Our dear heather, devoted reader & ardent supporter of The Wind In Your Vagina in addition to serving as President of the The Wind In Your Vagina fan club, wrote in with the following comment:
“Did I tell you you'd be blowing up today or what? Now write more funny shit. No pressure.”
First, heather, thanks for the comment. Your comments are always welcome here at The Wind In Your Vagina. Second, watch your mouth you profane unrestrained harlot! This is a family blog. Poor Jackson read your comment last night & burst into loud sobs that mimicked night terrors. You might have discerned from my vast languational control and varied powerful references to religion, philosophy, and the arts that my family is steeped only in the highest of cultures, untarnished by the likes of your profanities. Walk easy through these parts, heather. And lastly, you are perfectly correct to imply that my blog blowing up like an 80s rapper’s pager might lead to a touch of anxiety. I’m feeling a bit like Charlie Brown when he tugs on his collar around the little red-haired girl. This is nothing a blue xanax couldn’t cure but, honestly, who, in the paroxysm of an anxiety attack, has 20 minutes to wait around for a blue xanax to kick in? One might crush it up & snort it but this would be construed as abuse. Pharmaceuticals are illogical. My anxiety was quashed this morning anyway when I realized that I would never want for writing material as long as I remained the dad of that wretched Jackson.
Jackson needed to bring a game to school for Game Day. Wait a second. Teachers, Game Day? School ends at the end of the week. Why is my kid phoning it in on Tuesday? Don’t you already get the whole summer off? It took me 2 years of working in the salt mines before I caught a week paid, but I’m still not allowed to bring in a deck of cards the prior Tuesday. Are you lacking for lesson plans? Here’s one. Have each student bring in 3 pairs of socks, throw them all over the floor, AND TEACH THEM HOW TO PICK THEM UP! It makes me so mad. You’re raking in 19 grand to relax all summer and play games at work. Let’s everybody cry for teachers.
I apologize for that digression. When a guy’s previous personal best for page hits in a day was a dismal 58 and he suddenly finds more than 500 on a Monday, he tends to inhabit a cheery atmosphere. This cheery atmosphere, as you have probably guessed, leads him to rapping in the car while his son sorts out SpongeBob Monopoly money on the way to “Game Day”.
“Grab your glocks when you see Black Hock / Call the cops when you see Black Hock / You shot me but you punks did’n finish now you bout to feel the wrath of a menace / nigga I HIT EM UP!” But I must’ve been too happy. Is that it? Did I taunt the Gods by being too excessively happy? For you see when Jackson tries to read in the car (or perhaps count SpongeBob Monopoly money), he tends toward car sickness, and it was in the cheery midst of my mad flows that Jackson tossed a mushy Pop-Tart & stomach bile all over the backseat of the Saturn Vue.
I pulled off the road, hopped out, and pulled a Mystic River Sean Penn right there on the shoulder. This is where I live. And I wish I was making it up. I wish I was lying. I was going to take the day off, read your blogs, and respond to all your kind words. But that plan got Jacksoned. He spit a couple goobs on the road, wiped vomit off his chin with his sleeve, and said “I’m good. Let’s go.”
My son Jackson has a weak stomach but he’s also something of a badass.