Wednesday, September 2, 2009

God is a concept by which we measure our exposure to contagious disease

Wednesday, September 2, 2009 11
So you know the way I can't give out about the batcrap voodoo shit that goes on in our local neighbourhood primary school? Sure, how can I complain when it was my choice to send them there and not to the nearest non-denominational circus tent seven kilometres away? This is how I can. Just like this:

We got a note home yesterday briefly welcoming the children back, repeating the words 'home' and 'school' three times within the same sentence before eventually getting around to addressing the central topic of how all our offspring are going to die, and horribly. Swine Flu, capital letters, innit? We got served the by now standard syntaxless soup of HSE guidelines (use and bin a tissue for every exhalation, regularly dunk your extremities in sulphuric acid or Campari, your choice), which was quickly followed by the Principal Nuala's primary solution to a global pandemic:

"Let us all offer a collective prayer to God to watch over us all and keep us safe and well."

Let us fucking not, Nuala. Because that's not going to help is it? What with God being a big fucking lie, who, due to that whole not existing thing, is incapable of singling out one Dublin primary school for preferential no diseasey treatment. If the front line response to killer plagues continues to be an Our fucking Father, we might as well just mass produce a new strain of Rat Flu and inject it into our kids as they brush their teeth in the morning. A better plan, at least for the Gimme household, would be to break the whole Santa/Tooth Fairy truth to Data, deal with the tears and then have an excellent comparison with which to demonstrate Jesus' lack of giving a fuck way one way or another and how it might be better to rely on sound scientific theory when dealing with life's endless dangers and stresses. All for the best.

P fucking S Nuala, if it's a collective prayer, then the sentence doesn't need the 'all'. You illiterate cavecunt.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

You can tell your Maw I moved to Arkansas

Tuesday, September 1, 2009 10
Data is retrieving a plate from the cupboard for her lunch, which is being made by, well who'd have fucking thunk it, me.

Data: Oh, you found this plate.

Gimme: Um, I didn't realise it was lost. But yes.

Data: I love you. I mean, I love this plate.

Gimme: I'm glad. But you love me too, right?

Data: Yes. I love you second.

Gimme: Pardon?

Data: I love Mommy first, that's why I love you second.

Gimme: Oh. Okay.

It's not like I didn't know it already, but couldn't she have sugar-coated it a smidge? Fuck it, at least I came in ahead of her Grandma.
 
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