What do you call a fake noodle? An impasta! Every bite is a flavorless and hollow lie. Every meal gives me less pleasure with each passing day.
“No, they won’t fit me. I have outgrown small shoes, just as I have outgrown feeling awe at the sun’s rise, joy at your mother’s smile, and belief in a just and loving God.”
“Hi, Hungry. I’m Dad.”
“Why’d you name me ‘Hungry,’ Dad?”
“Because every day you will consume food and entertainment until you are sick, yet every night you will fall asleep empty inside.”
Deer, raccoons, and greedy children will devour the apples, thoughtlessly, for years. One day our poisoned climate will collect its debts and choke all life. Tsunamis will flood the lands, trees and fruit will wither in a miasma, and the remaining scavengers will scream in the face of extinction. Mother Nature’s last word will be blind, despotic, and final.
That’s the deal with the apples.
“No, I got them all cut! Hair is dead skin, and a barber’s scissors are a sneak preview of the reaper’s scythe.”
I sat on the beast hoping to excavate some boyish excitement. Yet I felt nothing. When I was young I dreamed of changing the world with my ideas. But people care not for ideas — they value conformity, popularity, and the fantasy of having sex with someone who has never thought about them. So I gave up on philosophy. Now I spew jokes like a trained circus animal.
“What’s the leading cause of dry skin? Towels!”
“I don’t trust stairs. They’re always up to something!”
“Dad, I’ll call you later.” “Don’t call me later, call me Dad!”
My son stares at the television, hypnotized by a pop culture I no longer understand. I am now an obsolete machine: begging to be noticed, desperate to feel relevant, and doomed to annihilation. I run from the house trembling and screaming and throw my fist toward a darkened sky — only to find a thundercloud in the shape of an elephant. “WHY DO YOU MOCK ME LIKE THIS!? THESE ELEPHANTS DO NOTHING FOR ME!!” But this cloud, like all clouds, is meaningless: just random water droplets that will vanish like every wisp of cotton candy I’ve ever used to purchase a brief smile from a boy who once revered me.
- - -
“Dad, can you put my shoes on?”“No, they won’t fit me. I have outgrown small shoes, just as I have outgrown feeling awe at the sun’s rise, joy at your mother’s smile, and belief in a just and loving God.”
- - -
I’d tell you a chemistry joke… but I doubt I’d get a reaction! Laughter is worthless. It is a servile submission reflex to avoid being singled out and crushed by the group alpha.
- - -
“Dad, I’m hungry”“Hi, Hungry. I’m Dad.”
“Why’d you name me ‘Hungry,’ Dad?”
“Because every day you will consume food and entertainment until you are sick, yet every night you will fall asleep empty inside.”
- - -
Have you tried eating a clock? It’s time-consuming! Soon I will stand on the precipice of eternal sleep, and the tides of time will sweep away everything I have ever known. So I’m not feeling motivated to perform kitchen renovations right now. (...)
- - -
How many apples grow on a tree? All of them!Deer, raccoons, and greedy children will devour the apples, thoughtlessly, for years. One day our poisoned climate will collect its debts and choke all life. Tsunamis will flood the lands, trees and fruit will wither in a miasma, and the remaining scavengers will scream in the face of extinction. Mother Nature’s last word will be blind, despotic, and final.
That’s the deal with the apples.
- - -
“Dad, did you get a haircut?”“No, I got them all cut! Hair is dead skin, and a barber’s scissors are a sneak preview of the reaper’s scythe.”
- - -
I bought a cheap elephant ride yesterday… I got it for peanuts!I sat on the beast hoping to excavate some boyish excitement. Yet I felt nothing. When I was young I dreamed of changing the world with my ideas. But people care not for ideas — they value conformity, popularity, and the fantasy of having sex with someone who has never thought about them. So I gave up on philosophy. Now I spew jokes like a trained circus animal.
“What’s the leading cause of dry skin? Towels!”
“I don’t trust stairs. They’re always up to something!”
“Dad, I’ll call you later.” “Don’t call me later, call me Dad!”
My son stares at the television, hypnotized by a pop culture I no longer understand. I am now an obsolete machine: begging to be noticed, desperate to feel relevant, and doomed to annihilation. I run from the house trembling and screaming and throw my fist toward a darkened sky — only to find a thundercloud in the shape of an elephant. “WHY DO YOU MOCK ME LIKE THIS!? THESE ELEPHANTS DO NOTHING FOR ME!!” But this cloud, like all clouds, is meaningless: just random water droplets that will vanish like every wisp of cotton candy I’ve ever used to purchase a brief smile from a boy who once revered me.
by Alex Baia, McSweeny's | Read more:
