Day 179
All of my morning was spent trying to find unique arguments on why children shouldn't be allowed in adult restaurants. Sure you got your usual: they are messy and loud. But what makes you a grad student is a Creative Writing program are recognizing things like:
-They don't want to be there. Duh, that is why they are shitasses, well, unless their parents have poorly trained them at existing in social environments. What's in it for the kids? All this sitting around and acting good would make anyone boring.
-They make servers less efficient with the customary "Tell the server what you want sweetie" and ten minutes passes until the parent orders for them. I know you are trying to get them to act for themselves, but seriously, they can't even read a goddamn menu maybe you should focus on them not pissing in your pants before you worry about them articulating their food choices that you have chosen for them anyhow.
-The parents go through the continuous stress of feeding them, making sure they behave and dealing with an entire restaurant judging them as people based on their child's behavior. Who needs that added stress when you can leave the brats home with a nephew who you underpay or better yet drop them at grandmas they can stay there for free and get fed. If you insist on taking them out at least take them to a restaurant with a playland full of other kids who are much naughtier than your own so that you look good and feel like you are doing an excellent job of parenting. No stress lines there just confidence building.
-Kids that do behave in restaurants are freakish mini-adults who lose their childhood to being good. Seriously, their imaginations will be killed eventually let them keep them until then. And if not have them move out and get jobs.
And some people think that a Creative Writing degree is just a breeze where you get to sit around all day and think silly ideas and occasionally write them down and play. Ha! At least we can eat in adult restaurants (though we probably shouldn't).
The next part of my day was spent lying around on a clothing optional beach (fully clothed). Here a few highlights and observations:
-Why is it that going to this beach always makes me try to imagine what it would be like to have a penis? It's one thing to wonder what it would be like to have a penis, but when you are at this particular beach there is such a variety. You find yourself thinking: If I had that flopsy penis or if I had that stubby, fat dagger penis, or that tiny two marbles taped together-looking penis...
-After awhile you realize that you have to pee and there are porta potties. These look harmless enough but it takes four tries to hold your breath enough to close the door and when you get back outside you spit for 15 minutes swearing that the urine in the air from other people's piss absorbed on your tongue and then you think that you should've gone in the bushes like you used to do at drunken teenage bonfire parties. But then you realize that you are a. No longer a teenager. b. It is not dark outside. c. And most importantly, you are not drunk.
-Prepare to spend a good hour wondering two things:
1. Where did all of those naked people get that giant piece of tinfoil they are standing in? Is there some sort of nudie-on-the-beach supply store in town?
2. What would the line up of nudies in tinfoil do if you took their photograph? It looks like they are at some wacky photoshoot already with all this standing around and posing. Maybe that's what they want. Then prepare to spend an extra 15 minutes on: why would I take their picture? They are not exactly good-looking (see marble penis above). Would I print the pictures and put them on my wall as conversation pieces? No, because then I couldn't sleep at night. What the fuck would I do with their pictures? Oh yeah, use them for my Christmas cards.
-After awhile you will notice all sorts of seagulls around--you know, the type of bird that you saw snacking on another bird last week. They will look huge and pretty at first in their long overhead swooping until you realize that they are shitting on whatever is below them nearly the entire time they are airborne. But the best part about realizing they are shitting is making a running commentary on it like it were an Olympic sport. "And on the left we have--ohh, near miss on the kid there." "Good form. Nice execution. He nailed it!"
-The best part about the beach besides finding random garbage and animal parts in the sand is when you see a naked Dad yelling at his clothed toddler. "Miles! Get back here and finish your sandwich." "Miles what did Daddy tell you?!" This kid is quite young, but old enough to realize that if you have some naked guy yelling at you, you don't have to listen. Now this may not seem all that exciting at first, but if you imagine this kid growing up going to the beach with his naked Dad it could get quite humorous, the teenage years in particular.
After my beach excursion there was a slushie retrieval and I settled in to watch the US hockey team cream Canada. All I have to say is thank God they did or all the shit talking I did when they were tied up in the second period would've made me look like a fool. II should send them a thank you card. Before the big game it is said that US hockey players were saying that they hated the Canadian team. My crowning moment today was when I stood up at the end of the game, pointed to the nearest Canadian and declared, "See that's what hatred gets you--a win!" Well, at least this was supposed to be my crowning moment, I didn't feel so victorious afterward. I was feeling sort of hateful towards toward the Canadian after his non-response to my nasty remark. Now I am just waiting to see what my hatred gets me.
All I have to say about today is that I want my hour back that I spent watching Olympic Ice Dancing. Turns out Ice Dancing is just code for: Dipsticks in stupid outfits on ice that don't even do any cool tricks or fall down. Honestly, they make bowling look like a theme park adventure ride. I am going to blame the Ice Dancers on me eating too many Cheetos tonight, out of a depression-laced state of boredom.
Tip of the Day: Pretzels suck, it's okay to admit it.
-Canadian Castaway
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