Scroll down to see new entries (in bold)
Dec. 8, 1972 (4 years old)
Published 19900320 by Digital Slob.
Dec. 8, 1972 (4 years old): Out of nowhere, Mom rocked my world today when she told me she could see colors when she grew up.
“But all the movies and TV shows from back then are in black and white,” I insisted.
“Yes, but we could see color in real life with our eyes, just like you,” she said.
How could TV lie to me like this, when it so accurately reflects the world around me otherwise?
Tom chases Jerry — cats hate mice. Got it.
Ping Pong balls fall on Captain Kangaroo — grownups are dumber than mooses and bunny rabbits. Got it.
Dean Martin makes Johnny Carson laugh — things are a lot funnier with bourbon. Got it.
Why, then, would television dupe me with a duotone Shirley Temple?
History is full of lies. Got it.
“But all the movies and TV shows from back then are in black and white,” I insisted.
“Yes, but we could see color in real life with our eyes, just like you,” she said.
How could TV lie to me like this, when it so accurately reflects the world around me otherwise?
Tom chases Jerry — cats hate mice. Got it.
Ping Pong balls fall on Captain Kangaroo — grownups are dumber than mooses and bunny rabbits. Got it.
Dean Martin makes Johnny Carson laugh — things are a lot funnier with bourbon. Got it.
Why, then, would television dupe me with a duotone Shirley Temple?
History is full of lies. Got it.
Nov. 6, 1972 (4 years old)
Published 19900315 by Digital Slob.
I got a new plaid shirt for kindergarten. I’d never seen so many colors and stripes, and I assumed no one else had, either.
From story time to nap time to play time, I worked the room, making sure everyone knew that even if they were my approximate height, they were still beneath me. “Know what this is? It’s plaid,” I kept saying with a nonexistent pause, all the while pointing at my chest.
Once certain everyone was well aware of how better I was than them, I took a well-deserved break, picking my nose and wiping the boogers on my shoulder. Suddenly, Mrs. Jolly rushed over, pointed her finger at the insidious social violation near my neck and screeched her infamous catch-phrase, “That’s rude!”
Confused, I stared back and replied at the same decibel level, “No it’s not! It’s plaid!”
As she dragged me to the principal’s office, all I could do was cry for my mom. I needed a representative that knew how to use a dictionary — there were some things I had to look up.
From story time to nap time to play time, I worked the room, making sure everyone knew that even if they were my approximate height, they were still beneath me. “Know what this is? It’s plaid,” I kept saying with a nonexistent pause, all the while pointing at my chest.
Once certain everyone was well aware of how better I was than them, I took a well-deserved break, picking my nose and wiping the boogers on my shoulder. Suddenly, Mrs. Jolly rushed over, pointed her finger at the insidious social violation near my neck and screeched her infamous catch-phrase, “That’s rude!”
Confused, I stared back and replied at the same decibel level, “No it’s not! It’s plaid!”
As she dragged me to the principal’s office, all I could do was cry for my mom. I needed a representative that knew how to use a dictionary — there were some things I had to look up.
March 28, 1972 (4 years old)
Published 19900302 by Digital Slob.
Got a good lesson in scarcity economics today. With five of us eating dinner, Mom put a platter of nine pork chops in the middle of the table. We all got one, leaving four in the neutral zone.
My 72-inch tall, 175-pound, 17-year-old brother (benefiting from 12 more years of math) quickly figured out that not everyone could get seconds. So he immediately snared a second piece of meat before dinner had officially begun.
If he had taken physics, however, he would've realized that I'm only 35 pounds and 36 inches tall, and can't even cut my own food, let alone compete on a level playing field for pig meat, especially when the regular chair I'm sitting in puts all of my body and most of my head below said field.
But then, pecking orders are more about conditioning over the long term, I suppose.
My 72-inch tall, 175-pound, 17-year-old brother (benefiting from 12 more years of math) quickly figured out that not everyone could get seconds. So he immediately snared a second piece of meat before dinner had officially begun.
If he had taken physics, however, he would've realized that I'm only 35 pounds and 36 inches tall, and can't even cut my own food, let alone compete on a level playing field for pig meat, especially when the regular chair I'm sitting in puts all of my body and most of my head below said field.
But then, pecking orders are more about conditioning over the long term, I suppose.
Feb. 19, 1972 (4 years old)
Published 19900301 by Digital Slob.
Today I finally made a public stand against Mom taking me into the women’s restroom when I have to pee. “Why can’t we go into the men’s room sometimes?” I asked.
“Because I’m not a man,” she said.
“But I’m not a woman, and I always go in there with you!” I said. “All I’m asking for here is 50-50.”
I lost this battle but — mark my words — I will win the war.
“Because I’m not a man,” she said.
“But I’m not a woman, and I always go in there with you!” I said. “All I’m asking for here is 50-50.”
I lost this battle but — mark my words — I will win the war.
4-minute reads
-
Click above to read my columns. Don't be afraid. It's just reading -- you're doing it now, only you scroll down a bit more and keep going. Think of it like a trip to the dentist. Apprehensive at first, but then there's laughing gas. Only you won't be spitting up swallowed blood once my hilarity subsides. If you are, let me know immediately, because that means I'm obviously doing something very, very wrong.
-
Download a better version of your life
Are we supposed to know what that icon above represents? I don't. But apparently, it's a link to my podcast feed.
-
Download the song everyone is talking about (if only to drown out the music).
-
All roads, and most chicklet icons, lead to iTunes, including the one above. Click it for the express route to becoming a digitialslobpod subscriber. Or click any other aggregator of choice below. Join the Digital Slob Cult. Don't worry, the doors all lock from the outside for your own protection.
-
The link above will get you to the digitalslob MySpace page. It must be worth a look, the chicklet is animated. There are only about 63 million other such MySpaces in captivity. But mine is one of the few that doesn't involve pictures of ass cleavage (I'm saving those for a premium service).
- Edit me!
Last posts
Archives
digitalslobpod will come to you
Ah, screw it. I'll just e-mail it to you
-
If you haven't figured all this podcasting crap out yet (and who has?) then just enter your e-mail address below and each weekly episode of digitalslobpod will arrive in your in-box, just like your horoscope and 1,017 would-be home mortgage lenders. But this won't generate any MORE spam ... I'm a Digital Slob ... I can't keep track of my electric bill -- how am I going to sort through your addresses?
Pretty picture of my wife. Actually, a realistic picture of my stunningly beautiful wife. If you scrolled down this far, I figured your eyeballs need a spa break. Actually, no, this is really just for me.
ATOM 0.3