Small & Big

I see a lady changing diapers. She is young, slim and fashionably dressed, with long black spaghetti hair that hangs over the boy like a curtain, and privatizes one end of him. Not the end where the pants would be. She tilts him like a big bottle being emptied out onto the table, holding the little guy’s feet way high up in the air and wiping his bottom clean. And no, I don’t politely look away. Something about this domestic scene is... puzzling. His pudgy naked legs are the length of a toddler’s but that’s not it. Adult and child are behind glass, within some kind of business. I smell petrol. Wait, wait a minute: let me get my bearings. High-strung taxis honk-honk at snowflakes (check); shivering people brush me by (check); beneath my boots, gruesome-gray sidewalk slush (check). All evidence points to my being outdoors. The woman and child, they must be indoors. A place with tables and chairs and signs, at street level. I am out here and they are in there. Public, private. Out here a

Don’t you just love bullets? Super Mario Brothers is teaching me to love them. See that gray thing there with the teensy fist? That one. From chubby girth to angry eye to opera gloved arm, this little boy bullet* gives me the chuckles. He ranks right up there with a monkey giving a cat a bath. A monkey! Washing a cat! Hah ha hah! As you can see, Bullet Bill’s abilities as a bullet and a boxer are pretty ineffectual, otherwise he wouldn’t be promoting both. The vibe he’s putting out is like, “If I don’t put a cartoon hole through you—and I don’t expect to: I’ve missed my targets so many times that my genetics altered to grow me some arms—I could maybe probably punch you in the neck as I fly by. If I could reach. Hold still, hold still.” Thing is, folks don’t make the best bulls eye while laughing. They squirm, for one thing, then make goo-goo sounds about the cute approaching projectile. When you think about it, the real world should totally convert to Bullet Bills. Imagine it: World le

( Borky: boring and quirky ) I’ve been memed! According to tradition this is a solemn ceremony wherein I first have to figure out what “meme” means. Fortunately, my nifty memer, Jenny of I’m Having A Thought Here , carefully passed down the details to me. It turns out that participating in a meme isn’t difficult, as long as you have a blog already. Guilty! (Thanks to my indoctrination I now know that the proper way of starting this paragraph would have been, I’ve been tagged . ) In this here meme the rules are: 1) Link to the person who tagged me ( Ms. Jenny ). 2) Mention the rules (yer reading ’em). 3) Tell six quirky yet boring, unspectacular details about myself (below). 4) Tag 6 other bloggers by linking to them (bottom). 5) Go to each person’s blog and leave a comment that let’s them know they’ve been tagged. This ensures that meming is contagious. Here goes. A half-dozen borky details about meself: 1. In sixth grade I stole a pink lip gloss from the local Ben Franklin Five and D

“FREE kittinz!” This is the sign that draws people’s attention when they’re pet shopping. And you are, aren’t you? Good for you! And good for them, because animals are some of the nicest people you’ll ever want to meet. (Except for that 100-pound St. Bernard that cornered me when I was six. “Saint,” my foot.) But before you run off to adopt a special four- or two-legged bestest friend, I urge you to consider something more. Something more-legged: namely, honeybees. Now I know what you’re thinking: “Are they really made of honey?” Yes. Yes they are. And the yellow stripes? Solid 24k gold. That’s why people don’t eat them. Those non-bee pets you’re considering, they’re not gonna work out. They are inferior to the honeybee and here’s why. Cats 1) Honeybees don’t nonchalantly squeeze behind the washer and poop up the basement floor. 2) Honeybees don’t carry out this affair secretly and passionately, behind closed doors and—and this is the important part because it’s slanty— in yo

Dona Nobis Pacem is Latin for “Grant Us Peace”. It’s the tagline of the Peace Globe project, something started on the blog Mimi Writes in 2006. ( Click for more info. ) Here’s some stuff to get you smiling for peace. Kids laugh around 400 times a day. Smiling releases endorphins. Endorphins make us feel better. Even faking a smile can make us feel happier. You were born with the ability to smile. Even babies born blind, smile. They don’t learn by copying the expression. Want to get yourself a’smiling? Make someone else smile. Now, read this.