Monday, 16 July 2012
A lot of people I meet don’t believe in giving alcohol to children. Not everybody, of course, but most people. My father-in-law owns a brewery, and he’s a big fan of hooking them while they’re young. I don’t believe in dipping my pen the company ink, though, so I tend to stay away from everything but the well-aged whiskey.
I think one of the problems is that people have a twisted view of children. They seem them as infantile, as chronologically challenged, rather than as vertically impaired. Most kids are just like you and me. They go to school, they spend time with their friends, they pay their taxes. And they deserve the same respect that you and I expect because of it. So when they don’t get it, it’s no wonder they’re upset.
Think about it. Would a child really be throwing a tantrum if they had any recourse for political outcry? Remember Rosa Parks’ tantrum not too long ago? And now there’s a black man in the White House. He’s stuffed and doesn’t do much, but here’s there.
I’ve raised over 13 children. Not many over 13, probably only one or two, I’ve lost count. But a fair number. None of them were mine, of course, but I used to be the manager of a five-and-dime, and we dealt in cheap cigarettes and foreign kids. And during that time I learned two things: childcare, and Spanish. Now I get along great with Javier, my Nicaraguan gardener. All my rose bushes are dead, but he sure fills out a pair of jean shorts in a way that the last guy never could. Curb appeal is important, and he looks great out there.
So, yes, for each of those 13 children I raised, I always made sure to treat them with respect. They’re little human beings. They’re not some knuckle-biting, mouth-breathing sub-human Neanderthal like liberals. They are individuals and I give them everything that brings with it. And guess what? They never whine, they never complain, and they never throw a tantrum in the grocery store.
Not until I run out of booze, anyway.
Monday, 18 June 2012
You know, there was a time when people like me were second class citizens. We weren't allowed to buy popsicles in the summer, or furry hats in the winter. Fruits and vegetables are a classy group but it stings when you give and you give and you get nothing in return. Society is bereft of social grace, it seems. One of our few allowed privileges is the gift, the right, the experience of fatherhood.
Imagine you're a turtle, floating in an emerald sea of lime jello. Everything seems fantastic on the surface. But the turtle knows what you don't know: it isn't going so well. The jello soaks into every crack, every nook and cranny. Soon, your neck is too ensconced and you can't move it at all. And that's when the turtle drowns.
Now, I know it doesn't seem like it at first, but there's a message in this for all of us. I want you to think of the world like a giant, 7 billion person final exam. We're all writing it together, and none of us have had any time to prepare. But here's the kicker: it doesn't matter whether you pass or fail. Unless getting into heaven is important to you, then it matters. But otherwise, who cares.
I used to live alone before I knew you - The Mushy Pear
I was told once that heaven was a place on earth. I drove all over looking for it. It was only once I settled down and became a father that I really found it. Pears aren't allowed to become fathers, often. Of course, they can't really stop us, but they can take away our children. It's a horrible sight. It's like that scene in X-men where Magneto is being taken away from his parents in the concentration camp, except without the bending of the metal gates.
Sometimes you breathe out, and as you exhale the warmth of your breath casts a long shadow onto the glass in front of your nose, and you realize, you've come as far as you can go. You can see down the road, but you can't go any further. And sometimes it stings, but sometimes the glass wall gives you something to lean on. That support is where we make our home.
Home. The place we're all looking for. The place only God really knows. I found my home once, in a car driving 70 miles an hour down an interstate. That was before the accident with the egg truck yolked up the road and sent me crashing into a ditch. My stem was never the same after that. It's got a crook in it. Health care isn't free for people like me.
But children are.
Friday, 15 June 2012
A lot of us feel pressure to conform to society. Do this, not that. Be friends with these people, not those people. Stop wearing such outlandish hats! It happens to all of us.
It doesn't happen often enough, though. If only we could find a way to shape humans from the very beginning. We can't let pears get away with all the glory of being perfectly shaped.
Tuesday, 12 June 2012
Many of you don’t realize this, but I’m a deeply scientific person. In fact, I make it a point to never let a good fact escape my notice. Like the fact that American is the Last Bastion of Free Will in the Known Universe.
But I’m also a deeply religious man. I would even venture to say I’m the most religious person on xanga. My faith is a lot stronger than even the most obnoxious Christians here (most of whom, I have to say, I’m pretty convinced are actually going to hell.) So I never let science get in the way of a chance to glorify King Jesus.
Well sure, you’re saying, naturally you wouldn’t, Pear, but where are you going with this? That’s a good question, fellow Christian, and the answer is obvious: volcanoes. Have you ever actually looked at a volcano? I mean really looked? Neither have I, those things are HOT. But from where I stand, they resemble only one thing: pimples. They’re big, they’re red, and they have a tendency to cover little Italian towns in molten lava.
I never let science get in the way of a chance to glorify King Jesus.
Now, I’m sure if you asked, scientists would spin you some fanciful geological tale about volcanoes being evolved from monkeys or something, but we both know where they really came from: God. Same place my Beretta came from, via the hands of divinely inspired Italians. It always leads back to Italians, somehow.
So once we accept the fact that volcanoes come directly from God, we have no choice but to worship them accordingly. We have to lavish praise and effort and energy upon them so that God will know we love him, and not punish us for being ungrateful sinners. We eat the body of Christ, we drink the blood of King Jesus, how can we do any less for his pimples?
So next time you’re looking for a vacation, forget a missionary trip somewhere. Leave your bibles at home. Visit an active volcano instead, and pop one for God. Just make sure you wash your hands afterwards.
Sunday, 10 June 2012
Today I'd like to talk about a very serious topic with all of you. The chances are very high that you, or someone you know, is struggling with Breast Maggots. Breast Maggots, or BM, are painful, unsightly sores that house legions upon legions of soul-sucking fly-spawn. They burrow their way into the breast tissue of a healthy adult human, and begin to consume the flesh. Sometimes, in extreme cases, so much breast tissue is actually eaten away that the victim comes to resemble an almost completely flat-chested individual, a sight almost too horrible for most of us to imagine.
In many cases, the nipples of the breast tissue become irritated and engorged. Blood swells the region until the nipples are almost permanently erected. In some cases, this is accompanied by a series of tingling sensations reaching from the top of the victim's head to the groin and sex organs. It isn't unusual for BM sufferers to endure an almost constant state of arousal.
Please. Look into your heart. No human being should have to live with maggots eating them out until orgasm. But the good news is, you can help. With your generous donation of only pennies a day, young Raoul here can go back to school, and learn how to take control of his life again. He can get the medical treatment he so desperately needs to rid himself of BM once and for all.
But it can't happen without you. All it takes is one phone call. Do it now. You won't regret it, and neither will poor Raoul's wife. Thank you.