From time to time I ask myself the important questions in life. For example, why is the dog in this picture pushing a baby carriage? Do I get enough fiber? How much NYC soot can I inhale before becoming the proverbial canary in a coalmine? And how does my mother get her kitchen floors to look so clean when she lives in the same dirty city as I?
Also, if I buy an elliptical cross trainer will it become just another place to hang dirty laundry? Or will it one day be considered modern art to be featured in a MOMA exhibit entitled Famous Authors And Their Slovenly Habits?
If I take a pole dancing class am I encouraging misogyny throughout the globe or just saving my jiggling bottom from uncertain doom? More importantly will my leg hold up or will my left knee cap pop off and roll between the legs of that unsuspecting receptionist? Also, how does the receptionist get her boobs to be so pert? Is it just the push up bra or has god awarded some lucky few the gift of gravity defying breasts? If she were in a plane crash for example would she be able to use those bosoms as a flotation device? Does god really means to have only the perkiest survive?
This might explain why every year I receive a post card in the mail offering me 20% off on an above ground burial crypt. Is that natural selection? A sort of “and the pert shall inherit the earth” philosophy? Will this be the year I write the cemetery back and tell them, Thanks for the discount, but I haven’t kicked it yet. Also, I like my boobs just the way they are thanks.
Last summer in the mail I received an invitation to a conference called Dying IV. I’m sure you’re all wondering what happened to classes I – III. Apparently my own decomposition is already so advanced that the first three seminars were not necessary.
On the subject of things that arrive in the mail, yes, I understand that the purchase of just one goat could mean a Donald Trump worthy return-on-investment for a small village somewhere in the jungle. But when you send your catalog to a broke writer who lives in a studio apartment in Manhattan, and you ask her to drop 10K on something described as Noah’s Ark, aren’t you leaving yourself open for a certain amount of ridicule and disappointment?
You know, virtually every other week I receive a coupon in the mail for a pair of free Victoria Secret underwear. It’s probably my mother’s doing. I’m sure she doesn’t approve of the one’s I wear with the holes. Perhaps she made a phone call? I’m fairly certain she can do that.
If only there was some place I could go to redeem my stack of expired Victoria Secret coupons, I’d much rather have an iPhone. I couldn’t wear it beneath my clothing of course. It might chafe. Then again if I put it on vibrate it might be a nice break in the day.
In conclusion, I believe I’ve proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that I must never again write a blog post quickly while I’m this sleepy. You know a few of my relatives are kind enough to subscribe, and thanks to this post I may never again be able to look them in the eye at family gatherings. I hope you’re happy. Of course, any hope of a career in politics has probably gone out the window as well. I mean, I didn’t tweet George Clooney with a photo of myself wearing nothing but a sheepish grin and an iPhone, but still.
And that my friends, clearly explains why the dog is pushing that baby carriage…