Every year, the city of Roswell has an annual Youth Day Parade in the fall. There’s floats from various civic and community groups (schools, organizations, etc.) which wind down about a mile-long stretch of old Canton Street. As they pass, it’s a tradition for many – even most – of the parade-floats/marchers to toss candy to the people watching on either side of the street. I assume this is because October is also the month wherein another major candy-acquisition holiday also occurs, so the city father decided, in their wisdom, to see how many diabetic comas they could cause in one month.
But whatever the reason, it’s something my kids look forward to every year. This year was no different…at first. As we were gathering up our stainless mugs of coffee and folding chairs (for us old folks), Jack suddenly dashed off and got a thick piece of styrofoam that had been part of the packaging of some large thing we’d had shipped to us a while back, grabbed a Sharpie and wrote “Insert candy here” on it, with an arrow pointing down. Then, he got a leftover cardboard box, and, well, you can see the results (click for larger image).
The kids always clean up in the candy department on Youth Day Parade day…but this time, all the people passing by were laughing and taking pictures of Jack…and throwing absolute gobs of candy. That box – which must have been nine or ten inches square – was probably at least half full. You couldn’t have carried it by its flaps, or it would have ripped. We’re going to have candy until 2020!!
Our seven-year old son, Jack (who has been endlessly fascinated with our “Presidents of the United States” placemat), just informed us out of the blue that Franklin Pierce was the best-looking U.S. President:
Not sure I agree with the boy’s assessment, LOL.
…when some anonymous person on the internets has me pegged this thoroughly, without ever having even met me:
I’d like to protest, but no one would believe me if I said that I shouldn’t have this tattooed on my left palm. 😉
…from a family “Mad Libs” evening; specifically, one entitled “My Dream Man.” Make of it what you will:
My “Dream Man” should, first of all be very Fallow and Turgid. He should have a physique like Janet Reno, a profile like Shaggy, and the intelligence of a Banana Slug. He must be polite and must always remember to Flop my Crankshaft, to tip his Flipper and to take my Liver when crossing the street. He should move Energetically, have a Crusty voice, and should always dress Forgetfully. I would also like him to be an Insipid dancer, and when we are alone he should whisper Mild nothings into my Chin and hold my Flashy Toad. I know an Aspirin is hard to find. In fact the only one I can think of is Lars.
My name is mentioned in the last line because that space called for “name of man in room,” and because no one else qualified – Jack not being quite a man yet. In other words, for better or worse, I was the only choice. I know there will be those among you who will read the fictitious narrator’s description of her perfect man as being “fallow” and “turgid” and possessing the intelligence of “a banana slug,” and think “unintentional (but very likely fully justified) karmic justice.” Me, I consider it “proof positive that the universe is bereft of benevolent higher power.”
I do NOT dress “forgetfully.”
Now, I’m no corporate bigwig (though my wife plays one on TV, LOL). But even a peon such as myself can bring himself to imagine that between the two of them – Russian natural gas behemoth Gazprom and the state-owned Nigerian National Petroleum Corporation (NNPC) – there would be at least one person employed making sure that things like this don’t happen. What is “this,” you ask? Well, in the absence of any sort of internal review or censorship, what sort of name do you get when the aforementioned two companies form a new joint venture? Come on….think about it….GAZprom and NIGeria…etc.? That’s right, you get a multinational natural gas firm named – no kidding:
I feel like I owe you all a happier story on the political front, since that last one was enough to make anyone skeeved out. So, from the much happier end of the political spectrum, I bring you the website of the recently-formed Presidential Memorial Commission of San Francisco.
And no, this isn’t a joke. It will (assuming they can get the signatures) appear on this November’s ballot in the city I used to call home.