I’m still at an age where it’s endearing if I wet myself in company, but I know I’m fast approaching an age where that’s not the case.
I’d really appreciate it if someone would let me know exactly what this age is, preferably before I reach it.
Right, now I’m off to have a bath while my Dad disinfects the floor and tries to figure out the best way to clean urine off books.
Peace out.
Today I stole the feathers out of my Dad’s hat. That’s not a metaphor, just a well-executed act of vandalism.
Ok, so on any other list of serious world-scale problems, herring probably wouldn’t make the cut, but Dad tried to give me some for lunch today and it was fucking horrible, so I’m adding it to the tally.
I don’t even know why he thought a 9 ½ month old baby would like herring, but I think it’s got something to do with Denmark. My Dad thinks he’s Danish because he spent a year there when he was 18.
Now, not only does he try to feed me their horrible, fish monstrosities, but he also insists on talking to me only in Danish, which he himself only speaks at the level of a half-retarded, school-kid.
Just because you’ve experienced something, doesn’t mean you should force it down the throats of others.
I spent 9 months in the womb, but you don’t catch me trying to feed people umbilical cord, or teaching them to speak vagina.
Some experiences are personal and should stay that way.
Until I have understood, acknowledged & accepted your (entirely constructed) notion of time-measurement, do not expect me to play by its rules.
My friend Felix is a few months younger than me and when we get together, we cry in tandem. If either of us cry on our own, we’re ignored by the adults, but as soon as we join forces, we get what we want – food.
After the adults have left us with the food, I then steal Felix’s portion. He cries of course, but since I’m quiet, the adults ignore us. Felix never gets what he wants because I’m bigger, stronger and have engineered the situation to suit my purposes.
I think what I’m trying to say is, I don’t think we can expect the Liberal Democrats to accomplish a lot.
I don’t really know if the problem here is with harmonicas in general, just my Dad’s harmonica or just my Dad, but either way, the harmonica in my house right now, sucks the big one. My Dad loves it, but only plays when a) Mum’s not home and b) he’s on the toilet. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know how to play the damn thing, so for the twenty minutes preceding every flush of the toilet, I’m subjected to the aural equivalent of a steam train raping a squeeze box.
It wouldn’t be so bad if he got better, but it seems that my father is a living argument against the capacity of the human brain to learn or improve.
Harmonica’s seem like such a casual, knockabout instrument, because they’re small, cheap and portable; but what people don’t realise is they’re only appropriate in very specific circumstances. If you know how to play the harp and you’re safely ensconced in a basement bar that has already been furnished with a middle-aged, hipster audience, a nylon-string guitar and a few cubic metres of cigarette smoke, then you go right ahead and play the blues, Chief. But if you’re sitting on the toilet of a rented flat in North London, waiting for the codeine-induced constipation to wear off, while your daughter slumbers fitfully in the next room, then don’t even think about pulling that thing out of your pocket.
Instead, you should ponder the fact that if you came to terms with your over-the-counter-drug issues, then maybe you wouldn’t have to spend so long on the toilet that abusing an instrument that you can’t even play seems like a good idea.
Other instruments that should come with a “no amateurs” label include: the piano accordion, the kazoo, wobble boards and those African drums that hippies like to believe they can play. If my Dad picks up any of those, I’m filing for divorce.
I don’t know what jet lag is, but yesterday I took a plane and today I’m awake at 4am so it can kiss my arse.
Confessions of an Angry Baby 