observations – finanigans

Further Flummoxed Father Rants

Just in time (or not) for the holidays, I’m here to celebrate with that time-honored tradition of being a Scrooge, a Grinch, and an overall Grumpy-Pants. As the old saying goes, “It’s that special time of year when we can all gather around a dead tree in front of the fireplace and eat candy out of socks…” or something like that. Bah Humbug. Actually, I love Christmas. It’s my favorite time of the year. Except for days when I eat ice cream. Those are also my favorites. They’re all my favorites, but some are more my favorites. But these bim-baffled, befuddled blogs won’t write themselves.

Long Laborious Lines

There are lines for everything during the holiday season. Lines to check out at the store, lines to see Santa, drive-thru lines to see Christmas lights, lines to get into other lines leading to lines where no one knows. I feel like the majority of my time post-Thanksgiving, pre-New Year is spent standing in lines, avoiding lines, and trying to get out of lines. I’m in a line right now! Not really; but sorta.

Hot Chocolate in Hot Florida

There are approximately two temperatures for hot chocolate: 1) insanely scalding, esophageal cancer-causing hot, and 2) gross, mushy, lukewarm. It always sounds like a good idea, but it never ends well. My kids always want some, and then we just end up with all these cups of unconsumed cocoa because we all realize, “Hey, wait a minute, it’s 90+ degrees out right now! What am I doing drinking this lava mud?”

Novelty Gifts

Don’t know what to get your loved ones for Christmas? Well, the department stores sure do have some ideas! How about some odd, random novelty items that no one ever thought they needed, nor would anyone ever buy for themselves. Here’s a box of two dozen different types of salami all for one person. There’s a 5-foot tin can of pickle-flavored popcorn. Oh, and now what about this lovely tie and belt rack shaped like a luscious mustache. Look, here’s a general rule of thumb: if you wouldn’t buy this for yourself, don’t waste money buying it for someone else. Just get them what everyone really wants: cash/gift cards. Oh, am I ruining the “fun” of Christmas? Oh, it’s not supposed to be practical? Well, don’t get offended when I donate that grenade-shaped coffee mug or throw away those sparkly, light-up Santa glasses.

Odd Number Pockets

This one doesn’t have to do with Christmas per se, but it has become a common gift. What is it with this trend of modern clothing having odd-numbered pockets? The absolute worst offenders are newer chino shorts that only have one pocket on the back right butt cheek. I can’t even find shorts anymore that have pockets for both cheeks. What about my left side? Why no love there? And I know maybe it sounds a little crazy, but when I see these shorts for sale I actually feel an intense raging inside and want to rip off every odd pocket in the store. Maybe I have some repressed trauma or unresolved symmetry issues. I don’t know. I just know I hate them, and I don’t understand them. Why oh why?

Large Public Gatherings

For the past couple of weeks, we’ve had Christmas school productions, dance recitals, pageants, church events, and other miscellaneous and ambiguously festive public gatherings. And after two years of quarantining, I can confidently say this: I really haven’t been missing out at all. In fact, I must have emotionally suppressed just how much I loathed large public gatherings until this December rolled around. Take this year’s recent dance recital which was clearly planned and produced by people who don’t have small children. The “performers” (starting at 2-3 years old) had to be there at 5:15 PM. The recital started at 6:00 PM. There was an intermission around 7:30 PM. The recital ended at… well, I don’t know when it ended because we left by around 9:00 PM. Keep in mind, our dancer only had two performances: one at the beginning of “Act 1,” and one in the middle of “Act 2.” Normally, bedtime is 7:45 PM. When were these kids supposed to eat, use the bathroom, or do anything else? I don’t know. And they had to sit with their class, and “supposedly” no one was allowed to leave early. There were nearly 40 musical dance numbers altogether and we were only there to see two! Beyond all that, whether it’s at the movie theater, school auditorium, or any other venue, I had totally forgotten how terrible large, indoor public gatherings were. I was experiencing some real phobias and anxiety as I listened to 400 people cough and sneeze to the rhythm of off-beat tiny, tap shoes. Plus, the whole arena just smelled like hot farts and discount department store perfume. And I thought to myself, “Is this what it means to be a human and live in community? I did not miss this. Can we go home now?”

Merry Christmas y’all. And a happy, smelly New Year.

The Puzzling Parking Paradox

Otay, now where is the designated parking for handsome chickens?

The other day I was running some errands and had to stop by this particular department store—which shall remain unnamed for reasons that will soon become clear—when to my chagrin, I found myself absolutely dumbfounded because I could not find any parking. (Side note: dumbfounded is an interesting word… like, does it mean that I was found to be dumb or that I found something dumb or that dumb was founded upon like when our nation was founded upon certain principles or whatever your social studies teacher was trying to tell you, but you weren’t listening?)

But here’s the thing, it’s not that I couldn’t find parking for lack of open lot spaces. At that time of the day, the parking lot was practically empty. The reason I couldn’t find a place to park is because nearly all of the parking spaces were reserved for specific customers. Now, obviously you have your accessibility parking for persons with disabilities. That’s standard. And then sometimes you also have reserved parking for certain VIP members or whatever. Then also, the pandemic has increasingly introduced this new category of parking for curbside service and pickup orders.

But this unique snowflake of a parking lot, in addition to the previous ones mentioned, also had “special” reserve parking placards for Law Enforcement, Emergency Service Personnel, Veterans, Active-Duty Service Members, Family of Touring Military Volunteers, Expecting Mothers, Nursing Mothers, Grandmothers of Mothers, Military Mothers, Motorcyclists, Commercial Truck Drivers, Members with Therapeutic Animals, Members with Small Chihuahuas in Handbags, Taco Trucks, Clydesdales, and Mothers of Expecting Emergency Veterans on Therapeutic Motorcycles Eating Tacos. Okay, okay, so maybe some of those were exaggerations and/or completely fabricated. But at least a half dozen of those parking designations are totally legit.

And this all reminded me of the Pixar movie that we recently watched with our kids: The Incredibles (2004 [wow, was this movie really back in 2004‽). One of the themes of the film revolves around the idea of uniqueness and individuality versus equality and uniformity. Early on in the movie, the mother Elastigirl reassures her son, Dash that “Everyone is special.” He sullenly responds, “That’s just another way of saying no one is.” Dash has super speed and wants to play sports, but his parents won’t allow him because he’ll stand out too much. Later on, towards the climax, the antagonist, Syndrome reveals his ultimate plot to make everyone into supers with his technology: “And when everyone’s super, no one will be (insert maniacal laugh).”

Now, I’m not here to debate the merits of a society built upon meritocracy and rugged individualism. Nevertheless, when all of the parking spaces are specially reserved spots, then none of the parking spaces are special. And when none of the parking spaces are special because all of them are, then that means that I must not be very special because there’s no place for me to park. Or maybe that means I’m the most special little boy of all!

…But I still don’t have any place to park…

Personal Pet Peeves

My wife always wanted to get a pet and name it Peeve, so that way, she could tell everyone, “Hey, this is my pet, Peeve.”

Well, I have some pet peeves of my own (why do we call it that anyways? It’s not like I cuddle my peeves and take them out for walks…). And this is my semi-customary opportunity to rant and complain into the empty void of the Internet where no one can hear me scream and no one cares either way.

Pets

Speaking of pets, I just don’t get it. What’s the point? My kids have been pestering me ad nauseum about getting a pet. But why? Why would I voluntarily go out and pay money for another living organism just so I can bring it home and pay lots of money to keep it alive? Why would I willingly bring into my nice, clean home something that is going to track in dirt, shed, and slobber everywhere? Why would I want to feed, potty train, clean up after, discipline, and take to the vet something that won’t even help pay the bills or wash its hands without assistance? I mean, come on, I have children to fulfill all those roles already. So, I certainly don’t need a pet. Plus, they always want to crowd your personal space and sleep in your bed. Again, kids.

Hammocks

Speaking of sleeping, my wife also loves hammocks, and I, in turn, also hate them. Some people’s definition of rest and relaxation would be taking a nap in a hammock while lying underneath a tree in the cool Spring air. That would be my definition of unlawful incarceration and inhumane confinement. I’m a human; not a burrito. Once you get into one of those things, there’s no getting out. It’s like a Chinese handcuff or quicksand—the more you struggle, the stronger the strangle hold. Anytime I’ve ever tried to lay in a hammock, my life has flashed before my eyes as I have a near-death experience. Look, I just prefer not to sleep while being swaddled by a fish net.

Soft Towels/Blankets

Speaking of swaddles, another thing my wife likes that I despise is soft fabric (is this a list about my pet peeves or about my wife’s irrational preferences?). Most of all, I hate soft towels and blankets. Feels like cruel and unusual torture. Maybe it just reminds me of pet hair. I don’t know. All I know is that when I die, don’t bury me in one of those padded, silk coffins. Straight-up, unfinished wood please. This was actually a pretty contentious subject early on in our marriage when my wife wanted to get a new color-coded, matching towel set from Bed, Bath & Beyond; and I wanted to keep using the same rough, scratchy towel that I’ve had since middle school. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I just don’t trust them—soft things that is. Especially if they’re too soft, like suspiciously soft. Makes me think, “What are you trying to compensate for? What are you hiding under those thread counts?”

Limp Handshakes

Speaking of soft things, I absolute cringe at a wet and/or weak sauce handshake (I’m actually not sure where my wife lands in this category…). Why even shake my hand bruh? Is that a handshake or a wet noodle? Is that a handshake or a limp biscuit? It’s like grabbing onto a dead, five-legged salamander. Now, that doesn’t mean you need to go all toxic-alpha and try to crush my hand. Just be normal. Better yet, just pound it dude. A fist bump is the superior greeting. All the social pros of a handshake greeting with none of the cons.

Handshakes During a Pandemic

Speaking of handshakes, just better not right now. Listen, here’s the thing, if we’re out in a public gathering, and you see me wearing a mask, please don’t rush up at me and start shaking my hand like we’re long, lost friends when we’ve never even met before. And definitely, definitely, don’t touch my kids. PEOPLE PLEASE! I’m talking to you! Strangers! Stop touching my kids! What is wrong with people? What social etiquette class did they play hooky during? In what dark parallel universe is it okay to just walk up to strangers and touch their children? So, again, please don’t touch me right now, and absolutely don’t touch my kids.

Don’t get wrong. I don’t think you’re a horrible person if you happen to like pets, hammocks, or soft things. Everyone is entitled to be miserable in their own special way. No judgment here. These are simply my own petty gripes. But seriously, don’t touch my kids. That’s all.

Signs of the Times

Or: Observational Evidence that the Worst of the Pandemic is Perhaps, Hopefully, Potentially Behind Us Notwithstanding Some Unforeseen Circumstances

Over the past couple of weeks, I have started to notice a few things that have put a smile on my face. And you actually know that I am smiling because I am fully vaccinated which means I’m now completely invincible to all viruses. It’s felt like a long, bleak winter trapped under an avalanche during the quarantine. But now finally there are signs, little flower buds pushing through the ice and snow to once again bloom in the warm sunlight.

You know that the worst of the pandemic is probably over when there is:

No More Plexiglass

Wawa took down some of their plexiglass barriers. I actually never minded the plexiglass. It made me feel more confident in the mornings when I had rushed out of the house without brushing my teeth wondering if my breath smelled bad. Nevertheless, it is nice to see my favorite quick stop for on-the-go beverages and snacks starting to loosen up and relax a little.

In-Store Dining

Dunkin’ Donuts has in-store dining available. We walk to our local Dunkin’ literally every week if not multiple times a week. It is our go-to coffee, donut, and just in general place. Our family loves Dunkin’ like a Winnie-the-Pooh loves honey or a sea cucumber loves algae or an infant koala loves its mother’s feces (good luck looking that up later). Now, we can once again enjoy our silky smooth cups of Joe and luscious Boston creams while being entertained by the sights and sounds of those patrons who run on Dunkin’. It’s like a free visit to the zoo but better because it doesn’t smell like manure.

Free Samples

Publix is handing out free cookies to kids again. Every other week or so when we’d roll our children down the aisles of our local grocery store in the rad two-seat carts that look like a race car, our kids would be disappointed as we passed by the bakery and there was no bubbly attendant to offer them a free cookie. But the cookies are BACK BABY! Now, the bakery is once again our first stop during a grocery run. It just makes the whole shopping experience much more pleasant when you have something to stuff your child’s face with to keep them from grabby, grabbing things and pointing and shouting at other customers who are wearing “alternative” clothing designs.

More Free Samples

Sam’s Club has free samples again. Albeit, they only put out one sample at a time, and the sample is covered by a plastic dome with a hand opening like some kind of sterile laboratory workstation. Nevertheless, the free food samples are basically why we have a membership. That, and we don’t have a Costco nearby… But whatever, I’ll take free food samples anytime, anyplace. My parents had a very difficult time teaching me not to take candy from strangers. I was always like, “Are you crazy‽ Why not‽ It’s candy! And it’s free! Of course I’ll have some!”

Even More Free Goodies

Our church recently began putting out the self-serve airpot pump thermal coffee carafe again. Basically, everything I’m excited about has to do with food in some way or another. Good riddance coronavirus. You’re kind of ugly and nobody likes you.

Interesting Things I Just Recently Learned

This whole time, our three-and-a-half-year-old daughter has thought that a grilled cheese sandwich is actually a “girl” cheese sandwich. I’m not sure what a “boy” cheese sandwich would be. Are dairy products sexist?

Speaking of sexism, did you know the reason we have so much pollen in America is because of a major, national movement several decades earlier to plant only male trees? City planners believed that female trees were undesirable because of all the fruits that would fall on the ground and rot. They thought that the pollen would just blow away in the wind. Obviously, it has not just blown away. Our collective allergies can all be blamed on a bunch of old, white dudes who thought male trees were better. Who knew that certain trees even had genders? Trees are definitely sexist, and my sinuses agree.

Speaking of nasally things, some dogs, and even humans, have the ability (and/or can be trained) to smell certain chronic diseases like Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, and even cancers! They can detect these diseases years before a doctor’s diagnosis. I definitely need to get one of these dogs (or humans) for when my kids say they’re too sick to go to school.

Speaking of illnesses, did you know that the coronavirus is just a myth? I know because a bunch of my acquaintances from high school who flunked science class say that the virus just doesn’t add up. I didn’t even know viruses could do arithmetic. Obviously, I’m being sarcastic now. The virus is real. Science is real. My seasonal allergies are real, and the struggle is real.

Speaking of struggles, my wife is experiencing considerable nausea at the moment. We believe it is possibly a side effect of being pregnant. Or maybe a parasite. But maybe those things are the same? She didn’t know it at the time, but I had been praying for another baby. Our daughter had also been asking for a baby sister. So gotcha. This is our secondary, official joyful announcement by the way.

Keep keeping things interesting, and stay frosty my friends.

Continued Recent Rantings of a Flabbergasted Father

On practically a daily basis, I consciously take some time out of each day to connect with my wife by annoying her with my odd observations, random rants, mad monologues, and superfluous soliloquies.

For instance…

Our newly graduated one-year-old has recently mastered walking. By “mastered,” I mean like Jackie Chan kung-fu drunken boxing mastered kind of way. Sure, he’s more mobile than ever, but he’s also more dangerous than ever—a danger to himself and others, a menace to society. They require a license to drive on the roads. They should probably consider requiring a license to walk around. He’s like a waddling knee-capping ready to happen.

You know what else is a menace to society? Glitter.

I know I’ve complained ad nauseum about glitter before. But still. What demented, sadistic nihilist came up with this stuff? I take back every negative comment I’ve ever laid against stickers; just save me from glitter. Who can count them? For as the number of the stars of heaven and as the sand of the earth, so is the number of eye-irritating glitter specks in my house. If I’m cremated when I die, then the flames will probably sparkle from all the glitter I’ve inhaled and ingested over the years.

And one more thing…

Rubber duckies. I love the idea of rubber ducks. In theory, they work out great. You know what else sounds great in theory? Communism. In practice, both are dirty and fail miserably. But instead of the Red Scare and the threat of nuclear Armageddon, it is the Squeaky Scare and the threat of black moldageddon. All of those rubber bath toys get so disgusting even after one use. How hard is it to manufacture something that doesn’t grow the death plague inside of it and of which your children desperately want to gnaw on and suckle?

We’ve tried everything. Plugging the air hole, cutting out the bases, vinegar, blow torch, etc. All practices in futility; vanities of vanities. The only good rubber duckie is a dead rubber duckie. Sorry Ernie, but your friend makes bath time so much fun only as long as you have a hazmat suit and are fond of playing with weaponizable biological waste byproducts. It’s like some foreign intelligence agency’s (I won’t speculate as to which one) subversive scheme to undermine our citizen’s faith in bath time. Forget Covid conspiracies. This is the REAL plot to destroy America. Operation Duckie Dookie Drop.

Fair warning: if you ever got the bright idea of breaking into our home, prepare to be assaulted by an intoxicated baby, glitter bombs, and moldy rubber bath trinkets.

Kids Are Weird

What is it with kids?

They are so weird. Brain-scratchingly odd. And I have some questions:

What is it with kids and stickers?

We have a book with stickers, and our child loves it. But here is what she’ll do: she will take the stickers off one page, and then… simply put the stickers on the adjacent page. So now, it just looks like the previous sticker page except worse. Is it a metaphor for life? Sometimes, it feels like I’m just moving stickers from one page to another. Like in doing yardwork where I’m just moving dirt from one place to another, or at work where I’m moving paper from one pile to another. But let’s be honest, we all love stickers. They are the best even if we can’t explain why. Part of my reason for having is kids is so that I have a socially acceptable reason to still use and wear stickers.

Why do babies want to eat literally everything?

Seriously, how long should it take a baby to figure out that something is not food? I’m like, dude, haven’t you realized yet that those carpet fibers, that door post, and all those plastic doll faces aren’t food? No, those random specks of dried leaves are not food. No, those shoes are not food. And no, mommy’s earrings and daddy’s beard are not food. And yet, try, try again our child must. I have to give it to him; at least he’s not a quitter. Resilience is important. But so is recognizing when it’s time to let go and move on, like when it’s time to stop gnawing on electrical cables before you turn into a barbecued squirrel on a power line.

Why won’t kids just go to sleep?

The struggle is real. The FOMO is real. How can I possibly be so tired and want to sleep so badly, and yet, these kiddos are bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, wide awake, and wired like they’re hooked up to a drip coffee IV? Just go to sleep; please, for the love of all that is good and sane in the world, please just go to sleep. Currently, our nighttime routine is roughly around 12 hours, and it begins at approximately the moment that they wake up in the morning. Woe to you if you do anything to upset the delicate balance of their sleeping schedule causing us to stay up an extra untold number of hours trying to get them to fall asleep. If anyone ever figures this one out please let the universe know.

5 Joys of Covenant Marriage

(or Five Things I Love About You)
(also or Happy Birthday)

1. Sharing

Food—I’m mostly talking about food. I love going out to new places and trying new things to eat. But what I love even more is being able to order TWO different things and being able to try some of both. Before being married, I felt like I was only living half of a life because it’s socially frowned upon to order two entire entrees for yourself alone. Don’t bother checking my math on that. You have completed me in so many ways—especially in allowing me to indulge in my foodie lifestyle; now our sharing is caring, and a happy tummy makes two lifestyle.

2. Synergy

You are my synergistic soul partner. I’m not even talking about the tax benefits of filing jointly. Well, maybe that is something to talk about. But really, I love that we accomplish more together than the sum of our individual efforts. It’s like if you tried to make a sandwich using whole peanuts and churned butter. Just doesn’t make sense or taste very good for that matter. But when you put it together: peanut butter! Wait, I don’t think that’s how it works… my metaphor is falling apart here…

3. Creating

And making a baby is like the jelly! Now we got a PB&J. There, totally saved it. But seriously, this whole making one from two phenomenon is wild. I love creating a new family, a new breath, a new existence with you. At the altar, two became one in spirit and in love. Now with our children, two have literally and physically become one. Mind blown. I have not recovered.

4. Unconditional Love

Total acceptance. Flaws and all. You see me like no other ever has. You see me at my worst and most shameful. I only get older and uglier every day. Yet, you still love me and choose to love me daily. Our love is not fragile. It is faithful. It is unconditional. We take each other as we are and choose to be bonded so that life is no longer life without the other. Not you or me, but us.

5. Kissing

It’s nice and fun. And other stuff too.

I love you Carmen Ruth Walker. Always and forever.

5ish Things Babies Do That Would Be Awkward If Adults Still Did Them

But first, a note about those diapers that I forgot to mention last time…

The other thing that I love about Huggies is that it’s called Huggies. So, it’s like a nice, warm hug for your most delicate regions. Especially during times like these with all the social distancing, it must be nice and comforting to be embraced by an absorbent cotton cloud 24/7.

Now on to other baby matters…

Listen, I know, pretty much everything a baby does is socially unacceptable for adults to do. But here are, I think, five uniquely and especially interesting baby habits that are total taboos for the all-grown-up:

1. Staring wide-eyed and never blinking

One of the most hilarious and creepiest things about babies is that they basically never blink. They just stare at everything like a deer in headlights. They stare at ceiling fans, lights, emptiness, and sometimes even you. When adults stare too much, the police are called. Also, babies will stare and study their own hands like some rare, archaeological treasure. But then hungrily try and devour their own fingers. Speaking of which…

2. Gnawing on… everything

Literally everything. Babies will go to town on whatever they can get their ravenous, unquenchable paws on. If they had teeth, they would gnaw your face right off. Yes, adorable, I know. But can you imagine if an adult came up to you and started chewing on your cheek bone like some kind of deranged zombie?

3. Laying around and waiting for someone else to tend to their every whim

Don’t take this the wrong way, but babies are sort of useless. Now I love babies, but still, they just lounge around like self-entitled royalty, ringing a bell so that their servants can come take care of all their needs and desires. They do this all while grabbing their toes, blowing bubbles, and rocking about in maniacal glee. Adults are typically encouraged to earn their keep; to actually do something and not just drool everywhere. Kid, get a job already. Child labor laws are ruining this country.

4. Randomly shouting, squealing, and squirming

With almost no perceivable provocation, a baby will start kicking and flailing about while screaming in ecstasy at the sound of their own vocal cords. What if when adults got so excited, they just started kicking everything? It’d be chaos. Insurance companies would have to create policies specifically designed for damages done by overly excited kicking fits and other emotional outbursts. The worst is when babies want to kick and roll while getting changed. What if adults did that while using the potty?

5. Falling asleep whenever wherever

Babies often fall asleep while eating like some kind of chronic narcoleptic. It’s like, yes please keep feeding me until I just pass out into a food coma. And then, while asleep, they splay out in starfish fashion with their little arms and hands that can’t quite reach the top of their heads. Restaurants would have an even more serious loitering problem if adults took involuntary naps after eating. Either that or they’d need to start charging a nap-booth rental fee.

Obviously, there are more baby antics that adults should avoid. Let me know of ones you’ve observed.

The Great Equalizer (aka The Big Mac)

Many have called the new strain of coronavirus “the great equalizer.” Historically, that title has been reserved mostly for death, as the true, ultimate equalizer.

But I’m not here to wax poetic and spew esoteric, philosophical jargon. No, I’m here to argue and advocate nonsense on the Internet.

You know what the real equalizer is?

McDonald’s.

Yes, McDonald’s—the world’s largest fast food chain, a behemoth of an industry and a poster child for capitalism with its nearly universally recognizable golden arches (arches that probably resemble the erratic bleeps on a heart monitor after eating too many of those eternally durable fries).

I know what you’re thinking: “How dare you sir, I would never be caught dead at such a place.” Maybe. It might kill you. But most of us are just deceiving ourselves. Look, the place serves something like 70 million people a day in over 100 countries; they bun up over 75 burgers a second. So… someone is lying. Someone is definitely eating it up at that joint. Some few million someones.

Hey, whatever, it’s ok. Judgment free zone. Like I was saying, Micky D’s is totally “the great equalizer.” It doesn’t matter if you’re rich, poor, young, old, foreign, domestic, male, female, big, small, republican, democrat, or imaginary. You probably have a McDonald’s on your block. I have literally witnessed every shape, size, color, affinity, and temperament of humanity imaginable over the years patronize the establishment. The Big Macualizer. They’re even more ubiquitous than memes and political ads.

Seriously, we once inadvertently exited off the interstate near Disney World into one of those high-class, ritzy neighborhoods to discover perfectly manicured shrubs and a pristine, towering yellow “M.” A McDonald’s where you have the choice of having gold dust sprinkled on your fries instead of salt, your soda comes in an exquisite chalice, and your burgers are tenderly swaddled in fine imported silk linen. Contrast this with our McDonald’s around the corner which hasn’t changed out its grease pan since the days of horseback postage, your seasonings are most likely to come from human sweat, and you need to bring your own toilet paper if you want a napkin.

And then there’s the infamous Thailand trip in which when we first landed in Bangkok, and there was some sort of mix-up with our hotel reservation so that our first night was spent in the “red light” district, and the only place we felt safe enough to take a bunch of high school teens was the city square McDonald’s (a run-on sentence I know, but I’m in a hurry so give me a break, and this is obviously not some grammar blog, and who made you the grammar sheriff anyways?).

Three things are certain in life: death, taxes, and delicious artery-clogging, fried potato sticks that never decompose. When I eat them, I feel like I absorb their preservative powers of longevity and immortality. Or maybe that’s just indigestion.

We may not be able to agree on politics, the economy, or how to handle this global crisis. But there’s one thing I think we can all agree on: the Oreo McFlurry should receive a Nobel Peace Prize.

Maybe we’d all be a little bit nicer to each other if we just got a daily Happy Meal.