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TT's Mind Field
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Ok, we are gonna try this one more time since some of you are conceptually challenged. If you are new to this gallery, it all started here, but will continue here more in the way I intended.
Anyone wishing to contribute to this Asylumite PORTRAIT art gallery is more than welcome to and should PM or email me a link to your artwork, or the artwork itself and I will upload it.
Other than that knock yourselves out on the comment thread and try to enjoy this if you are capable.
Thanks,
TT
The following artwork was done by Asylum members T_mAN and me:
The following artwork was done by Asylum member Mokkori:
Mordecai
Morgasm
Tack
Lightbulb
The following artwork was done by Asylum member Cornelius:
The following artwork was done by Asylum member Roshigoth:
Vyper
The following artwork was done by Asylum members T_mAN and me:
The following artwork was done by me:
To be continued...
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There come times in every parent’s life when they contemplate the things that they did wrong and the things that they did right in rearing their kid(s). These periods of navel-gazing examine the time spent nurturing and guiding one’s progeny to adulthood; each piece being dissected, weighed, and measured. It is when a mother and/or father must face their successes and their failures on that great playing field of raising children. This ain’t one of those times. This is the time for getting the kid out of my fucking house!
That’s right, Enron headed off to college today. Gonzo, history, outta here! Free at last, free at last! Thank god almighty I’m free at last! This day is now officially a TT holiday that I will call: Escape from the Planet of the Apes.
There is of course a cloud that surrounds every silver lining. In this case, it is the fact that, for whatever daft reason, they actually let kids out for holidays and shit. What the fuck are we paying for here anyway? I want my godamn money back! What the hell do these cretins who run colleges think we send our kids there for anyway, a fucking education? No, we send them there to get the oxygen thieves out of our houses. I mean why would I give a shit about Enron getting an education? What would be in it for me? Christ, now I have to change all the locks on the house, and I just had them replaced for crying out loud!
If I had known about this school break shit, I would have been a better parent and would have steered the boy into a life of crime. Prison doesn’t have breaks, unless a cake and file are involved. I suppose that there is always the hope that he gets recruited by the military or joins a cult or something, but Thanksgiving isn’t that far away. I may need to join a support group. You know, I have done my best to teach that kid the importance of weighing ever decision that he makes against what benefit I might derive from it. Hasn’t worked, but I have tried. And now this.
Oh well, I guess the fact that I will only have to see him a little bit (unless I can schedule my business travel to coincide with school breaks), so that is something to be happy about. Well, that and the golf ball I dropped in his gas tank. Hey, he has wrecked two cars, it’s my turn. It’s what good fathers are for.
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Paul Aurandt was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma on September 4, 1918. As a child he enjoyed the hobby of building radio sets and in 1933, while in high school, he frequented KVOO radio until the station manager finally hired him. There he helped clean up and eventually was allowed to fill in on the air, reading commercials and news.
After graduating from high school Paul attended the University of Tulsa. He continued working at KVOO as an announcer, and later as a program director. Paul spent three years as a station manager for a local station in Salina, Kansas. From there, he moved to a news casting job at KOMA-AM in Oklahoma City, then moved on to KXOK-AM, in St. Louis, where he was Director of Special Events as well as working as a roving reporter.
While at KXOK-AM, Paul met the girl who would be the love of his life. Lynne Cooper had come to the station for a school news program when he invited her to dinner and proposed to her that very evening. From that day forward Paul would refer to Lynne as ‘Angel’.
In 1940, Paul and Lynne moved to Hawaii so he could cover the U.S. Navy as it concentrated its fleet in the Pacific. He was returning to the United States from assignment in Hawaii when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. Harvey then enlisted in the Army Air Corps, where he served until 1944.
After leaving military service, Paul and ‘Angel’ moved to Chicago, the mecca of all national broadcast activity at the time, where in June 1944, he began broadcasting from the ABC affiliate WENR-AM. There Paul and ‘Angel’ decided to combine their talents in a news career. Lynne was an A.B. and M.A. graduate of Washington University and had been elected to four national honorary societies including PHI BETA KAPPA.
Olian Advertising Agency bought the 10:00 p.m., time-slot, replacing a network big-band program, to offer a unique news program hosted by Paul. At the same time his wife Lynne was signed as producer and general manager. Within the year Paul’s show became the top-rated program. In 1968 Lynne produced a very popular television series hosted by her husband which ran uninterruptedly for twenty years in national syndication. His popular syndicated radio show still has a huge and loyal audience.
To this day Paul’s voice is probably the most recognized one on the radio dial. His brisk, quirky delivery and signature greeting, "Hello, Americans!” are familiar to millions; for Paul Aurandt, Paul Harvey Aurandt, has won their hearts.
And now…you know the rest of the story.
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My wife has been traveling on business a lot lately, which has left us only weekends to be together. It sucks, but is the business we have chosen. At any rate, we like to make the best of the time we have together by getting out and doing things; often very ‘spur of the moment’ kinds of stuff. It is usually turns out to be either fun or delicious whatever it is.
At any rate, we went driving around today, running some errands and looking for the ‘something’ we might find to mark this weekend together, and stumbled upon a “New Age Fair” that was being held in our town. We were both ambivalent about going; my wife concerned about traipsing around in the heat (she is more into the “new age” stuff than me, but it was about 90 F and humid), and me because I knew it was gonna be a freak show. In the end we said, ‘What the hell?’ and went anyway. It would be something new and fun, right; being a ‘New Age Fair’ and all?
It is rather amazing how wrong one can be when caught up in the heat of the moment. While I knew very well the circle of hell that I had agreed to enter, I was stunned by the accuracy with which I had envisioned such pathetic gatherings. When, at the annoyed jabbing of my wife, I had stopped laughing at the guy playing the obligatory bongos we began ambling among the booths, which, the ‘old age’ use to call a sideshow. There was some woman, who looked like she might have met someone who saw a picture of an American Indian once. She was swatting some rube with a large feather to heal him of some ill, turning away between applications of the feather now and then to spit (literally) whatever demons she was casting out. It was at this point that I knew I had to get the hell out of there, and for the first time in my life began praying for it to get more hot and humid. Then the “band” began to warm up, or play, who knew?
I adore my wife, so I plodded on wondering what the point of this fair was since the fare at each booth was ostensibly the same in both inventory and tangible value. Stones! There were stones everywhere. Some polished, some not; some shaped or carved, and each boasting some power according to the frea… people manning the booths. When my wife, who was more interested in the jewelry potential of any of the stones, asked the pseudo-gypsy woman at one concession what a particular rock was, the vender told her and pointed to her own bracelet that held the ‘gem’ and went on to explain its massive power. I can only suspect that my left eye was twitching at that point because my beloved quickly thanked the witch and we moved along. It was then that the “band” announced that the next piece would be played in C minor. Since the performance had been C- to that point I was not surprised. I had also determined that the bongo player needed to die.
We both wearied of this excursion into the discovery of people that had discovered something old and thought it was new and so we headed back to the car. My wife commented on how many of the displays offered the same junk and that most of them were stones. Me, I was thinking that anyone who worships rocks or attributes to them some power doesn’t belong in the New Age, but the Stone Age.
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Ok, here’s the deal; I have high blood pressure and a cholesterol level that would make my blood a suitable substitute for ski wax. Both of these conditions are conveniently controlled by miracles of modern medicine in the form of drugs. I find the daily ritual of consuming these mass quantities of pills a royal pain in the ass, but yesterday was extra special because it was punctuated by the discovery of a conclusive piece of evidence that proves once and for all that there are some really stupid people on this planet.
Allow me to submit into the record Exhibit A: the SORB-IT® CAN. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this little doodad, it is a small plastic canister about 1.8cm tall and about 1.5cm in diameter. This little vessel is filled with silica gel which apparently has humectant properties and is inserted into pill bottles to absorb moisture so the pills stay dry. Ingenious really, but neither the design of this device nor the use of the substance it contains is what makes it evidentiary in this case. What makes the SORB-IT® CAN a damning testimony against the intelligence of your common man are the three words that are printed boldly upon it: DO NOT EAT.
Now, as I battled my urge to immediately consume the little thing, I found myself pondering: a) how anyone who was sane and had even one functioning brain cell could possibly think that a small plastic canister they find in a pill bottle would be something they should pop in their mouth and swallow, and b) what blithering imbecile decided that someone that stupid would be able to fucking READ!
Having overcome my silica gel craving, I began to muse about what other rather obvious non-food items might contain such ‘heads up’ messages for the literate retards that poison our collective gene pool and thus deserve no such protection from their own idiocy. My inquiring mind led me to begin rummaging though all the noxious products I have kicking around the house to see just what sage advice they might offer to the terminally stupid.
The first one I grabbed from the cleaning cupboard was a spray can of Scotch Gard™ fabric protector which included “Do not spray in mouth, eyes, or on skin” among its helpful hints. Shucks. I found a number of deadly products that told any dunce that happened to peruse their labels: “Do not take internally.” Now, the fascinating thing about this admonishment, beyond the fact that anyone would ever have to be advised not to consume cleaning products and such, is that it almost implies that it is perfectly okay to apply the stuff to yourself externally. So, after giving myself a refreshing spritz from an old bottle of No-Go™ dog training spray, I continued my investigation with our bemused dog looking on with a cocked head.
Febreze® fabric freshening spray had an interesting little caveat on its label: “Do not spray directly at your face.” Hmm. Do you realize the premeditated effort required to defy this warning? I do, because I wanted to see if it was even possible. It is. Anyhoo, after splashing water on my face to make my eyes stop burning, I got back to my project and found a plethora of other clearly toxic substances that carried warnings that were sure to put the kibosh on any discerning window-licker’s creative menu plans.
In the end, and after my vision had cleared enough for me to be able to compose this treasure trove of wisdom to share with you, I found myself both amazed at the infinite stupidity of those I share this planet with, and filled with unmitigated loathing toward the dolts who have the gall to throw bones to the missing links of the future in the form of warnings designed to keep them alive. Do mess with Mother Nature I say. And with that, I will close, because I have just developed a hankering for a nice tall glass of wallpaper remover.
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It was fucking hotter than the fucking hinges of hell when I rode into fucking Deadwood. The fucking streets were fucking teaming with people, most of them miners and most of them fucking drunk. The fucking sheriff eyed me from under the brim of his fucking hat as I rode past his fucking office, the fucker’s chair leaned back on two legs as he reclined against the wall.
“Where in the fuck do you think you’re going?” the cocksucker asked, one hand toying with his badge, the other resting ominously on the fucking shotgun on his lap.
“How’s that you’re fucking business?” I replied.
“I’m the fucking law in this fucking town, mister. You’d best just answer the fucking question, you hear?”
“I’m fucking thirsty and I was fixing to get me a fucking drink,” I said, tugging my horse to a stop.
“As long as that’s all you are fucking fixing to do,” he said. “I fucking pride myself on keeping this here fucking town really fucking clean.”
“I’ll fucking try not to fuck it up, ok?”
“Fucking right you will,” the sheriff replied. “Now, get on your fucking way.”
“Where’s the fucking saloon?” I asked as I jostled the fucking reins and my horse resumed plodding down the fucking street.
“Right fucking over yonder.” The sheriff pointed a gnarled finger. “What’re you, fucking blind?”
“Not fucking yet, but I fucking intend to get that way real fucking soon.”
Before I fucking knew it I was pushing my way through the fucking swinging doors of the Flying Fuck Saloon. It took my fucking eyes a few moments to adjust to the fucking dim light in the fucking place. I walked up to the bar with more than a couple sets of fucking eyes studying me.
“What’ll it fucking be?” asked the fucking bartender.
“Gimme a fucking whiskey,” I said. I rolled a cigarette and was lighting the fucking thing when the bartender clopped a glass on the bar and poured my fucking drink.
“You ain’t fucking from around here, are ya?” he asked, his eyes squinting ever so fucking slightly.
“Nope, I sure as fuck ain’t.”
“Where in the fuck are you from then?”
“Why do you give a god damn?”
The barkeep suddenly dropped the fucking whiskey bottle and, reaching under the fucking bar, he produced a fucking sawed-off shotgun which he proceeded to point at my fucking face with murder in his eyes. I could hear other fucking weapons being cocked behind me.
“Watch your fucking language, mister,” growled the bartender. “We don’t take to fucking kindly to cocksuckers who use the lord's name in vain.”
That was when I knew that it was gonna be a long fucking day.
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 Why anyone would want a poodle is beyond my ability to comprehend. A poodle is to a dog what Michael Jackson is to a Black man.
France, of course, is recognized as the country that this gayest of dog breeds got its start, although some authorities attribute Germany as the country of origin (as if there is a difference). To quote and Internet poodle website this is what poodles desire: “Frequent trimming, brushing and shampooing of the Standard Poodle coat. Ears must be kept very clean. Nails trimmed short and teeth brushed weekly. Even the pet poodle should attend the canine beauty parlor every six weeks or so. The Standard Poodle enjoys a fair amount of exercise like swimming and retrieving, walks or free run. Makes a great jogging partner.”
Jogging partner? What the hell does that mean? Do the limp-wristed losers that actually own this breed of dog even run? And if they run, what in the name of god does their “running partner” offer in the way of companionship along the way? Perhaps the “poodle cut” explains this nicely. Anyhoo…back to the matter at hand.
If you are pathetic enough to want to own a poodle, I have developed an easy and fun way to do so. Now, I am working on the assumption that any prospective poodle owner possesses or knows someone that possesses a cat. You see the difference between a cat and a poodle is what? If you said ‘grooming’ then you can move on to the next round. Grooming (aka appearance) is the only thing that really distinguishes a poodle from a cat. Sure, sure, one’s a feline the other a canine, but let’s get real. Poodles are cats, and cats are poodles. End of story.
So, we move on to the purpose of this nonsense:
How to build a poodle.
Materials required:
1 – Cat
1 - Toni® Home Perm Kit
1 - Toni® Home Bleach Kit (optional)
1 – Wood Lathe
1 – Well-sharpened chisel
1 – Bench vise with at least a 6” (15.2cm) span
1 – Roll of duct tape 1 – Wood chipper (optional)
STEP 1: Select your cat.
STEP 2: Apply perm and OPTIONAL bleach. Try not to puncture the skin with the roller pins more than forty times. Get a beer and laugh at your cat. (Fig.1)
STEP 3: Remove the perm rollers, get another beer, sit down, and laugh at
your cat. (Fig. 2)
STEP 4: Familiarize yourself with your wood lathe. (Fig. 3)
STEP 5: Place your cat on the wood lathe and use well-sharpened chisel to shape. (Fig. 4)
STEP 6: Get a beer, sit, and regard your handiwork. (Fig. 5)
STEP 7: Using your vise and duct tape, create the proper snout effect on your cat…er..poodle. If I have to explain this part to you, then you don’t understand the proper care of pets. (Fig. 6)
Your completed poodle project should look something like the specimen in Fig. 7. If it does not? Try, try, and try again.
Next time we will make a dog out of a cow. Don’t miss it!
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My Half-Living Will
Due to recent events I have determined that, not only do I need a “living will”, but that a “half-living will” is in order. For this purpose I lift the cyber quill from its digital well and do jot.
I understand that, as an incompetent adult, I have the right to make decisions about my health care. There may come a time when I have decomposed to a level that might become unacceptable to my caregiver(s). As such I would like to make it perfectly clear what my wishes are related to the sustaining of what little life may exist in my rotting corpse. To my caregiver(s) I say, “Put some Vicks VapoRub® under your nose and get on with that sponge bath.”
You see, I want to stay alive; not because I give a rat’s ass about living, but because I want to be a pain in everyone’s ass for as long as I possibly can. As I lie there in my state of decay, I will glean my last shred of carnal amusement by knowing that someone has to contend with the slurry in my bedpan and the bits of me that keep falling off onto the bed sheets. It’s a quality of half-life thing and I plan to cling to it like a Massachusetts Senator does to a martini glass.
Therefore, let it be known that, even though I may look dead, and may smell dead, I am still quite alive and want to stay that way. It’s the least I can do; anything less would be nothing at all.
Signed this 30th day of March, 2005
Trenchant_Troll
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 Somewhere along the line the meaning of the word “suspect” was lost. Like so many words during this era of Political Correctness, it has morphed into something almost unrecognizable in a great many cases. According to Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary the definition of the word is as follows:
Suspect ~ noun: one that is suspected; especially : a person suspected of a crime / adjective 1 : regarded or deserving to be regarded with suspicion : SUSPECTED 2 : DOUBTFUL, QUESTIONABLE / transitive verb 1 : to imagine (one) to be guilty or culpable on slight evidence or without proof 2 : to have doubts of : DISTRUST 3 : to imagine to exist or be true, likely, or probable / intransitive verb] - to imagine something to be.
Now, hold that thought while you read this:
“A Tyler man embroiled in a bitter child support dispute opened fire Thursday on his ex-wife and son with a high-powered rifle, killing the woman and a bystander who attempted to intervene.
Several people, including three lawmen, were wounded in the exchange, which began about 1:25 p.m. outside the Smith County Courthouse.
Police ultimately shot and killed David Hernandez Arroyo Sr. after he fired repeatedly at officers during a two-mile chase that ended off U.S. Highway 271.
The 43-year-old suspect, who was wearing multiple layers of body armor, died in a hail of police gunfire after authorities rammed his pickup and he emerged, gun raised and firing.” [tylerpaper.com]
Ahem, hello? Just what was Mr. Arroyo “suspected” of? Unless the folks in Tyler suspected that he was a member of a cross-dressing murder cult or something, I’d say there are few suspicious factors in this case. But that is what suspect(s) are these days; the ‘presumed innocent’ ride the same linguistic bus as the ‘known to be guilty’.
I am not sure where it all started, but this case is by no means unique these days. Perhaps this oddity is the result of the lingo of sensitivity-trained cops creeping into the media lexicon? I don’t know. However, I do know when this phenomenon caught my notice in a glaring way. It was when I turned on the TV and saw news footage showing a guy shooting some lawyer. Apparently, the TV film crew happened to be there when this disgruntled citizen decided to shoot an attorney he had a problem with (everyone’s dream). He didn’t just shoot him once, but chased him about until the scene consisted of the assailant shooting his victim around the trunk of a tree. I watched in awe as the shooter walked briskly past the cameras until he was tackled by a good samaritan and was held until police arrived to take the “suspect” into custody. Yes, I also watched and listened with awe as the leading man in this murderous movie was referred to as "the suspect" in virtually every piece of media coverage. SUSPECT? What the hell?
Look, the ‘presumption of innocence’ thing is all good, but where does common sense enter in? Only if there is any reasonable doubt of guilt should an individual be afforded the title of suspect. If you commit a crime, live, on camera, in front of dozens of live witnesses and/or on national TV, then I think that a word other than suspect is in order. In such cases I would like to suggest those old standby’s like “killer”, “assailant”, “mugger”, etc.
Now, maybe I sound old-fashioned or even draconian to the tender minds of this sorry time, but if it makes you feel any better, I am not necessarily the one who wrote this. I am just a suspect.
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 Let me begin by saying that unless you are a parent who has raised a teenager you probably will not understand anything that I am about to say. In fact, you will naively think I am some kind of monster. If, on the other hand, you are a veteran parent of such progeny you may say that I am some kind of monster, but you will really be thinking, I’m not the only one! Also, I should state for the record that I have no valid psychological or sociological research to back up my assertions. I don’t need it, I’m a father.
First of all, I need to address the very root of the problem, and that is the myth of parenthood that has been perpetuated or, more accurately perpetrated, since the industrial revolution. Contrary to popular belief there is absolutely no logical reason to have children. When we were an agrarian society kids came in handy and were cheaper than hiring people. They also gave us safety in numbers when the next clan decided that our fields or cattle should be theirs. Today, however, there are three primary reasons people think they should have kids and they are as follows:
1) Babies and little children look cute when you see other people with them.
2) You feel the need to produce a little you and give this little you all the things the big you never had when you were a little you yourself.
3) This most insidious reason is that you are pressured by your parents who prod you to reproduce so that they, as grandparents from afar, can watch you writhe in agony as you are forced rear children that act exactly like you did (this little fact has been a cosmic truth from the beginning and we were all frequently reminded of it by our parents when we are kids). As soon as we are grown they start telling us how great kids are and how we should have five or six by now. Remember, no one, I repeat no one wants grandchildren. If they did, they would raise them for you. The grandparents, your parents, want you to have children. Boil it all down and you have the timeless truth of “misery likes company”.
My reason/alibi for having kids was a primarily #2 (both literally and figuratively). In other words, I was young and really, really stupid. Mind you, I love my spawn. I just feel that if I knew then what I know now, well, let’s just say there are a whole lot of easier and cheaper ways to decimate eighteen years of your life. Actually, raising kids isn’t all bad. Nature was very clever when it designed kids. It made them cute and made them do cute things. If kids looked like iguanas, say, I suspect that fathers like me would turn the oven to 325˚ F. as soon as the contractions started coming two minutes apart. Nope, kids are cute so that when you want to kill them you instead deteriorate to squishy platitudes like “Aw, he didn’t mean to run my briefcase through the dishwasher. He is so cute!”
Anyhow, if you are fortunate enough to survive the sleep deprived epoch of early childhood, the real estate depreciating age of newly gained mobility and recognition of opposable thumbs, and an existence that involves organizing a ninety-day, thirty-man safari every time you leave the house with your little bundle of joy, you will have reached the phase that exists typically between the ages of five and nine; a parental oasis that could almost be mistaken for enjoyable. This period, that I refer to as “the eye of the storm”, is another mechanism designed into the child to allow you a breather before life as you know it is completely obliterated in the dreaded abyss between ten and eighteen. Now these age periods may differ somewhat from child to child and between girls and boys. My degree is in boys, so I will speak of those horrors and leave the war stories of raising girls to someone else.
In the case of boys, the festivities begin when they are about ten or so. You will notice a certain slackening of their jaw which leaves their face with an expression of tired amazement. Their gait also begins to change. They begin to walk (and I use that term loosely) like their legs have no bones, but are instead packed with sand. This phenomenon is accentuated by their preference for trousers that Goliath would deem too long and loose in the leg and waist. You see, at the onset of puberty a boys body starts outgrowing the boy. They don’t fit one another anymore. It is the equivalent of you waking up with a body that is a foot taller, a hundred pounds heavier, and with your arms and legs each of different lengths.
Then boys start growing hair where it wasn’t before. I actually have a theory. I call it the Cranium to Crotch Protein Shift (CCPS). My theory suggests that it requires an enormous amount of a special protein to grow pubic hair. Unfortunately, the only source for this protein in boys is the cells of the brain. Therefore, one can note a distinct loss of brain function during the early stages of puberty in boys. I have already cited some symptoms of this condition, but there are many others. One of the most prevalent among these is one I refer to as Dork Deafness. This is the condition in boys that causes them to say (or slur) “What?” in response to every request, whether they hear it or not. Dork Deafness can often take such a hold that it actually remains with males well into adulthood. Another very common symptom of CCPS is the inability to accomplish the most rudimentary tasks like closing doors, putting food away, flushing the toilet, hitting the toilet…
I could go on, but you get the picture. CCPS is also believed to be responsible for the frequently used phrase, “I don’t know.” For example, your twelve or thirteen year old walks into the house completely covered in dirt and sporting orange hair or with a C grade in his favorite subject. You ask him what the hell happened and he replies, “I don’t know.” HE DOESN’T KNOW? I have documented that boys suffering from CCPS can be told over 1626 times to do something (or not to do something) and they will still do (or not do) that something. If you ask them why, their reply will be, “What?” Or, if really pressed you might extract an, “I don’t know.”
Essentially, and regardless of what public service commercials tell you, conversation with a child suffering from CCPS is an exercise in futility. There are other signs of CCPS too numerous to list here or ones that I have blanked out to preserve my sanity, but I must move on.
With pre-teen and teenage boys there is also often an issue of hygiene that tends to last until, well until they realize girls don’t like being around warthogs. Their feet are a particularly horrific problem. It usually begins with the puzzled parent moving from room to room trying to find out into which nook or cranny an animal has crawled and died. I remember well the day I went through this exercise until I picked up a pair of my son’s sneakers and took a whiff. The next thing I remember was traveling down a tunnel toward a bright light. To this day I will never understand why police waste their time with tear gas. A teenage boy’s sneakers and socks make mace smell like Chanel No. 5 . Then there is the issue of clothing. I gave up on this one as soon as boys started thinking it was fashionable to wear trousers that turn underwear into outerwear. I mean the style of dress today is a cross between something out of the films Fat Albert, The Matrix, and [/]The Planet of the Ape[/i]s. It is as if every quarter century the youth of this country lose all sense of taste. I guess I shouldn’t complain, the last time people were dressing this weird was when I was a teen and it was the 1970’s. That lapse in taste was so bad it even affected adults; ergo bell-bottoms, platform shoes, leisure suits, and hats that clowns wouldn’t wear because they looked too funny.
In any case, I let my progeny choose the wardrobe, as long as it is clean and intact. When it comes to tattoos and body piercing I draw the line though. Now, maybe I am old-fashioned, but I have to wonder what kind of chemical imbalance causes someone to wake up one morning and say to themselves, “Hey, I think I’ll get a spike driven through my tongue, lips eyebrow, or lower regions” I have nothing against tasteful body piercing and tattoos (i.e. you might want a job interview or be able to take your shirt off at the company swim party), but I think they should be fashion statements made by people with good jobs, not by kids hoping to ever get one. Suffice to say, I have made it abundantly clear to my spawn that if a tattoo or whatever is the expression desired, then go for it after the age of eighteen. Do so now, and skull piercing better be the body augmentation of choice.
You see, fathers go through a chemical change as well when boys reach the teens. From infancy until the teens, fathers are right there being dads. However, starting with the double digits, and intensifying with each passing year, a father’s mind is consumed with one notion: Get this kid the hell out of my house!
Throughout the ages, armies thrived because of this. Fathers knew that if they could get their sons enlisted (impressed), not only would they be out, but they would stay out. Why, I suspect that a great many wars were started by kings who were fathers who sought war for no other reason than it would allow them to look upon their teenage sons and give the oldest military order known to man: “Move out!”
That last part was a lie.
So was that.
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