Posts Tagged ‘children’

It has been said by me right now in this sentence that petitions are like Santa Claus, only children and the mentally handicapped believe in their power. The power of a petition is to cause change. To undue wrongs. Santa Claus doesn’t really have any powers. He can shrink to fit down chimneys, but that’s about it. Giving Santa Claus powers is kind of pointless anyway. He’s no super hero. And what’s he need x-ray vision for? He’s already in your home. If he wants to look down your pants he can yank them down while you dream of sugarplum fairies.

(Sugarplums or Barney the Dinosaur terds?)

Once in my life I participated in a petition. I started the whole thing and everything. All of the Philadelphia sports games were broadcast on a channel called Comcast. Problem was, a cable company by the name of Cablevision had a monopoly on my area. This was before Fios and all of those other ways around this problem. I think this was legal because they said if you don’t want Cablevision you can go fuck yourself. So with that logic you had other options.

I knew I was not alone in my desire to bring Comcast Network to my town. I had learned in school about guys like Gandhi who took down entire empires by not eating. It was chicken patty day twice that week. I wasn’t about to go missing out on those for what I truly believed in. Instead I chose to gain support through a petition, sort of. I’ve always had a fear of clipboards as the clips on those boards remind me of bear traps. I would have to instead rely on word of mouth. The most reliable source of all. How else do you think everybody heard about films like The Hunger Games or The Avengers? Advertisements? The Internet? You’re fooling yourself. We all know those movies exist because we overheard an 18-year-old girl talking about it with frozen yogurt on her lip.

(Christ, she’s in here enjoying her Froyo while everyone else is trying to get in and escape the zombies)

Art supplies were never lacking in my home. My mom always wanted me to be artistic. She bought me countless books on how to draw. One time I successfully traced the Road Runner off of a cup. Since then it’s been kind of downhill. I had construction paper with colors from all of the Philadelphia teams. Red for the Phillies and 76ers. Green for the Eagles. Orange for the Flyers. I made little notes on these pieces of construction paper with messages about voting “Yes for Comcast” and other things that I’m sure I misspelled. My book bag was filled with them. It was time to spread them out to the rest of the fourth grade class.

I think this was the same year that Mmm Bop was a single because I remember the same guy who reminded me of the Hanson kids sitting next to me on the bus that morning. I had a great pitch. I asked him if he liked each of the teams, one by one. He liked them all. Until he got to my Phillies. He agreed that he liked their colors though and would support my cause. Once at school I had similar success. Students ran up to me from all grades wanting to know what the fat kid was handing out. I remember bullies coming up to me asking for more construction paper notes to make into paper airplanes then throw into the eyes of nerds. It wasn’t my original intention, but the message was at least getting out there. Even if it was being used as detention evidence.

(Never trust a kid who bases his life decisions on enjoyment of the color red)

Being a kid I figured I would be successfully. Close to 50 kids in my elementary school knew my cause! If they all tell each of their parents and they all had no dead parents that would be 150 people who knew! Then their parents would tell all of their friends and I’d finally be able to watch every single sporting event that I wanted! If only life was that simple.

A commercial aired a few months later. Much later than the voting ended. It was one of those crappy local commercials where a stagehand walks by in the background with a donut. The ones where local businessmen come in screaming and by the end of the commercial they’re whispering. This particular commercial featured an old guy in a suit. He stood behind two stacks of “votes.” Am I that old where they actually used to keep paper votes? One stack was much higher than the other. Like way higher. Imagine the tallest building you know. Now imagine a dog’s penis. That was the scale between the two. The old guy explained how Comcast would not be coming to our local cable provider. The people had spoken. If I remember correctly, only around 400 voted “Yes.” It was over 10,000 who gave it the “No.” Fuck. All that construction paper wasted for nothing.

(This picture to brought to you by the Morgan Elementary School Class of 1999. I only remember that was the year because I graduated 5th grade the same year as Columbine)

It took a few years, but Comcast finally come to my area. Most people voted “No” because it would be an extra $5 a month or something like that. I don’t blame them now for voting the way they did. This was during the peak of when the New York Yankees were all taking steroids. Nobody cared about Philadelphia. Especially not their loser teams. Even more importantly I learned that you can’t count on children for anything. That’s why whenever I see a school bus hanging off a ledge I continue on. No use in helping them. They’ll just help disappoint me.

What do stamps, books, and sexually transmitted diseases all have in common? You guessed it, they’re all nouns. Besides that, they’re also things that can be collected. And that’s today’s topic, collectibles. Those useless items we can’t get enough of that end up where they probably belonged in the first place, in a pit of fire.

The 1980s and 1990s really created the huge collections crazes. People finally had money although they would often complain that they didn’t. But before that you could really only collect coins. I have a coin collection. Two actually. Maybe three if you count my quarters I’m saving up for laundry. One of them is also loose change so I guess that’s not so much a collection as it is an errand I have to run. But my actual coin collection was given to me by my dad. I’m sure he forgot. There’s not much and I’m sure it’s worth a ham. People used to collect coins because they would say one day they’d be worth more. Like with those state quarters which are worth more than 25 cents yet nobody ever can get a sandwich with 2 Delawares and a Nevada. Collecting coins is silly. All it means is that you had money stashed away that nobody ends up using. Who even puts a buffalo head on a coin? So stupid! I’m getting myself a pack of Skittles with that next chance I get.

(He’s got a cane and isn’t flinching with a hawk that close to his face. Clearly John Muir was a blind man)

Stuffed animals were the first big collection. I give credit to Cabbage Patch Kids. They made ugly children trendy. I don’t think you could find the creepiest pedophile in the world who would fuck a Cabbage Patch Kid. Those things look like Down Syndrome Vincent D’Onofrios. Have you ever seen such a flat face on something? I know you’re supposed to be able to find the beauty in every living thing, but luckily these things were never living. I don’t know what kids used to look like back when those were made but Jesus Christ! Why are most dolls so incredibly ugly? Even the blow-up dolls are unattractive. What if you just want to have a conversation with one? Assuming all prostitutes do is have sex is wrong. Fuck you sex toy industry. You have made a mockery of a once prestigious hobby.

(Do these things know wizardry? She’s not gripping it yet the cake stays afloat. Cabbage Patch Kids should be drowned)

The big collections I remember from the 1990s were Beanie Babies and Furbies. These weren’t quite stuffed animals. The Beanie Babies were filled with beans (which sounds tasty) and the Furbies were filled with Japanese robot parts (possibly as tasty). I had a few Beanie Babies. Go ahead, laugh it up. But I’ll be the one on top of the world once all of them retire. That was my favorite thing about them, they would retire. How does something that sits and does nothing but take up space retire? Next thing you know we’ll be collecting United States Senators. Ouch! Burn! My sister had a Furby. I think she won it at a boardwalk. Amazing how crazy girls will go for a talking Gremlin. You’d think because of that I would have had more dates in middle school. I was short, fat, and hairy. The spitting image of one of those dumb furry birds who always ended up being named Coco.

(Me back in high school. Don’t mind the black or stoner lips. I was going through a goth phase)

The other big collection of my childhood were Pokemon Cards. I hated those motherfuckers. I remember going out onto the baseball field at school and writing “Pokemon Sucks” in the dirt with my friend who saw me pee one time. A lesbian who I had a crush on came over and saw it (not me peeing, the Pokemon Blasphemy) and erased it with her dyke foot. Eventually I had to give in and purchased a few Pokemon cards once it was dying down. I was jumping on the collecting cards of dumb Japanese animals while my peers were jumping on the bandwagon of kissing girls. But the joke is on them once again. Their girlfriends can’t upgrade from a mere Squirtle into whatever a bigger Squirtle was. Can you tell I know nothing about Pokemon? Wasn’t one a shoe?

(I was right!)

Other collections invaded my life over the years. Things like Pogs, Crazy Bones, stickers, and a few others came and went. My biggest collection ever though was baseball memorabilia. I could write a book on this subject but I always stop after one page because nobody wants to read a book about me calling Pat Burrell an asshole every 2 pages. I know, who? I still have everything that I managed to collect. Most of it is in my front closet. I have a couple hundred thousand baseball cards, game-used equipment either bought or handed to me by nobodies, and a lot of baseballs. Really, I could drop the baseballs on your head one by one and you would eventually die I have so many. I don’t know what the most impressive things I own are. Only one thing graces my refrigerator (that’s where I keep the good shit I own). It’s a baseball card of Billy Ripken. You know, Cal Ripken Jr.’s more famous brother who once played in 2 consecutive games. On the knob of the bat, unbeknownst to him, written in black Sharpie the words “fuck face.” A teammate thought it would be a fun prank. I own that card! That’s mine and not yours. There are a bunch more out there but that’s the most interesting thing I own that might mean anything to you. Unless you’re a fan of letters from Bob Tewksbury. Then have I got a story for you!

(It’s impossible to read, but trust me. That black Sharpie beneath his hand says “fuck face” on it. Look at his face. Isn’t he one?)

No longer do I collect anything. I don’t have enough disposable income to buy things to stare at. That’s more of a kid or a mid-life crisis thing to do anyway. I think everyone should have a collection at some point in their lives. Don’t go overboard like me and have it basically become your life though. Or do. I had great times collecting stuff. All I’m trying to say here is all things in moderation. And don’t collect stupid shit. If it requires a battery and hasn’t been around for at least 10 years, you’re probably wasting your time. It’s not going to be worth more in the future. Has anyone who wasn’t a child murderer ever really wanted a Pez dispenser?

At some point in the 1990s, terrorists infiltrated the water systems to my neighborhood. They put massive amounts of some foreign substance in the water and the children of the town drank it up. That’s the only explanation I have for how many weird kids I have met in my life. To name them all would take forever. Instead I am going to limit this to a particular page I have in my 8th grade yearbook. A page I designated as the page only to be signed by the strangest people in school.

Boomhauer – Like with most things, I am not going to use real names. I’m also Facebook friends with this guy and his brother. I would really hate for them to learn how to read and then come after me. I give him the name Boomhauer because he sounded exactly like the character from King of the Hill with the same name. He talked fast and for some reason had a southern drawl. In 6th grade he attacked me with a yellow wiffle ball bat. By attack I mean he picked it up, pointed it at me, and said something that could not be understood. His walk could be described as quick. His shoulder hung low and would sway back and forth. If he was 40 years older he could have invented a popular dance in the 1970s based off of how he walked. He tried befriending me in high school. I would only talk to him in gym class because I had no one else to talk to. Boomhauer would ramble about wanting to be a mechanic. In my yearbook he wrote “Have a nice summer” then signed his name in a different colored pen. He also forgot the dot in the exclamation point. Bastard. Now he pretends he’s Spanish because he’s dating a Spanish girl. His trademark look is his thin early puberty mustache and glasses. I swear he’s never shaved that thing. It looks the way Vanessa Hudgen’s vagina looked in that fabulous leaked photo of her from a few years ago.

Fireball – This actually was the kid’s real name, he claimed. Fireball claimed to be a God I think. He was a short fat black kid who was a grade below me. I think he got too caught up in some fantasy game. I had a fish named Fireball so I always took a liking to this classmate. I think the only conversation I ever had with him was when I asked him to sign my yearbook. He wrote his name in huge block letter and didn’t even include his last name. He wrote “Ready for high school cause I know I am” which was a lie because I’m pretty sure he wasn’t ready for much. I have no clue whatever happened to Fireball. I just hope he’s somewhere safe, like away from all humans.

Lollipop – “Yo Tim have a great summer and maybe I will see you again” wrote this weird kid. I never did see Lollipop again. The way Lollipop got his name was in 6th grade we were given laminated maps to draw on with laminated markers. Mrs. Ashton was hung over. It was a nice silent activity and out of nowhere he mumbles something that phonetically sounded like “blah blu blah fwa” then added “I drew a lollipop!” He lifted his map in the air to show us that he indeed did draw a lollipop extending from South America all the way across the Atlantic into somewhere in Germany. Lollipop had red hair so it kind of makes sense how retarded he was. Lollipop and I actually become somewhat friends. By that I mean he made fun of me for having dry skin on my face but also at one point tried helping to get a girl to dance with me. I guess things even out like that.

Mr. Douglas – Sixth grade was a strange year for me. Seventh was the one where everyone picked on me, but sixth was the one where I met a lot of weirdos. Mr. Douglas was one of them. He gets his name because on the very first day of school he came up to my friend and I (this was the same day that Boomhouer attacked us and in the same spot) and he asked us a question about our principal, Mr. Douglas. Thing is, Mr. Douglas wasn’t our principal’s name yet this idiot thought it was. So if you’re taking notes, Mr. Douglas doesn’t exist. He had apparently read some paper sent home or the student handbook and they used an example principal as Mr. Douglas. He had assumed that was our principal’s name too. I didn’t talk to him much after that. We were divided into two groups in that school, the Lenapes and the Mohawks. Our school mascot was also a Native American with a gigantic nose. After 9/11 they changed it to the Stars and Stripes. You go from honorable indigenous people to exploding masses of gas and a row of parallel lines. Yeah that’s cooler and patriotic. In my yearbook he wrote his name upside down. I guess he wanted to be an ass. Or maybe he was that stupid. It wouldn’t surprise me. He always wore horrible clothing. For some reason in my head he looked like Doug Funnie with a pedophile mustache.

You’re welcome one person who actually enjoyed reading this because you know who everyone is.

Who were some of the strange kids you knew?

Children love them. No I’m not talking about mass murders. Why would you think that? If anyone hates mass murders it would be children. Children are the one group of people who actually enjoy traffic. It gives them a longer amount of time to play their Gameboys or poke their sisters in the ear with their fingers. Rarely are children killed in mass. I don’t know why. It’s pretty easy to kill a kid. They strangle themselves with the chords on the blinds. How do you manage that? Kids are so fucking stupid. No wonder they love stickers so much.

I used to enjoy stickers. I enjoyed how you could place them on anything. I could take a sticker of a unicorn and stick it on an important document that it didn’t belong on. I remember in high school using blank stickers and writing bad words on them. I would stick them on cafeteria tables. They were removable which meant this caused little inconvenience. Now as I’m older stickers fly under my radar. No longer are they fun or something I ever think about needing. Stickers are like the problems in Africa to me. I know they exist but there’s nothing I can really do with or about them.

(This man, no different from the sticker on my windshield saying my car didn’t pass inspection)

Sometimes children are rewarded with stickers. I always thought that was a crappy prize. Even when I was a sticker kid I knew how lame that was. You did good kid, here, have a little piece of paper that you can place on another piece of paper. Then you have a paper covered in stickers. What do you do with that besides look at it once then throw it away? Sticker collages are no fun. It’s an excuse for not being able to draw. I think we should take all sticker collages and give them to the homeless for food. You eat enough paper you have to get some nutrients out of it.

My girlfriend still likes stickers. It’s okay because she’s 7. Huh? The law where I live is their age plus how many adult teeth they have. If it doesn’t equal 18, you’re committing a crime. I bought her stickers for her birthday last year. She actually wanted them. I think they were stickers of horses or pandas. I don’t remember. Something Asian. She loves little Asian stuff. I swear one day she’s going to move to Japan and nobody will ever hear from her again.

(The Japanese Mafia called The Yakuza. They’re very dangerous…I thought)

Adults have their own versions of stickers. We call them labels. It’s no different. You can call a guy “that darky” all you want but he’s still your son-in-law. I use a lot of labels at work. They’re helpful. They allow me to be more efficient. If I wasn’t efficient at my job then people might start to wonder why a human can’t do something a monkey can. I’m talking about a smart monkey of course. One that can do sign language. Did you know that an erect gorilla’s penis is 1.5 inches long? I know that and cannot remember how I know that. Figured I’d throw that in here because I’m all about giving out facts.

One place you should never put a sticker is on a wall. That is of course, a wall you are responsible for. I’ve been to friends bedrooms where they had stickers on the wall. Do they not understand the meaning of the word sticker? It sticks. Things that stick are irremovable. Boogers are sticky and almost impossible to get out of the girl in front of me on the elevator’s hair. The hardest place to get a sticker off of is a wood floor. I remember accidentally placing them there. I couldn’t get it off in one solid piece which was sad. A broken sticker? Nothing makes my inner child weep more. It’s a cracked image. Someone slaved away in a factory and possibly died to create that miniature image only for it to get stuck on your floor during a careless playing with action figures session. Think about that.

(When I was a boy I would eat my bananas then place the sticker on my shirt. It let the boys know I had high potassium and let the girls know I was not a sexual object)

Should I think stickers should be exterminated? Of course not. How do you exterminate something that isn’t living? Plus I will always have a fondness for scratch and sniff stickers. Is there anything more amazing than something that doesn’t smell nice until you scratch it? Science has paid off. I can see a sticker of a flower that smells like dirt.