In the mind of the average stable genius, mollusks consist of clams, mussels, oysters, and scallops, but you’re not an average genius, and word is you’re not even stable, so you don’t know that you didn’t know for the longest time that most people don’t know that they weren’t aware that in the greatest country in the free world there are several billion species of bivavles.
And more in the greatest country in the enslaved world.
I’m exaggerating. There are only 20,000 bivavle species in the whole universe, give or take, according to the fake encyclopedia media (so who really knows?). And most of them are concentrated here in southwest Florida, from what I can tell from walking the beach on Marco Island.
So now you now: I’m vacationing in warm and sunny gun country. While here, I’ve been feeling out my family’s interest in visiting an alligator farm, where the kids can watch their dad wrestle an animal determined to pull him into the water and drown him. But what a rush it is for dad, I’m told: the primal battle; the prehistoric nature of the animal that has sunk its teeth into your abdomen; the feeling of desperation as you realize that the ‘gator has squeezed the air out of you and has probably already won the battle.
Once rescued from certain death by the 7th-generation swamp dweller running the farm, I challenge the kids to memorize the shells we’ll be encountering. They totally ignore me at first, assuming I’m performing my usual leg-pulling nonsense, until I jump up, all excited. “Make a chart,” I say. They look up from their devices just long enough to scowl. I explain: “You can note the shells you collect, the dates and times and where you found them. You can connect with other children your age doing the very same thing! Imagine how jealous your friends back home will be to know that you’re making charts and filling in data, while they’re spending endless hours staring at their boring devices. Heh, heh.”
They’ve stopped listening. They care as much about finding a Scotch Bonnet on their morning walk as they do about discovering Van Hyning’s Cockle in the bottom of a bucket.
Slinking off to eat some conch fritters and gator-tail while cleaning out my AR-15.
If I were Pope, the first thing I’d do is fight for normalized relations with the people who practice the Cult of the Easter Bunny. Although my own Catholic upbringing strongly emphasized Jesus over the Easter Bunny, I was an open-minded young lad and was able to appreciate how some people could drink in the stories of the mystical rabbit and his mysterious workings. Who was I to say that the baskets filled with chocolate lops and cottontails and little chocolate eggs that resembled hare scat weren’t actually filled by a rabbit? Honestly, could I be 100% certain that the absurd myths that were intoxicating believers in Bunnyism were completely impossible?
Oh, great, now I’ve gone and tipped my hand. For half a second I had you thinking that I was actually willing to lend legitimacy to the Easter Bunny, such that if I ever became Pope (which, when I was a really young child, was still a possibility) I’d be willing to spend large chunks of my free time lobbying political leaders to seek common ground between us in the mainstream and the deranged psychopaths who perpetrate this annual farce of Bunny worship.
Imagine what you have to get your head around to believe in the Easter Bunny: a large (one assumes, given all the booty delivered) rabbit hops around and somehow penetrates through the several layers of security around your home, (via, what, magic?), and then farts out little brown eggs into a basket.
And here’s what I find most troubling: you allow your children to consume the little brown pellets they find.
Don’t you see the ridiculousness of this?
Sometimes, I worry for you and your decision making skills.
Back in the day, I had a girlfriend who moved in with three other people into a new construction townhouse after we graduated college. I’d visit frequently, making a pest of myself and becoming best friends with one of her roommates (Roy!), making me an even more frequent visitor.
Consequently, I got to know the landlord, who always seemed to be hanging around, just like I was. This particular landlord, a fella named Jimmy Georges, possessed a first rate Boston accent. I mean this guy should be in the hall of fame of Boston accents. I’d been living in the area long enough to have encountered the Boston accent many times each day, but I had never heard it as perfectly rendered as when spoken by Jimmy Georges.
Anyway, there I was one day when Jimmy Georges happened to be at the apartment, caulking something or collecting a rent check or whatever, and I asked him about an oddity of the apartment: why was there a forlorn-looking countertop and sink out there in the living room? I was a young, green newcomer to “the big city” from a smallish town; to me, it seemed like an architectural boner. So Jimmy Georges explained, “It’s a wet bah.”
A wet bar? I know you think that a high-class person such as myself would have had several wet bars in his childhood manse, but I had never actually heard of such a thing. I was informed that a wet bar is where you make the drinks.
How embarrassing! I was known at that time for making drinks, or at least for drinking the drinks that other people made, so for me to display such social unawareness about a drinking matter cast me in a totally different light to the drinking public.
At that moment, I decided I would never suffer such embarrassment again. One day, I would have my very own wet bar. It might take my becoming a captain of industry, or maybe just a wet bar salesman with easy access to factory seconds, but one way or another I was going to be making drinks in my living/dining area.
Still waiting for my big wet bar sales job opportunity.
Imagine what I might made of my life if only I had been given a decent pair of curling shoes as a child. That I’ve been able to get this far without such footwear illustrates my ability to overcome obstacles, on and off the ice. I’m not saying it’s the equivalent of Pele having to kick around a rolled up sock filled with rags instead of a proper soccer ball during his childhood, but it’s pretty close. Both of us had to play the cards we were dealt, and both learned to overcome the deficits we were saddled with.
So, sure, Pele and I are alike. He has often noted, in his own blog, that we’re kindred spirits. Nice guy. But here’s one way we’re actually not alike: he’s never won the famous Corn Hole tournament on my street. And I have. As a rookie. With very little training and while drinking beer.
I don’t want to claim that he hasn’t won because he’s focused solely on his footwork, which gets you only so far in Corn Hole, but let’s just say that I kept my footwork to a minimum, and I won. And he didn’t.