I went on vacation for a week and took one photo.
Also, I had dinner with 1/3 of You Look Nice Today and 1/1 of Permenter and we came up with a book idea that will soon be published by Shitty Tumblrs With Book Deals: Griffin & Sabine & Predator: A Pretty Obvious Whodunit.
This is the song from a video game called CANABALT. I’ve listened to it more than any other song in the past month.
Nature's Candy
My daughter says, “We need to talk.” I sit down and fold my arms and sigh.
She says: “Dad, you know how we got a bunch of peaches yesterday?” I say yeah I guess so, it’s not like I monitor the comings and goings of all the groceries (not true). She whispers: “OK well I ate three peaches.”
I start to get up, assuming this will go the way most of her stories go, i.e., a half-hour plotless stream-of-consciousness Woolf-esque yawnfest. She sits me back down and says: “I mean three whole peaches. Every part.”
My eyes widen in horror. You ate three peach pits, didn’t you! She nods and here come the waterworks. “What’s going to happen to me, Daddy?” she cries.
I tear away from her sweaty little grip. I ask the question.
“Yes!” she shrieks. “Yes I did just drink some water!”
I can’t bear to look at her as I tell her it’s too late, she already watered the seeds. Even now the baby trees are unfurling their tiny leaves in her belly. An hour from now, two at the most, they will burst forth in the grossest, goriest way imaginable. But at least she can die knowing that she’ll be providing her family with fresh, delicious peaches for years to come—absolutely free of charge.
“There must be something we can do!” she wails.
“All we can do is wait,” I say, picking Entertainment Weekly back up and flipping through the pages, pausing for a moment to examine a photograph of Rashida Jones.
Rejected Twitter Post No. Yuk
It’s always a sad day when the treehouse finally falls apart, collapsing to the ground in a pile of splintered wood and twisted bodies.
P.S. Shout out to my old buddy Darren whose mom, like mine, spelled yuck “yuk” and who, like me, found that extremely hilarious every time.
Tie Your Own Rope
I was in the Mafia for like a week. Easily the worst job ever, you guys.
They’re all: Hey go shoot this guy in the head three times and once in the heart. FYI I don’t even know this person.
So he’s crying and praying, etc. He seemed like an OK guy aside from the hysterics. On the drive out to the swamp he talked about how much he liked The Offspring. And I’m not saying The Offspring is my all-time favorite or anything but they have some decent songs and this guy liked them, had fond memories of listening to them in his LeSabre, a nice Catholic girl at his side, and they’re driving to Reno for a romantic getaway or I dunno, I’m just making up a back story here.
Anyway I get back to the bosses and they’re like: Is it done? And I go: Is what done. Playing dumb but I mean c’mon, always with the What’d the guy say about the thing. And I’m like: The English language is rich with nouns and synonyms, help me out. And they say: Did you or did you not resolve the situation with Mr. Green Day. And I’m just horrified. It was The Offspring! He was a living, breathing man with a real love for The Offspring!
So I storm out pretty dramatically and head back to the temp agency and that’s how I got the job at Kinko’s. Now I’m assistant manager and my hands barely even shake anymore.
Dear The Spider Who Lives On My Car
Why did you decide to live on a car? To make your web? We have a garage and eaves and whatnot seriously like six feet away and there’s plenty of space for spiders to hang out there and just do their thing. Other spiders have done this successfully. But instead you decide to “kick it” in my side mirror and make webs all over the driver’s side door. And so a) your whole construction gets messed up every time I drive around, and b) I get all panicky every time I see you because you’re just a little bit bigger than I’m comfortable with. And I’m sorry, Spider, I’m sorry that I was driving down the freeway and you were all “WTF” as your web blew around and I’m sorry, I’m not proud, but I rolled down the window and plucked at your web to release it from my side mirror, sending you to your doom. I’m sorry for doing that. But then I arrive at my destination and what do I see but YOU, Spider, still hanging on for dear life! And I’m all: Dude, you’ve got the goods. You are a fighter, dude. And I will leave you to your home on my car, Spider. It’s as much yours as it is mine.
David Cross / Fitter, Happier
Twitter Regret No. 0864
Today I posted a Twitter thing that went: “I like to shriek and brandish a trident while peeing in a mailbox. It keeps the weirdos away.”
If my Monday morning brain (Mondays, you guys, am I right) had bothered to think it through a little bit, my intent would’ve been clearer: “When peeing in a mailbox, I like to shriek and brandish a trident to keep the weirdos away.”
I have a lot of work to get done today. My anniversary’s this week, I need to be planning something for that. The cat needs to go to the vet. My unfinished novel sits in a dusty, forgotten folder on my computer. My parents aren’t getting any younger; I should reach out to them, tell them I love them before it’s too late. I need to do the laundry.
But what has been gnawing at me all day? The grammatical structure of my mailbox pee tweet.
