Stern DadSo, what is this exactly? You were born in this decade--against my wishes, mind you--and you think a grown adult needs a place to stow their many pencils and pens? Well, that's not how things pan out in the modern working world. I haven't had a job in 18 months thanks to that HR incident where it only looked like I was smelling my secretary's chair, but I can assure you no office out there has gone back to scribbling on yellow legal pads. At the very least I guess I can piss in this thing when it's late at night and I'm too wrapped up in my fantasy football league to walk all the way to the garbage can.
This is just great. I could spend all day lecturing you on the many uses of rubber bands, as you might remember from last Thanksgiving and the following day. But, hey, it looks like you found a new one! Who else but you would look at a box of rubber bands and say, "You know I could do with these? Lock all of them in an eternal struggle!" And just what if this deathtrap got loose in the house? Sure, one bounce off of the kitchen table and we'd likely survive, but what if this Bouncing Betty made it down the stairs? It could very well destroy what's nearest and dearest to me: my well-catlalogged collection of Pez dispensers that I refused to sell in the late '90s when I thought eBay was just a passing fad. Someone will come knocking down my door for those one day, and when they do, I can kiss all that overdraft fee debt goodbye.
You know what I'm in the mood for? A popsicle! Yessir, nothing wets the whistle after a tedious every-other-weekend with you than a mouth-visit from my favorite frozen store-brand treats. But when I open that freezer door, what do I get? An eyeful of disappointment. I'm used to that feeling being caused by you, but not an innocent kitchen appliance, which has brought nothing but joy and food preservation into our lives. And you somehow thought some crude depiction of an insect would bring me greater joy than the bold flavor of artificial limes exploding on my tongue? Can you make your little friend here a papier mache cocoon so I don't fill my palms with jagged wood fragments while carrying this thing to the nearest fire?
And here I thought we were done with all of this hand business after I threw that horrible turkey approximation of yours into a ditch. Well I guess this is what I get when I expect you not to completely fuck something up. It's one thing for you to give me some twisted parody of one of God's beautiful creatures--now you're expecting me to crack the books and figure out what this even is? You'll be happy to know that I'll have plenty of time to think about it since I have a feeling it'll be making frequent appearances in my nightmares. I said the same thing about your absolutely mortifying performance at your first tee ball practice and I certainly wasn't wrong about that.
At the urging of your mother and "Gary," I pried open my wallet to buy you a birthday present. And it turns out you wanted a video game--what a perfect way for you to leave me alone in another room for many afternoons! So, did you want a normal video game about jumping on turtles or shooting other army guys in the forehead? No, you wanted a "game" that only filled my living room with more testaments to your complete lack of talent. Hey, maybe you can rig that little piano thing you slapped together to play the famous M*A*S*H theme "Suicide is Painless." Because the promise of that song's title is something I pray is true every day.
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