Night of the Inane Comment IV
Or Maybe III. I Don't Know.
The Kid is learning how to spell. So far she's mastered her name, and such other key words as mommy, no, Lilly, Michael, Roxenne, Briell, and Corinna. She really likes Corinna. As a matter of fact, that's the name she uses to sign all her artwork. Except she writes it backwards, which does make it easy for me to recognize which of the daycare art was done by The Kid, and which was done by the real Corinna.
Come to think of it, The Kid writes everything backwards. I chalk it up to her left-handedness. Or maybe she's just working on mastering the word du jour: RED RUM.
I'm hoping it's a lefty thing.
Anyhow, I figure that since she's getting the whole writing thing down, she ought to throw reading into the mix. I can teach that shit. I watched Sesame Street. So the process goes something like this:
Me: Goose must be stopped, what shall we do....What's that word there spell, Kid?
The Kid: I don't know.
Me: What does D say?
The Kid: de
Me: Good! Now what does O say?
The Kid: ooohh
Me: Nice! Now put'em together. Say both sounds.
The Kid: de ooohhh
Me: Great, now faster!
The Kid: de ooohh, de ohh, de oh, dohhh, doooo
Me: Great! What's that word?
The Kid: uuuhhh.
Me: de ooo. de oo. de oo. doooo. do. What's the word?
The Kid: Goose must be stopped, what shall we do!!
Me: Okay, that's the line from the book. But what does D O spell?
The Kid: Goose!
Me: D O. de ooo. dooo. do. I'll give you a hint: The word is do. So what does it spell?
The Kid: Bear!
Me: It's do. The word is do. D makes a de sound, o makes a oooo sound, put them together and they say de oooo de ooo deooo doooo doo do. The word says do. D O spells do. It's do. D O spells do. So what's the word again?
The Kid: Satan's Cat!!!
Me: Fuck. I need a beer. G'night. I'm blowing this room.
I will never, ever teach kindergarten. Never. Fuck that shit, I hate kids.
Speaking of ducks: I can't help but wonder when they're all lined up real pretty like if that mother duck is actually quacking, "Don't step on my heels. Don't you step on my heals. Back off. Back the fuck off, do you have to do that? Christ, enough already, you're stepping on my motherfucking heels every freakin' step! You kids are driving me bloody well insane! Back Off!"
I'll bet she is. Heck, I'd lay money on it.
I was wrong when I suggested that Stephen Harper may look like a playskool little people. He looks more like a penguin.
There's nothing as embarrassing as seeing your nation's leader in a photo shoot with Bush, and realizing that Harper makes Bush look good. Not only that, but I think ole' Stevo actually tugged at Bush's sleeve once, while Dubya mugged for the camera, glorying in the fact that the Great White North had finally come to it's senses and elected a man who thinks George Is God. That image has been burned into my memory for the last couple of months, and I don't think I'm going to be able to get over it. I've been trying to move on, think of other things, happy thoughts or volatile rants, but it ain't happening.
We elected a penguin. And an asshole of a penguin, at that.
Speaking of feminism...
WTF?
Never mind.
Okay.
Movin' On:
Speaking of feminism, part of the package is the right to be assholes. Hard concept? Not really. Just say, "She's an _______ insert insult of choice" and move on. It's not a feminist thing. It's not that we're power tripping 'cause we've got you buy your little politically correct balls, it's that sometimes women are assholes.
Here's the deal. I can be an asshole, without it being because I'm a woman. In return, you can be an asshole, without it being because you're black, white, hetero, homo, an immigrant, an ex-pat, a foot fetishist, a catholic, or a republican.
Imagine the possibilities: You could actually act like a jerk, without worrying about whether you're living up to your stereotype, or, worse yet, adding to that stereotype. It's a thrill. I could use some more.
Dialysis Cat is still alive. It just occurred to me that it's been nearly one year since The Mother dropped off that half-dead, kidneyless, obese asshole of a cat on my doorstep while they vacationed in Mexico. And they've kept that poor thing alive all this time. See, that there's cruelty. That cat doesn't eat. Anything. Ever. He collapses regularly. And by regularly, I mean every five steps, he just flops. That's fucking pathetic. Seriously, there's a point where one has to understand the difference between helping someone live, and extending their death throws for as long as possible. In Ye Old USSR, that would've constituted torture. In the here and now, it's just livin' the Schiavo dream.
With fur, in this context. But balding rapidly. And possibly with fleas.
Satan's Cat, on the other hand, is rockin' her middle age for all its worth. She is currently sprawled out on the dining room glaring at me, ears flat back. There's a very good possibility I could lose a limb in the next couple of minutes, but it's all in good fun.
My extremities grow back. It's a useful talent to have.
Damn. I'm getting old. It's one a.m., and I've just erased the same paragraph three times.
This Night Of The Inane Comment is declared a bust. Fuck it, I'm going to bed.
Admendament: I realized that my past Night Of The Inane Comment's are so far gone that ya'll probably need a refresher in what a real NOTIC ought to look like. So click to your heart's content:
Night of the Inane Comment III
Night of the Inane Comment II
Night of the Inane Comment I
The Kid is learning how to spell. So far she's mastered her name, and such other key words as mommy, no, Lilly, Michael, Roxenne, Briell, and Corinna. She really likes Corinna. As a matter of fact, that's the name she uses to sign all her artwork. Except she writes it backwards, which does make it easy for me to recognize which of the daycare art was done by The Kid, and which was done by the real Corinna.
Come to think of it, The Kid writes everything backwards. I chalk it up to her left-handedness. Or maybe she's just working on mastering the word du jour: RED RUM.
I'm hoping it's a lefty thing.
Anyhow, I figure that since she's getting the whole writing thing down, she ought to throw reading into the mix. I can teach that shit. I watched Sesame Street. So the process goes something like this:
Me: Goose must be stopped, what shall we do....What's that word there spell, Kid?
The Kid: I don't know.
Me: What does D say?
The Kid: de
Me: Good! Now what does O say?
The Kid: ooohh
Me: Nice! Now put'em together. Say both sounds.
The Kid: de ooohhh
Me: Great, now faster!
The Kid: de ooohh, de ohh, de oh, dohhh, doooo
Me: Great! What's that word?
The Kid: uuuhhh.
Me: de ooo. de oo. de oo. doooo. do. What's the word?
The Kid: Goose must be stopped, what shall we do!!
Me: Okay, that's the line from the book. But what does D O spell?
The Kid: Goose!
Me: D O. de ooo. dooo. do. I'll give you a hint: The word is do. So what does it spell?
The Kid: Bear!
Me: It's do. The word is do. D makes a de sound, o makes a oooo sound, put them together and they say de oooo de ooo deooo doooo doo do. The word says do. D O spells do. It's do. D O spells do. So what's the word again?
The Kid: Satan's Cat!!!
Me: Fuck. I need a beer. G'night. I'm blowing this room.
I will never, ever teach kindergarten. Never. Fuck that shit, I hate kids.
Speaking of ducks: I can't help but wonder when they're all lined up real pretty like if that mother duck is actually quacking, "Don't step on my heels. Don't you step on my heals. Back off. Back the fuck off, do you have to do that? Christ, enough already, you're stepping on my motherfucking heels every freakin' step! You kids are driving me bloody well insane! Back Off!"
I'll bet she is. Heck, I'd lay money on it.
I was wrong when I suggested that Stephen Harper may look like a playskool little people. He looks more like a penguin.
There's nothing as embarrassing as seeing your nation's leader in a photo shoot with Bush, and realizing that Harper makes Bush look good. Not only that, but I think ole' Stevo actually tugged at Bush's sleeve once, while Dubya mugged for the camera, glorying in the fact that the Great White North had finally come to it's senses and elected a man who thinks George Is God. That image has been burned into my memory for the last couple of months, and I don't think I'm going to be able to get over it. I've been trying to move on, think of other things, happy thoughts or volatile rants, but it ain't happening.
We elected a penguin. And an asshole of a penguin, at that.
Speaking of feminism...
WTF?
Never mind.
Okay.
Movin' On:
Speaking of feminism, part of the package is the right to be assholes. Hard concept? Not really. Just say, "She's an _______ insert insult of choice" and move on. It's not a feminist thing. It's not that we're power tripping 'cause we've got you buy your little politically correct balls, it's that sometimes women are assholes.
Here's the deal. I can be an asshole, without it being because I'm a woman. In return, you can be an asshole, without it being because you're black, white, hetero, homo, an immigrant, an ex-pat, a foot fetishist, a catholic, or a republican.
Imagine the possibilities: You could actually act like a jerk, without worrying about whether you're living up to your stereotype, or, worse yet, adding to that stereotype. It's a thrill. I could use some more.
Dialysis Cat is still alive. It just occurred to me that it's been nearly one year since The Mother dropped off that half-dead, kidneyless, obese asshole of a cat on my doorstep while they vacationed in Mexico. And they've kept that poor thing alive all this time. See, that there's cruelty. That cat doesn't eat. Anything. Ever. He collapses regularly. And by regularly, I mean every five steps, he just flops. That's fucking pathetic. Seriously, there's a point where one has to understand the difference between helping someone live, and extending their death throws for as long as possible. In Ye Old USSR, that would've constituted torture. In the here and now, it's just livin' the Schiavo dream.
With fur, in this context. But balding rapidly. And possibly with fleas.
Satan's Cat, on the other hand, is rockin' her middle age for all its worth. She is currently sprawled out on the dining room glaring at me, ears flat back. There's a very good possibility I could lose a limb in the next couple of minutes, but it's all in good fun.
My extremities grow back. It's a useful talent to have.
Damn. I'm getting old. It's one a.m., and I've just erased the same paragraph three times.
This Night Of The Inane Comment is declared a bust. Fuck it, I'm going to bed.
Admendament: I realized that my past Night Of The Inane Comment's are so far gone that ya'll probably need a refresher in what a real NOTIC ought to look like. So click to your heart's content:
Night of the Inane Comment III
Night of the Inane Comment II
Night of the Inane Comment I
posted by Impulsivecompulsive | 7:46 PM
4 Comments:
I missed that scene with Harper and Bush... and you make me glad of it.
Erica: It was pretty pathetic. I miss Chretien. He was fun. And sarcastic and bitchy. I'm lonely without him.
Sara: Sesame Street makes it look so easy. But no, it just doesn't work that way in reality.
Oh, and I got my mother a card once that said, "We had to get rid of the kids, the cat was allergic." I think that just about sums up her relationship with that beast.
Broken Angel: I'm actually kind of amazed that you find Maury less depressing then the news. You must have the ability to maintain your sense of humour in the face of complete and abject human de-evolution much longer than I.
I'm not saying Bush is better than Maury's guests, but I think they're probably running nose to nose, anyway.
BA: Jerry Springer was a political correspondant?
Hell, what does that say about the state of the media.
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