Da-da was recently forced to stand in line at the grocery while the checkers did something checker-like for a long time. LIKE FIVE MINUTES. Jeez, don't they know how BUSY Da-da is?? Anyway, Da-da stood there, blasted by not only some jaunty Ramones Muzak, but also by terrible phalanges of salacious, trashy magazines that lined all the exits. Do people even read magazines anymore? Nine out of ten cheesed-out covers had the same theme, as we're pre-Valentine's Day and there's money to be made:
"HOTTEST TOP TEN TIPS TO TAKING HER OVER THE EDGE."
As if that line wasn't loaded enough. But Da-da wondered what this edge might be, it having been quite some time since Da-da was near any kind of edge; indeed, small children remove one's edge and cut you into countless pieces with so many others. However, being a college graduate (Ed's Mechanics' College in Winnepeg, summa c*m cloude), Da-da interpolated this 'edge' to mean $EX. (And Da-da's guessing that he cleverly bypassed spam filters everywhere... or, more likely, has been trebucheted along with this entire blog into some cybernetic Pottersville Dimension.)
Ah. So, back to what the hell we were talkin' about. Check it, proto-Da-da wannabes. Read this carefully, especially if you're below the age of 30. Da-da knows you've all had advanced $ex education since the third grade, but let's review: if you take her over the edge in an unoprotected fashion (you know what Da-da's talkin' 'bout), like Stephen King says, therein lay monsters. Little ones. Tiny cute monster cherubs that smile and giggle and barf and poop and YELL and keep you awake for the rest of your unnatural life BECAUSE THEY NEED THEIR BLANKIE RIGHT FREAKING NOW AND WHY CAN'T YOU FIND IT YOU MECHANICS' SCHOOL GRADUATE? Worse, they make you love them. Krikey.
Point in fact, "taking her over the edge" is the perfect way of putting it. Over the edge of real adulthood and parental responsibility (Da-da can hear you packing the Prius and heading for the hills, they go over hills, right?). Over the edge of intimacy. Over the edge of biological imperative. Over the ontological edge -- which features the biggest drop: having children means it ain't about YOU anymore, Myron. But above all, over the edge of SANITY.
Da-da used to be sane. (Lies.) He used to play golf, have a job, go on vacation, go to Rotary meetings, drink SANKA, listen to The New Christy Minstrels. He used to only capitalize the first letter of a sentence and people's names. Now... well. If you read this blog, you know. If you don't, then Da-da suggests you aim for the pocket and TAKE HER OVER THE EDGE, MISTER GIRTH. Good luck. We're all counting on you. And Happy V-day, brother.
V-Day Note: Ever notice how people, with unerring frequency, often seem to fall in love with and/or marry people WHO LOOK EXACTLY LIKE THEM? It's narcissism in action, makes mirrors redundant, and gives Freudians something to mull over for days and days.
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| If you stare at this too long, you'll go insane. |
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