Despite ample coaxing, my parents rarely read my blog. Shocking, I know. I can’t imagine why they don’t race over here to see what I’ve strapped to my head this week. Alas, they don’t.
They’ve known me my whole damn life, it seems. So, this shit just doesn’t impress them much. They knew me when I glued cotton balls to my brother’s face in the middle of that cold winter night, climbed upon our snowy rooftop, and jingled those bells to bring about a little Christmas spirit for them. Unimpressed. A little pissed, actually.
They knew me when I shoved my children into oversized flower pots in a wagon and called it a Halloween costume. (Hey, we won that damn contest, and my mother helped make the hats. So, don’t let her tell you otherwise.)
And, they know me now. Now, that I’ll be featured, along with others, in Nick Douglas’ forthcoming book, Twitter Wit, “a compilation of Twitter aphorisms and witticisms, celebrating a medium that has enabled millions of users to broadcast their lives and quips within Twitter's 140-character limit, thus reinventing wordplay in the tradition of Dorothy Parker and Oscar Wilde.”
In my case, it’s probably a tweet about poop, or sex, or something respectable like that. And, since my parents haven’t read this and aren’t on Twitter, guess what Mom and Dad will be getting in their stockings this year. Thanks, Nick!