Anyway, I'm stuck in a Chinese well. Please send actual help. These asshole scientists just keep measuring my head and whispering mean things about me to each other.
They're acting like I can't hear them, but we're all in the same Chinese well. Do they not understand acoustics? If anything, I can hear them better.
Long story short, I’ve escaped the Chinese well. But I have a lot of abrasions on the front, back, and sides of my massive head. It’s almost exactly the diameter of a Chinese well, it turns out.
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My shitbox truck has finally died a noble death, and for the first time in my life, I might treat myself to a semi-fancy motor. I love this Triumph—so stupid sexy—but fear it will be like buying a boat. What's a nice, new car that will make me happy but not look like a douche?
(Also I live in Canada and will need to winter drive for, like, eight fucking months a year. This is a consideration.)
Thank you so much for all of your kind suggestions. Some of you drive really nice automobiles! We are going to test drive a Mazda Miata this week. And a VW Golf. Also... that gosh-darn Triumph. Because I am a moron who does stupid things.
Okay, quick fish story: When I was a kid I had a paper route. I saved up for MONTHS and finally bought my dream purchase: a big fish tank. Little coloured rocks, tiny plastic SCUBA diver, the works. I also bought a bunch of tropical fish. I didn't know I needed to buy a heater.
My granny was visiting from Wales. We stashed her on a sofa bed that happened to be next to my new fish tank. Well, it turns out that tropical fish in cold water try to escape cold water. My granny woke up with the stiff, dried corpses of my beloved fish all over her bed.
I was so upset. My tank was a goldfish operation thereafter. But that night at dinner, my granny suddenly said, "I was dreaming all night that it was raining." She was splashed all night long by suicidal fish but didn't wake up enough to save them. The nightmare!
I was profiling Clinton Portis when he played for Washington. His house was full of giant aquariums. One of them had a lionfish in it. I was like, "Wow, that fish is super venomous if you step on it." He sort of frowned at me and said, "Ain't got no plans to step on it."
This remains the world's only known instance of fishsplaining.
I also accidentally beat Santana Moss at pool that night. I am a terrible pool player, but I couldn't miss. Well, it turns out professional athletes are quite competitive. You don't want to announce you're terrible at pool and then roll them. Little pro tip for the Youngbloods.
A local high school student profiled me for his English class, and I swear to you, he included the following sentence in his story: "Jones lives with his two sons and, supposedly, his girlfriend." I told his teacher that a burn like that deserves an A.
Imagine, for a moment, you take the time to talk to a high school student, and he turns around and does that to you. I think I might try to adopt him. His parents have obviously done an amazing job, but I want to take it from here. This is a once-in-a-generation talent.
Behold, the most devastating adverb in human history.
It might have sneaked up on us—or on me, anyway—but I think we might be in a golden age of music. There is so much catchy, creative stuff right now. I have a new favourite song every hour. Total delight.
When my boy Sammy was born, his head was so big that our paediatrician worried out loud that he had water on the brain. Kid had an off-the-charts cranium. The doc took out a tape measure and then stopped, looked at me, narrowed his eyes, and said, "You know what? Never mind."
This story is 100 percent true. In high school, I made a new friend, Richie Chaplin. I went over to his house for the first time, and his older brother, Ed, burst out laughing and said: "Look at the fucking head on that kid."
Just remembered that when I worked for the Ottawa Lynx baseball team, they had to special order my hat. "Kid needs the Bochy." Imagine having a head so big that no one else in an ENTIRE BASEBALL ORGANIZATION has a head the same size.