A song by Whitney Houston

Friday afternoon I spent forty-seven minutes at Target, shopping for a birthday gift to give to a one year-old who I had never met.

Yes, I was invited to a one year-old’s birthday party, and no, this is not a post about picking up children, women, or Hannah Montana memorabilia.

I like to think of children as just regular people, who just happen to be small and stupid.  So my problem was: what do you get for a regular dude whose entire life has consisted of babbling nonsense and shitting his pants all day?  Lottery tickets?

The truth is, I can’t just treat him like any other illiterate moron.  He’s a baby, right?  Maybe one day he’ll make something of his life.  So with that in mind, I decided to find an educational toy that would both entertain and educate.  Because I believe the children are our future.

In choosing an educational toy, you are really choosing what kind of life lesson you want to impart on this naive and impressionable human being, with his lifetime of limitless potential ahead of himself.  And therein lies the problem.

The first toy to catch my eye was a set of brightly colored blocks.  But what do children REALLY learn from blocks?  Yes, you are the master of your universe: there are an infinite number of possibilities, you can imagine and create, design and construct anything, truly anything that your little heart desires in this life.

But also, that the weight of gravity is a fucking bitch.  The truth is, you have no small motor skills.  Your chubby little fingers can barely grasp a spoonful of crushed carrots, let alone the building blocks of your own future.  Your imagination is void and uninspired.  You’ll be lucky if you manage to stack two blocks on top of each other before mistaking them for chew toys.  And you don’t even have teeth.  Much like all of your stupid baby dreams, your blocks will eventually come tumbling down and leave you with nothing more than a mess of made-in-China plastic garbage.

So I didn’t get him blocks.

I browsed through the DVDs.  I saw a movie called Baby Geniuses on sale for $4.99.  It was about a bunch of super-intelligent, talking babies who outsmart a group of scientists in an absurd mix-up of identical twins.  Ironically though, anyone who dishes out five bucks for this abomination of a film is NOT a Baby Genius, but rather the EXACT opposite: an Adult Retard.

Let me be clear: The R-word can be hateful and I shouldn’t have used it, and I mean no disrespect to any individual who has suffered through a debilitating learning disability.  I do NOT intend to reinforce negative stereotypes about this already-stigmatized group.

Because I love ‘tards.

But I didn’t get the movie.

Instead, I finally decided on this toy helicopter:

But let me be clear: despite its packaging, the educational potential of this toy is mind bogglingly abysmal.  What are we teaching kids about helicopters, other than the fact that they sing songs to you about balloons, birds, and bullshit?  Oh I know: that aerodynamics don’t mean SHIT in your world, because as you’re about to learn, you short and stupid human being, HELICOPTERS CAN’T EVEN FLY.   That’s right, the rotors don’t spin, and it only moves when pulled by a long white leash attached to the front.  Is that how helicopters are supposed to work?  As far as you know, you inept midget.

If I were running down the jetway at the airport, got to the helipad, and saw this abomination on the landing pad, I would wonder if a sheet of acid melted through my shirt pocket, into my bloodstream, and through my central nervous system.

Why the fuck is there a pastel alphabet printed all over the chopper?

Is my helicopter really singing to me?

Does this helicopter have… a face?  And why is it smiling?  WHY IS IT SMILING?

Who’s the pilot on this thing?  Surely, some kind of trained professional who has logged at least 2000 hours of flight time, ensuring the safety of both the passengers and the general public?  Oh, what’s that you say?  Our pilot is a… puppy?

A PUPPY.

After 47 minutes at Target, I bought the toy helicopter.  That was enough for me, because this little blob of a human being has never contributed to society and doesn’t speak a lick of English — if we were in Arizona, that would be enough to get him deported.  He didn’t get me shit for my last birthday, so the least I can do is spoil his hopes and dreams, poison his mind and imagination, and miseducate him about the sheer physics of air travel and transportation.

Because at that point, I not only gave up on finding a good toy for the kid, but I also gave up on my faith in the next generation of humanity.

I sure hope Whitney Houston was wrong.  Because if the children ARE our future, well, we’re all fucked.

Happy birthday to the Conman

A man of many names: ConMan, the California Condor, CoBo, Conor Manland, hey-you-behind-the-bushes, tripod… the list goes on.

But I don’t give a shit about any of that.

In order to celebrate Conman’s survival to the age of 025 (520 backwards — coincidence???), I dug up these campaign posters on my computer from when the two of us ran for Prez and VP of Kennedy Hall.  Here are the slogans that we posted all over Kennedy Hall:

WOJO 4 PREZ
I PROMISE
NO SEX SCANDAL
(JUST LOOK AT ME)

CONMAN 4 VICE PREZ
UNCLE SAME DIED
BUT HE LEFT A SON

WOJO 4 PREZ
CONMAN 4 VP
Free drinks on us.

WOJO 4 PREZ
CONMAN 4 VP
You need to ask yourself:
Do I really want to vote for a guy named Wojo or Conman?
Then you need to say to yourself: YES

WOJO 4 PREZ
CONMAN 4 VP
One day you’ll tell your grandkids, I put them in power.
And you’ll be glad you did.

WOJO 4 PREZ
CONMAN 4 VP
WHEN WE TALK
YOU LISTEN.
… NO WAIT…
WHEN YOU TALK
WE’LL LISTEN.

WOJO 4 PREZ
CONMAN 4 VP
We can be your last mistake.
If you let us.

lucky numbers

I was on the bus the other day and overheard a guy talking to a girl next to him.  For the record, he wasn’t mentally challenged, he was just a regular undergrad at UCI (so maybe he was).  The conversation went like this:

Guy: “Red was my favorite color from age 8 to 16.”

Girl: “Oh, OK.”

Guy: “Then blue was my favorite color for a few years…”

Girl: “Oh really?”

Guy: “Yeah, but now I think orange is my favorite color.”

It was quite possibly the dumbest conversation I had ever heard.  But it continued.

Guy: “Three is my favorite.  It’s my lucky number.  I like it because it was Dale Earnhardt’s number.”

But dude, it wasn’t very lucky for him now, was it???

As I got off the bus, I had to say something.  So I leaned over and asked the girl, “What’s your favorite day of the year?”  She said, “Probably my birthday.”  And then, in the same retarded Asian accent as the dude, I said, “My favorite day is September 11, because I love airplanes.”