Most people are fortunate enough not to be aware of the exact moment when they pass from free-thinking, semi-alternative, aging hipster to "one-of-those-parents." I, unfortunately, am not so lucky. You are about to experience my sad, sad downfall... now.
Mr. Z came home today with a large envelope with the phrase "Fall Fundraiser" stamped across its front. Now, he's brought these things home over the last couple of years, and they've always gone straight to the recycling bag. This year, however, the boy has decided that he is not only going to participate in the fundraiser, he is going to sell more worthless crap than any other student in the history of the school.
I know Mr. Z, and when he gets something into that over-sized noggin of his, well, he can be pretty formidable. But there's no fucking way I'm going to walk around the neighborhood with him, door-to-goddamn-door, and watch him try to sell wrapping paper and chocolates to the neighbors. It ain't gonna fucking happen. And I can guarantee that the Old Lady's not going to do it.
So, I looked this Innisbrook company up online and, sure enough, these assheads make it very easy for an underage workforce to do their evil bidding on the innernecks.
You see where I'm going with this now, don't you? [head droops in shame]
Look, no pressure. I told him I would ask, but I also told him not to get his hopes up. (Holy fuck, I feel so dirty right now.) Here goes: if you happen to find yourself in need of, say, wrapping paper, or chocolate-covered Oreos, or a subscription to Sports Illustrated or Food & Wine, or even a fucking box of assorted bath salts, perhaps you might help an enterprising young spazmo realize his dream of winning "some-shitty-prize-that'll-end-up-unused-in-a-
And you can help that enterprising young spazmo here:
Help Mr. Z Win a Shitload of Crap!
Shit, I hate myself. So, yeah, if you buy anything off of that link, he gets credit for it and his school will make a little money and you'll get your shit mailed to you and I'll never be able to look at myself in the mirror again.
There, I did it.
Now I might as well just shave my fucking head, buy some pleated khakis, pick up the latest Dave Matthews cd, grow a goatee, go buy a minivan, order a cellphone with a camera in it, and then sit in a cloud of self-hatred on some leather couch as I laugh/cry my pathetic ass off to an episode of "According to Jim."
Someone shoot me.