“Climate change” is real. The idea that you can do anything at all to affect it is not.
I don’t care if that statement makes you mad. I get mad when I see people harping on and on about climate change, formerly known as “global warming”, formerly known as “destruction of the ozone layer”. It’s Don Quixote’s biggest windmill. It’s a fib you’ve been sold your entire life by politicians who want to distract you from matters that you can affect. It’s nonsense for keeping kids busy in kindergarten. You will tap-dance on the surface of Jupiter before you do anything that changes the climate.
On this special day, as many gather to celebrate the incineration of healing plants (or Hitler’s birthday/anniversary of Columbine, for the sickies), please enjoy these clip-n-save trading cards. They’re just the thing you need, for when you have to deal with the dark side of getting stoned.
Ask Mom for help before toking up, or using the scissors on your computer monitor. Fold along center line.
I adore them. Their art, their culture, their contributions to the enlightenment of our world. Hate me all you want, but I never felt prouder of Donald Trump than I did when he refused to shake Angela Merkel’s hand for a photo op. Trump didn’t want to get France’s blood all over his hand, and Merkel’s mitts are positively oozing with the spilt plasma of Europe.
There’s an entire genre of movies, TV shows and music, explicitly designed to mollify you in your time of emotional distress. Plus, there’s a contrived ending that tells you everything’s okay. Or not. It’s basically sadness porn, after all.
Feel like laughing? Same deal. Entire blocks of television programming are devoted to laughter, loaded with disparate commercials for unhealthy items and services. You can “binge-watch” every stand-up special a comedian has produced, and then argue about a decrease in their edge, on the Internet. Isn’t that fantastic?
Look, choking sucks. I don’t have to point that out, do I? And truthfully, most toys have small parts these days, and there’s a warning about them on the package. But those clickers are long gone. They blocked a toddler’s airway better than a spoonful of shellac.
Everyone loves a gingerbread house. Even South Park’s hate campaign against the “ginger” couldn’t dull the sugary luster of the beloved cookie-built domicile. You probably remember the first time you saw one, right? Or the first time you smelled one?
How to make me put a ring on it*, chapter one. (*the robot.)
Sometime in the late 1970s, at my local church, I spied and smelled a real, elaborate gingerbread house for the first time. It was during an Advent festival, with apple-cheeked residents of my snowy hometown selling pinecone ornaments and weaving fragrant holiday wreaths budded with hollyberry. Someone had knocked themselves out on the centerpiece, a resplendent dwelling of gingerbread with all the confectionery trimmings, the kind that lured the likes of Hansel and Gretel to their near-doom.