box if it's not to their liking.
For example, I've never known a person who eats the chocolate with the maraschino cherry in it. There must be a huge pile of these cherries rotting away somewhere. What the hell is a maraschino cherry anyway? Maybe they can't rot. I know they can do amazing things with plastics these days, but inside a chocolate? Why a cherry? Why not a maraschino paint ball?
Here's a product idea. These chocolate boxes should come with another, smaller box to hold the destroyed chocolates that are waiting for eager mouths.
Plus, there are lots of times in life when you know what you're gonna get. And with a little learnin' you avoid certain things. When I lie in the sun with cooking oil on my skin my body will later be served at Red Lobster. This will happen 100% of the time. That's a pretty good prediction rate.
When you're in Amsterdam and a pretty girl in a short skirt with a bow in her hair beckons you into a storefront, it's fairly certain she doesn't work for Disney. I'm not saying to avoid her. Just know that it will be a bumpier ride than Space Mountain.
These chocolates come in convenient bite-sized portions. I wish life's problems came like this. And what about those chocolate charts? Does your life come with a convenient chart every time problems crop up? Eeek, my daughter is getting high on foam insulation, her boyfriend has a swastika tattooed on his tongue and she wonders why the police haven't busted the school math lab. Boy, I think I'll pop the caramel/hazelnut chocolate in my mouth and watch my problems melt away.
Life is actually a rubik's cube.
It's a rubik's cube because solving life's problems is never a straight, predictable line. When you solve the rubik's cube, you have to tolerate some temporary disorganization in order to get to the final destination. You deliberately mix things up to get to the solution. Or at least you can't avoid the mix ups. If you get 3 blue squares in a row, sometimes you have to temporarily forego that row in order to solve the puzzle.
This is so much like life. It's incredibly frustrating. The rubik's cube has one correct solution and 43 billion billion wrong solutions. This is a good approximation of life, and completely describes my dating years.
When I try to solve a rubik's cube I want to take the contraption, put it in the microwave and melt it down, pour the hot plastic in my eyes and scream bloody murder.
So forget the chocolates and get a rubik's cube if you want to prepare yourself properly for life's journey. And don't count on any quick solutions.
Forrest Gump
Bollocks.
First of all, you do know what you're gonna get in the box, if you just look at the damn chocolate chart. No one looks at the chocolate charts. They prefer to smell the chocolate, lick it, bite into it, x-ray it, perform surgery on it, and then put it back in the box if it's not to their liking.
For example, I've never known a person who eats the chocolate with the maraschino cherry in it. There must be a huge pile of these cherries rotting away somewhere. What the hell is a maraschino cherry anyway? Maybe they can't rot. I know they can do amazing things with plastics these days, but inside a chocolate? Why a cherry? Why not a maraschino paint ball?
Here's a product idea. These chocolate boxes should come with another, smaller box to hold the destroyed chocolates that are waiting for eager mouths.
Plus, there are lots of times in life when you know what you're gonna get. And with a little learnin' you avoid certain things. When I lie in the sun with cooking oil on my skin my body will later be served at Red Lobster. This will happen 100% of the time. That's a pretty good prediction rate.
When you're in Amsterdam and a pretty girl in a short skirt with a bow in her hair beckons you into a storefront, it's fairly certain she doesn't work for Disney. I'm not saying to avoid her. Just know that it will be a bumpier ride than Space Mountain.
These chocolates come in convenient bite-sized portions. I wish life's problems came like this. And what about those chocolate charts? Does your life come with a convenient chart every time problems crop up? Eeek, my daughter is getting high on foam insulation, her boyfriend has a swastika tattooed on his tongue and she wonders why the police haven't busted the school math lab. Boy, I think I'll pop the caramel/hazelnut chocolate in my mouth and watch my problems melt away.
Life is actually a rubik's cube.
It's a rubik's cube because solving life's problems is never a straight, predictable line. When you solve the rubik's cube, you have to tolerate some temporary disorganization in order to get to the final destination. You deliberately mix things up to get to the solution. Or at least you can't avoid the mix ups. If you get 3 blue squares in a row, sometimes you have to temporarily forego that row in order to solve the puzzle.
This is so much like life. It's incredibly frustrating. The rubik's cube has one correct solution and 43 billion billion wrong solutions. This is a good approximation of life, and completely describes my dating years.
When I try to solve a rubik's cube I want to take the contraption, put it in the microwave and melt it down, pour the hot plastic in my eyes and scream bloody murder.
So forget the chocolates and get a rubik's cube if you want to prepare yourself properly for life's journey. And don't count on any quick solutions.
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