Nikki came over and tried to give me a piece of bread this afternoon.
I instinctively told, "No, thank you!"
She looked kind of hurt.
"Are you sure?" She asked me.
Feeling a little guilty, I accepted the bread, and with some misgivings, I ate it too.
However, there was a time when I learned the hard way not to accept food from little children.
When was Nikki was about two (She's four now) I was her 'eating buddy'.
Every time I'd come over to visit, she'd see me, squeal, and then run to the refrigerator to get a pudding.
Then she's find two spoons, and she and I would eat together, as best buddies.
This went on for quite some time, and I'd pretty much eat anything she brought me.
Until one day, when she had just turned three, she came over to me and said,
"Hi Barbie, would you like a cracker?"
"Of course I would," I said.
Then, she pulled a cracker from out of her diaper and handed it to me.
My mind flashed back to all the times I'd eaten things she'd handed to me without even thinking twice about it.
I stared at the cracker for a long while, before finally asking her what else she had stored in her diaper.
She proudly pulled out a necklace, half a bag of M&Ms, six peanut butter crackers, and a small doll.
Never again after that particular afternoon did I accept food from Nikki.
Sure, if she brings me a bag of chips, I will eat chips with her.
If I watch her open a bag of candy, I will eat the candy with her.
But never again will I blindly accept a cracker, or anything else for that matter, from a very small child.
I personally think too, that if your kid thinks their diaper is nothing but a large pocket for them to store things in, it's time to start thinking about potty training them.
And that's the truth.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Bad Drivers
Thinking about all the bad drivers in the world gets me to thinking about Margaret.
I was in the car once with Margaret when she hit a gas pump.
All these people came running out of the gas station, so Margaret just threw her car into reverse, and then got the Hell out of there.
We just went to a different gas station.
Margaret is a better driver now than she once was. She used to be so bad, we all thought she'd die driving, for sure.
Once, she was trying to back out of her driveway, and she accidentally hit her husband's truck.
She also kept leaving her glasses on the hood of her car, and then backing over them.
She went through four pairs of glasses because she kept running them over.
Once, she had so many points on her license for speeding and swerving around that she almost went to jail.
For a while, she had to go down and pay a speeding ticket fine at least once a month.
Whenever the cops pull her over, they always check to see if she is wearing shoes, because they have it written down somewhere that she drives barefoot.
The greatest thing about Margaret is that she gets in the car with me when I'm driving, and she bitches about how I brake the car, and what speed I'm going, etc. . . .
I don't complain when she's driving.
I just repeat my mantra, and try to go to my 'special place'—the garden of my mind.
Sometimes, I imagine that I am on a beach, drinking Iced Tea, and watching the waves roll in.
The best story about Margaret's driving, I think, is the time the cops pulled her over for drunk driving when she was sober.
I guess she was doing about 20 miles under the speed limit, and swerving from one lane to the next.
She claims that she was trying to drink hot tea in a travel cup, and that's why she was swerving so badly.
I guess the cops turned on their siren, but she just kept driving because she didn't think they were trying to pull her over.
They followed her for a long time, until another cop car came to block her. Then she pulled off to the side of the road.
The cop had her walk a straight line, and she passed because she wasn't drunk. Then he made her sing her ABC's, and touch her nose.
The cop became more and more upset because he was sure that she was drunk.
"How can you drive that badly sober?" The cop asked her, becoming irate.
He asked for permission to search her car, and went digging through her vehicle looking for drugs and alcohol.
When he found nothing, he got even more upset.
Margaret said he was screaming and his face was turning red.
She became afraid that he was going to plant drugs on her, just so he could arrest her for something.
The cops who had been called for back up told the other cop who wanted to arrest Margaret to let her go, and that she really was just a bad driver.
Margaret came to my house to tell me about this incident, stunned at what had happened.
"Do you really think they would have planted drugs on me, Barbie?" She asked me.
"If that's what it would take to get you off the roadways, I think so." I said.
She got mad at me for my lack of empathy, but really, some people should not be out driving.
There is no shame in taking public transportation.
If you drive that badly, save everyone some trouble and just take the bus.
I was in the car once with Margaret when she hit a gas pump.
All these people came running out of the gas station, so Margaret just threw her car into reverse, and then got the Hell out of there.
We just went to a different gas station.
Margaret is a better driver now than she once was. She used to be so bad, we all thought she'd die driving, for sure.
Once, she was trying to back out of her driveway, and she accidentally hit her husband's truck.
She also kept leaving her glasses on the hood of her car, and then backing over them.
She went through four pairs of glasses because she kept running them over.
Once, she had so many points on her license for speeding and swerving around that she almost went to jail.
For a while, she had to go down and pay a speeding ticket fine at least once a month.
Whenever the cops pull her over, they always check to see if she is wearing shoes, because they have it written down somewhere that she drives barefoot.
The greatest thing about Margaret is that she gets in the car with me when I'm driving, and she bitches about how I brake the car, and what speed I'm going, etc. . . .
I don't complain when she's driving.
I just repeat my mantra, and try to go to my 'special place'—the garden of my mind.
Sometimes, I imagine that I am on a beach, drinking Iced Tea, and watching the waves roll in.
The best story about Margaret's driving, I think, is the time the cops pulled her over for drunk driving when she was sober.
I guess she was doing about 20 miles under the speed limit, and swerving from one lane to the next.
She claims that she was trying to drink hot tea in a travel cup, and that's why she was swerving so badly.
I guess the cops turned on their siren, but she just kept driving because she didn't think they were trying to pull her over.
They followed her for a long time, until another cop car came to block her. Then she pulled off to the side of the road.
The cop had her walk a straight line, and she passed because she wasn't drunk. Then he made her sing her ABC's, and touch her nose.
The cop became more and more upset because he was sure that she was drunk.
"How can you drive that badly sober?" The cop asked her, becoming irate.
He asked for permission to search her car, and went digging through her vehicle looking for drugs and alcohol.
When he found nothing, he got even more upset.
Margaret said he was screaming and his face was turning red.
She became afraid that he was going to plant drugs on her, just so he could arrest her for something.
The cops who had been called for back up told the other cop who wanted to arrest Margaret to let her go, and that she really was just a bad driver.
Margaret came to my house to tell me about this incident, stunned at what had happened.
"Do you really think they would have planted drugs on me, Barbie?" She asked me.
"If that's what it would take to get you off the roadways, I think so." I said.
She got mad at me for my lack of empathy, but really, some people should not be out driving.
There is no shame in taking public transportation.
If you drive that badly, save everyone some trouble and just take the bus.
The Most Harrowing Trip of My Life
went out with Aimee this evening.
She drove, and sometimes, her driving scares me a little bit.
It scares me mostly just because she likes to turn in front of oncoming traffic.
The drive was getting so scary, in fact, that it got me reminiscing about how when I was a little girl, my Dad used to scare the hell out of me whenever he was driving.
He used to fall asleep when driving sometimes, and we'd have to scream and wake him up. He also sped a lot.
He had to eventually get insurance coverage from a shady insurance place due to the many points he had on his driver's license.
What made it worse, however, was that my dad had a real bad heart, and he was convinced the whole time I was growing up that he could die at any minute.
His favorite time to remind you of the fact that he could die at any minute was when he was driving down the expressway, going about 90 miles an hour.
He'd turn suddenly, clutch his chest with one hand, look you right in the eye, and say, "You know I could die at any minute, right?"
I was always sure dad was going to die while driving, and take his passengers out with him.
I remember the most frightening drive, however, happened when I was pretty old.
I think it was a year before my father passed away.
He had asked us if we would go to Detroit with him in order to hear a politician who he was campaigning for give a speech.
I told him that I would love to go, and so I spent the night over at his house, and he woke me up at five o'clock in the morning the next day for our trip.
My brother Josh, my baby brother Dougie, and I, piled into the car, put on our seat belts, and had hopes of going back to sleep and then waking up again when we were in Detroit.
Unfortunately, there had been an ice storm in the night, and the roads were covered in a thick sheeting of frozen rain water.
Dad also had just taken his heart medicine, and he claimed he was seeing double because his medicine hadn't kicked in yet.
The doctors had also prescribed another medication to him for his heart that had caused him to break out into an itchy rash.
Later, I cured his rash myself by providing him with a certain lotion that cleared it up.
However, this was before I had cured his rash, and so he still itched.
Anyway, he jumped on the highway, and started driving at about 90 miles per hour.
The roads were so slick that cars whose drivers had lost control of their vehicles lined the ditch alongside the highway.
My dad kept shaking his head, because he said he was seeing double, and then he'd roll his window down and stick his head out the window because he found it refreshing.
His back itched, because of the rash, and so he kept rubbing his back on the seat trying to get to the itch, shaking his head in order to get rid of his double vision, and then sticking his head out the window.
He performed these actions all while going 90 miles per hour down the iced over highway and swerving dangerously near the cars that had landed in the ditch.
I sat in the front seat, in a kind of frozen terror, sure that I would die.
I looked in the backseat where my brother Josh was, and took note of the fact that he had simply covered his face with his hat.
I poked him awake and asked him if he was scared.
"Scared?" He asked, "What are you talking about? I'm not looking."
"Don't you want to know what we hit that killed you?" I asked him. "After we're dead, don't you want to know what ended it all?"
"Hell no," Josh said, "I wanna go out blind. I don't care what dad hits. When I'm dead I'm dead."
I finally couldn't take it anymore, and so I moved into the backseat with my two brothers.
I piled the pillows that I had found in the back all around me, and held my brother Dougie, in order to comfort him.
To calm myself, I just kept chanting, "Death is but a door. Time is but a window. I'll be back." Over and over again.
My little brother Dougie, who was about six at the time, asked me if I thought we were going to die.
I told him that we would only die if it was our time to go and meet the angels.
With nothing but sheer luck helping him, and the fact that my dad had some sort a guardian angel protecting him, we actually made it to Detroit.
When I got out of the car, I laid down on pavement in the parking lot, and I thanked God for my life.
I remember, after I quit shaking, I looked up from the ground at my brother Josh and I asked him, I said, "Do you think that God kept us alive through that trip because we have important work to do on the Earth?"
"Yes," Josh said, "We must have some sort of a destiny. Or a life plan, since we made it here alive."
And I was just like, "That's gotta be the truth. Maybe we're supposed to cure cancer."
That trip was the closest I think I've ever come to dying.
It made me appreciate life so much more, because I have looked death right in the eye, and somehow, I still made it to Detroit.
She drove, and sometimes, her driving scares me a little bit.
It scares me mostly just because she likes to turn in front of oncoming traffic.
The drive was getting so scary, in fact, that it got me reminiscing about how when I was a little girl, my Dad used to scare the hell out of me whenever he was driving.
He used to fall asleep when driving sometimes, and we'd have to scream and wake him up. He also sped a lot.
He had to eventually get insurance coverage from a shady insurance place due to the many points he had on his driver's license.
What made it worse, however, was that my dad had a real bad heart, and he was convinced the whole time I was growing up that he could die at any minute.
His favorite time to remind you of the fact that he could die at any minute was when he was driving down the expressway, going about 90 miles an hour.
He'd turn suddenly, clutch his chest with one hand, look you right in the eye, and say, "You know I could die at any minute, right?"
I was always sure dad was going to die while driving, and take his passengers out with him.
I remember the most frightening drive, however, happened when I was pretty old.
I think it was a year before my father passed away.
He had asked us if we would go to Detroit with him in order to hear a politician who he was campaigning for give a speech.
I told him that I would love to go, and so I spent the night over at his house, and he woke me up at five o'clock in the morning the next day for our trip.
My brother Josh, my baby brother Dougie, and I, piled into the car, put on our seat belts, and had hopes of going back to sleep and then waking up again when we were in Detroit.
Unfortunately, there had been an ice storm in the night, and the roads were covered in a thick sheeting of frozen rain water.
Dad also had just taken his heart medicine, and he claimed he was seeing double because his medicine hadn't kicked in yet.
The doctors had also prescribed another medication to him for his heart that had caused him to break out into an itchy rash.
Later, I cured his rash myself by providing him with a certain lotion that cleared it up.
However, this was before I had cured his rash, and so he still itched.
Anyway, he jumped on the highway, and started driving at about 90 miles per hour.
The roads were so slick that cars whose drivers had lost control of their vehicles lined the ditch alongside the highway.
My dad kept shaking his head, because he said he was seeing double, and then he'd roll his window down and stick his head out the window because he found it refreshing.
His back itched, because of the rash, and so he kept rubbing his back on the seat trying to get to the itch, shaking his head in order to get rid of his double vision, and then sticking his head out the window.
He performed these actions all while going 90 miles per hour down the iced over highway and swerving dangerously near the cars that had landed in the ditch.
I sat in the front seat, in a kind of frozen terror, sure that I would die.
I looked in the backseat where my brother Josh was, and took note of the fact that he had simply covered his face with his hat.
I poked him awake and asked him if he was scared.
"Scared?" He asked, "What are you talking about? I'm not looking."
"Don't you want to know what we hit that killed you?" I asked him. "After we're dead, don't you want to know what ended it all?"
"Hell no," Josh said, "I wanna go out blind. I don't care what dad hits. When I'm dead I'm dead."
I finally couldn't take it anymore, and so I moved into the backseat with my two brothers.
I piled the pillows that I had found in the back all around me, and held my brother Dougie, in order to comfort him.
To calm myself, I just kept chanting, "Death is but a door. Time is but a window. I'll be back." Over and over again.
My little brother Dougie, who was about six at the time, asked me if I thought we were going to die.
I told him that we would only die if it was our time to go and meet the angels.
With nothing but sheer luck helping him, and the fact that my dad had some sort a guardian angel protecting him, we actually made it to Detroit.
When I got out of the car, I laid down on pavement in the parking lot, and I thanked God for my life.
I remember, after I quit shaking, I looked up from the ground at my brother Josh and I asked him, I said, "Do you think that God kept us alive through that trip because we have important work to do on the Earth?"
"Yes," Josh said, "We must have some sort of a destiny. Or a life plan, since we made it here alive."
And I was just like, "That's gotta be the truth. Maybe we're supposed to cure cancer."
That trip was the closest I think I've ever come to dying.
It made me appreciate life so much more, because I have looked death right in the eye, and somehow, I still made it to Detroit.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Number One and Number Two
You know, I have never been able to bring myself to order a number one or a number two value meal at McDonalds.
I just can't do it.
When kids are little, I have heard them refer to their 'elimination' processes in the manner of number one being urine, and number two being feces.
And so, since McDonalds and Burger King and other fast food places in general do have a reputation for selling people, "Shitty food" I can't understand why they would refer to any food stuff on their menus with numbers like that.
I have never tried a number one or a number two at McDonalds or Burger King or any other place.
Once, I went through the drive through at McDonalds, and I was going to try to order a number two, because if I recall correctly, it doesn't look like a bad value meal.
However, I started sniggering when I tried to get the words out.
I was like, "Hi, I'll have a, heh heh heh." Then I started giggling. "Ha ha ha. A number. . . a number. . . . . uhhhhhhhhhhh."
Finally, I just got a "number seven."
I'll bet the person working the fast food window thought I was retarded.
I just kept thinking to myself, "Hi I'd like to order some shit."
I mean, a number two. Ha! ha!
I wonder if there's anyone else in this world who just couldn't ever bring themselves to order a number two at a fast food restaurant, or if I'm the only person out there with this problem.
I wonder if the number ones and the number twos are always the worst selling value meals at every restaurant.
I wonder if this is a sign that I really am incredibly immature.
If you can roll through a McDonalds drive through and order a number two with a straight face, does that mean that you are a 'real grown up'?
I'll bet a true adult can go into any fast food place and order a number two. without thinking anything of it. They'd just take their sandwich and leave.
They wouldn't be thinking stuff to themselves like,
"Yeah, why don't you sell me some shit? At least you're honest. Why don't you super size my number two while you're at it? Or make it a king size. Or a supreme. Do you think you could put some sour cream and some tomatoes on my number two?"
I'll bet some people, ESPECIALLY health food people, think that every thing on the menu at fast food places are 'number twos anyway."
Man, I really do need to become more mature and stop being such a dork.
I should go to McDonalds right now and order a number two. That would be a sure sign that I was a true adult, and not just a big, overgrown, twelve year old.
I just can't do it.
When kids are little, I have heard them refer to their 'elimination' processes in the manner of number one being urine, and number two being feces.
And so, since McDonalds and Burger King and other fast food places in general do have a reputation for selling people, "Shitty food" I can't understand why they would refer to any food stuff on their menus with numbers like that.
I have never tried a number one or a number two at McDonalds or Burger King or any other place.
Once, I went through the drive through at McDonalds, and I was going to try to order a number two, because if I recall correctly, it doesn't look like a bad value meal.
However, I started sniggering when I tried to get the words out.
I was like, "Hi, I'll have a, heh heh heh." Then I started giggling. "Ha ha ha. A number. . . a number. . . . . uhhhhhhhhhhh."
Finally, I just got a "number seven."
I'll bet the person working the fast food window thought I was retarded.
I just kept thinking to myself, "Hi I'd like to order some shit."
I mean, a number two. Ha! ha!
I wonder if there's anyone else in this world who just couldn't ever bring themselves to order a number two at a fast food restaurant, or if I'm the only person out there with this problem.
I wonder if the number ones and the number twos are always the worst selling value meals at every restaurant.
I wonder if this is a sign that I really am incredibly immature.
If you can roll through a McDonalds drive through and order a number two with a straight face, does that mean that you are a 'real grown up'?
I'll bet a true adult can go into any fast food place and order a number two. without thinking anything of it. They'd just take their sandwich and leave.
They wouldn't be thinking stuff to themselves like,
"Yeah, why don't you sell me some shit? At least you're honest. Why don't you super size my number two while you're at it? Or make it a king size. Or a supreme. Do you think you could put some sour cream and some tomatoes on my number two?"
I'll bet some people, ESPECIALLY health food people, think that every thing on the menu at fast food places are 'number twos anyway."
Man, I really do need to become more mature and stop being such a dork.
I should go to McDonalds right now and order a number two. That would be a sure sign that I was a true adult, and not just a big, overgrown, twelve year old.
Bras
You know, I used to spend a lot of time trying to convince my future sister-in-law that she needed to wear a bra.
She just won't wear one, and I don't know why.
She doesn't care at all.
She used to wear a t-shirt that had a big hole in it, and a caption across the front that said, "Made you look", and sometimes her boob would pop out of the hole.
I said to her, "Dude, you if don't start wearing a bra, you're gonna be playing hacky sack with those giant breasts of yours because they will eventually reach your ankles.
I even took her bra shopping once, but she didn't 'like' any of the bras.
She finally let me buy her a shirt that had a built in bra, but when she got home, she took the underwires out of the shirt because they were 'uncomfortable.'
Look, I'm not talking about a girl with small breast here. I'm talking about a girl with GIGANTIC breasts.
If you are over a certain cups size, than you have to wear a bra. It's the law.
Now me, I wear a bra all the time. I even sleep in a bra. I slather on breast firming cream. . .
There's no way in hell I'm ever getting saggy boobs. I refuse to go down that road.
If my breasts ever even slightly start to sag, I'm getting them removed and then I'm having implants put in instead.
I can't understand why everyone doesn't feel the same way as I feel about this issue.
I don't want to act like a certain person who I know, and start to claim that I know everything about breasts, or how to prevent your breast from sagging--or even that saggy boobs are somehow 'bad'--I'm just saying, it can be prevented.
Why go all 'National Geographic' if you haven't got to?
Anyone who wears anything larger than an A cup should be wearing a bra.
And if you're bigger than a C, then you have to wear a bra and that is THAT.
My brother's girlfriend wears a DD. A DOUBLE D!!!!!! Now that she's breastfeeding, she wears a G. A G!!!!!!!!
She needs to wear a bra! She needs to strap her mammoth breasts down, or else I'm telling you, eventually, they won't be round.
They will be long, like socks.
Big round boobs go long like socks if you don't wear a bra.
I would never let that happen to me.
I keep my boobs strapped in. They're not flopping around.
I don't understand why everyone doesn't feel the same way as I do about this issue.
I know that I haven't got all the answers, and I know that I'm not always right.
But dammit all, I think I know what I'm talking about when it comes to the prevention of sagging breasts.
I'm no expert, but I still say, wear a bra all the time, don't jump around for no good reason, use the firming cream, don't gain or lose any weight, and then you will never get saggy boobs.
Remember: An ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure
She just won't wear one, and I don't know why.
She doesn't care at all.
She used to wear a t-shirt that had a big hole in it, and a caption across the front that said, "Made you look", and sometimes her boob would pop out of the hole.
I said to her, "Dude, you if don't start wearing a bra, you're gonna be playing hacky sack with those giant breasts of yours because they will eventually reach your ankles.
I even took her bra shopping once, but she didn't 'like' any of the bras.
She finally let me buy her a shirt that had a built in bra, but when she got home, she took the underwires out of the shirt because they were 'uncomfortable.'
Look, I'm not talking about a girl with small breast here. I'm talking about a girl with GIGANTIC breasts.
If you are over a certain cups size, than you have to wear a bra. It's the law.
Now me, I wear a bra all the time. I even sleep in a bra. I slather on breast firming cream. . .
There's no way in hell I'm ever getting saggy boobs. I refuse to go down that road.
If my breasts ever even slightly start to sag, I'm getting them removed and then I'm having implants put in instead.
I can't understand why everyone doesn't feel the same way as I feel about this issue.
I don't want to act like a certain person who I know, and start to claim that I know everything about breasts, or how to prevent your breast from sagging--or even that saggy boobs are somehow 'bad'--I'm just saying, it can be prevented.
Why go all 'National Geographic' if you haven't got to?
Anyone who wears anything larger than an A cup should be wearing a bra.
And if you're bigger than a C, then you have to wear a bra and that is THAT.
My brother's girlfriend wears a DD. A DOUBLE D!!!!!! Now that she's breastfeeding, she wears a G. A G!!!!!!!!
She needs to wear a bra! She needs to strap her mammoth breasts down, or else I'm telling you, eventually, they won't be round.
They will be long, like socks.
Big round boobs go long like socks if you don't wear a bra.
I would never let that happen to me.
I keep my boobs strapped in. They're not flopping around.
I don't understand why everyone doesn't feel the same way as I do about this issue.
I know that I haven't got all the answers, and I know that I'm not always right.
But dammit all, I think I know what I'm talking about when it comes to the prevention of sagging breasts.
I'm no expert, but I still say, wear a bra all the time, don't jump around for no good reason, use the firming cream, don't gain or lose any weight, and then you will never get saggy boobs.
Remember: An ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure
An Exciting New Discovery
I just found out that you can go on social security/disability for being retarded.
I'll bet all you have to do is fail an IQ test administered by the state.
Forget about studying to pass stupid, hard tests. Screw that, I'm gonna go down and fail that IQ test.
It can't be that hard to fail an IQ test. Anyone can fail an IQ test if they try.
All you have to do in order to fail an IQ test, is circle the wrong answer every time you happen to know the right answer, and then just circle the worst 'guess' for the questions you don't know the right answer to anyway.
It's impossible not to fail a test if you try.
I feel like a damn genius over here for coming up with this plan.
I mean, how do they keep the people who might score above an 80 on an IQ test from going down and attempting to fail the test so that they can become certified?
That's why this is so brilliant. Anyone can fail the test.
You can't fail FAILING the test!
I'm going to make an appointment on Monday to see about going down to fail the IQ test, and whatever other tests they may give to me.
Then, after I prove to the authorities that I am profoundly retarded, I'm going to go live in a home.
I'll bet I could get in, for sure. And I'll bet I'd like living in a home better than where I live now.
I'm ready to move almost anywhere else. I think I might have Aimee convinced that we need to get an apartment together.
But if not, a home would be all right as well.
And do you know what else would be cool?
It would be cool if you went down and became a member of Mensa, and then, after which, you went down and became certified as being retarded and then went on disability.
You know, they investigate disability claims, and so it would be interesting to see how long it would take you to get busted if you were also a 'certified genius.'
I wonder if you could argue that you are an idiot savant?
Another thing too, that is probably true, is that since they watch people who go on disability for having physical ailments, they would probably watch someone who went on disability for being retarded.
What this means, of course, is that once you went on the disability for being retarded, if you were lying, then you'd have to make sure no one caught you doing anything that might not be in keeping with your real IQ score.
You probably wouldn't be off at the library, checking out books, because that would suspicious behavior. As would opening up a accounting business. Or publishing a book.
What's more is that, you probably couldn't get into Grad school.
Although, I guess it's still possible that you could go to Grad school, as long as you went and got an MBA Ha! Ha! Ha! (I'm just joking, bad joke)
I really do think it might be true though, that it would be discrimination to refuse to allow any particular group of individuals into a public school, so I might be able to go off the Grad school even if I did live in a home
I might have to research my life options living as someone who has failed the 'state certified IQ test', just to see what kinds of things I will no longer be able to do in the future.
My new life philosophy is now 'Aim Low Grasshopper—but don't hit your foot.'
I'm (mostly) joking with this post. If anyone knows any retarded people, please don't take any offence. . . . .
I know that being retarded is a serious condition and that it isn't funny.
I know because my roomate is retarded. Ha! Ha! (Joke)
I'll bet all you have to do is fail an IQ test administered by the state.
Forget about studying to pass stupid, hard tests. Screw that, I'm gonna go down and fail that IQ test.
It can't be that hard to fail an IQ test. Anyone can fail an IQ test if they try.
All you have to do in order to fail an IQ test, is circle the wrong answer every time you happen to know the right answer, and then just circle the worst 'guess' for the questions you don't know the right answer to anyway.
It's impossible not to fail a test if you try.
I feel like a damn genius over here for coming up with this plan.
I mean, how do they keep the people who might score above an 80 on an IQ test from going down and attempting to fail the test so that they can become certified?
That's why this is so brilliant. Anyone can fail the test.
You can't fail FAILING the test!
I'm going to make an appointment on Monday to see about going down to fail the IQ test, and whatever other tests they may give to me.
Then, after I prove to the authorities that I am profoundly retarded, I'm going to go live in a home.
I'll bet I could get in, for sure. And I'll bet I'd like living in a home better than where I live now.
I'm ready to move almost anywhere else. I think I might have Aimee convinced that we need to get an apartment together.
But if not, a home would be all right as well.
And do you know what else would be cool?
It would be cool if you went down and became a member of Mensa, and then, after which, you went down and became certified as being retarded and then went on disability.
You know, they investigate disability claims, and so it would be interesting to see how long it would take you to get busted if you were also a 'certified genius.'
I wonder if you could argue that you are an idiot savant?
Another thing too, that is probably true, is that since they watch people who go on disability for having physical ailments, they would probably watch someone who went on disability for being retarded.
What this means, of course, is that once you went on the disability for being retarded, if you were lying, then you'd have to make sure no one caught you doing anything that might not be in keeping with your real IQ score.
You probably wouldn't be off at the library, checking out books, because that would suspicious behavior. As would opening up a accounting business. Or publishing a book.
What's more is that, you probably couldn't get into Grad school.
Although, I guess it's still possible that you could go to Grad school, as long as you went and got an MBA Ha! Ha! Ha! (I'm just joking, bad joke)
I really do think it might be true though, that it would be discrimination to refuse to allow any particular group of individuals into a public school, so I might be able to go off the Grad school even if I did live in a home
I might have to research my life options living as someone who has failed the 'state certified IQ test', just to see what kinds of things I will no longer be able to do in the future.
My new life philosophy is now 'Aim Low Grasshopper—but don't hit your foot.'
I'm (mostly) joking with this post. If anyone knows any retarded people, please don't take any offence. . . . .
I know that being retarded is a serious condition and that it isn't funny.
I know because my roomate is retarded. Ha! Ha! (Joke)
6 O’clock in the morning
Well, I was awoken from a deep sleep very early this morning at the sound of the baby screeching.
I guess I must have more maternal instinct then I thought I did, since I can't believe I'd ever wake up for something like a baby screaming.
But Ocean, Bekki's baby, has only two regular cries.
One is the cry she makes when she is uncomfortable and needs some food or her diaper changed.
And the other is a high pitched screech she makes when you've done something to piss her off.
I personally get the high pitched screech a lot, because I piss the baby off a lot.
She doesn't think I'm competent, and I'm always trying to put her down, or get her to take a nap.
The cry that woke me up, however, was more of a pathetic whimpering.
It was a frightening, sad cry.
A cry that something was desperately amiss.
I jumped from my bed and ran out to investigate the situation, where I soon found Bekki comforting her whimpering baby.
It seems that baby, who is too lazy to crawl, for some reason did some sort of a butt wiggle/pelvic thrust up Bekki's bed.
Once she got to the top of the mattress, she stuck her head in the gap between the mattress and the wall, where she got her head stuck.
Her head was stuck and she couldn't pull it back out.
I guess it was the fear of having her head stuck like that that caused her to make that pathetic cry of distress.
She looked all shaken and freaked out.
When I found out what had caused the distress cry, I started laughing.
Then Bekki started laughing too, because you know, it really was funny.
I mean come on? Who gets their head stuck between the mattress and the wall?
I guess I must have more maternal instinct then I thought I did, since I can't believe I'd ever wake up for something like a baby screaming.
But Ocean, Bekki's baby, has only two regular cries.
One is the cry she makes when she is uncomfortable and needs some food or her diaper changed.
And the other is a high pitched screech she makes when you've done something to piss her off.
I personally get the high pitched screech a lot, because I piss the baby off a lot.
She doesn't think I'm competent, and I'm always trying to put her down, or get her to take a nap.
The cry that woke me up, however, was more of a pathetic whimpering.
It was a frightening, sad cry.
A cry that something was desperately amiss.
I jumped from my bed and ran out to investigate the situation, where I soon found Bekki comforting her whimpering baby.
It seems that baby, who is too lazy to crawl, for some reason did some sort of a butt wiggle/pelvic thrust up Bekki's bed.
Once she got to the top of the mattress, she stuck her head in the gap between the mattress and the wall, where she got her head stuck.
Her head was stuck and she couldn't pull it back out.
I guess it was the fear of having her head stuck like that that caused her to make that pathetic cry of distress.
She looked all shaken and freaked out.
When I found out what had caused the distress cry, I started laughing.
Then Bekki started laughing too, because you know, it really was funny.
I mean come on? Who gets their head stuck between the mattress and the wall?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)