Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Mailbag: A Prepubescent Proposal

Exit Home
Most of my day is spent ticking or driving and sometimes ticking in between driving. I am the full time parent and so the onus of driving the clan around lies on me. This can take a lot out of me neurologically. My wife might argue that I spend more time reading news than ticking or driving, but I'm going to ignore her. I ask that you do, too.

On days that I'm not ticking or driving, I can be found examining my navel. It's not necessarily a pretty one, although it's clean, but I do spend a lot of time looking at it while trying to figure out how to do things better.

Actually, that whole navel gazing image is wrong. When I am deep in thought I am usually staring off vacantly above me to the left, or I'm pacing back and forth looking slightly forward. Truth to tell, I really can't see my navel anymore, but I'll just work with the expression since wall gazing has awkward but truthful connotations.

Sometimes people email me and I reply to them using the incredible analytic skills navel gazing for 42 years has given me. I'm happy to share what I can. Imagine my surprise, though, when I received the following:

From: Aisah Baby
Date: Sat, Nov 14, 2009 at 12:14 AM
Subject: Hello My Dearest one,

Hello My Dearest one,
i am miss Satou,i would like to know more about you,please never mind to contact me through email (satou_baby@hotmail.com) that will enable me to explain myself to you,
i will also send my pictures for you to know whom i am. I saw you at www.mybloglog.com

Thanks and remain Blessed.
Miss Satou.

I must admit that I can think of no advice to give this hot yet spiritual, Japanese baby. Obviously, I expect such poor English from infants, but I am concerned about the sexual overtone of the letter from someone so young, and I am uncomfortable with how intimate this typing toddler believes our relationship to be. I would recommend her parents revoke her internet privileges immediately. And unplug her webcam.

Douglas sig

Next: An Anxious Cry for Help