Since Friday morning, I’ve been wracking my brain for something to post about, something beyond a rundown of the numbingly boring drivel that became my weekend. But it’s SO MUCH WORK. Here, let me show you Post Ideas #1-3, all of which suck equally. I appreciate such equal suckage, though. It seems to make everything so much…fairer.
Failed Idea #1: The We-Discriminate-Against-the Vertically-Challenged Photo Booth
When you feed three hard-earned dollars into a photo booth at Bouncy Castle Kingdom, you really do think that the camera will catch your daughter and her two equally diminutive friends posing. You believe, even. But no. The booth is apparently only for those 4’5″ and above. I’d write to the manufacturer to complain about the lack of proper warning signage, but when I looked for an address on the back of the machine all I could find was a label that said HAHAHA SUCKER I EAT PEOPLE AS GULLIBLE AS YOU FOR BREAKFAST.
Failed Idea #2: Mulch. A Big Pile of It.
You know that saying A picture is worth a thousand words? Well, in this case, I’m thinking I saved myself about 18 words. They go something like this: HELP HELP SAVE ME I’M STARTING TO ACT SUBURBAN KEEP ME AWAY FROM MINIVANS AND HYBRID DOG BREEDS.
Failed Idea #3: Bubble Guns and the Rage They Inspire
Oh, and by “rage,” I mean mine, not hers. She was fine with the fact that the bubble solution in the Fun Bubbles Gun! just pours onto the freshly hosed-down deck with abandon. And onto my shorts, the only pair that fit properly at the moment. And onto my soul, which may very well never be redeemed by a higher power because I said about five-and-a-half especially bad words in front of an impressionable child when the bubbles floated over to the grill and popped on the burgers. Turns out ketchup CANNOT cure all ills, after all. Effin’ ketchup.
So, you see. I am completely and devastatingly out of viable fodder. Will you help? Please? Ask questions and I shall answer! Suggest a topic and I will try to address it! IT WILL BE SO EXCITING. OR SOMETHING.
Those who participate might even get a little envelope of mulch sent to them. Or a three-year-old. No promises, though.