I inherited my grandmother’s house. I’m a heterosexual bachelor, I don’t give a shit about decoration, so the automotive tools and 3D printing detritus, house cat, and electronics shit from about waist down are mine, the artwork and curtains and shit at chest level and above are still my grandmother’s.
Included in this is one of those “one large frame full of a bunch of individual family photos” things that ceased to be manufactured during Dubya’s first term. In it is a picture of a bunch of relatives of mine hanging out in a back yard, the last of whom died last month, a black and white photo of my father when he was 7, a dageurrotype of my great grandfather’s first wedding…
And a polaroid of me, age 2, scrote ass naked, riding Bradley. Who the fuck is Bradley. So, while I was a fetus, my family went to a state fair. My father decided to stop at the carnie section to play ring toss. My hilariously pregnant 5 foot tall mother wanted to play too. So Dad gave her a fistful of rings. And she got one. As my dad tells it, the second my mama cheered, that carnie took the rest of those rings from my father, chucked them in a different, empty basket presumably to inspect them to make sure they are in fact smaller than the neck of the bottles, and begrudgingly told her to pick out one of the hilariously huge stuffed animals on display, and she picked a life-size tiger. On the way back out of the fair, my family walked past a National guard exhibit, including several tanks and armored vehicles. My grandmother, the idiot that decided to carpet my bathroom, noticed the sign next to a particularly large tank-like machine said “Bradley Fighting Vehicle” and she said “Oh how cute, they named it.” And lo the 6 foot long polyester tiger was named Bradley.
Three years later, I got out of a bath tub, and before some toddler sized tighty-whiteys happened I mounted that very tiger like a horse, which amused my father enough to go get the family Instamatic. My grandmother ended up owning the resulting photograph, time makes corpses of us all, I inherited my grandmother’s estate to include a 37 year old picture of my own dick.
So when I build my drinks cabinet intended to go on that wall, and pull down that photo collage and give it to my parents, one of whom was the photographer of several of those family photos, am I going to be arrested for trafficking child porn?
Correct me if I’m wrong but the key to any good long text/speech is having as many interesting visual descriptions as possible. Emphasis on interesting.
See? Imagery. And also, buy a bottle of bourbon and a bottle of rye with the excuse of doing A-B comparisons of Old Fashioned cocktails, drink like 6 and come away with the opinion that your favorite between the two is Luxardo cherries.
So…
I inherited my grandmother’s house. I’m a heterosexual bachelor, I don’t give a shit about decoration, so the automotive tools and 3D printing detritus, house cat, and electronics shit from about waist down are mine, the artwork and curtains and shit at chest level and above are still my grandmother’s.
Included in this is one of those “one large frame full of a bunch of individual family photos” things that ceased to be manufactured during Dubya’s first term. In it is a picture of a bunch of relatives of mine hanging out in a back yard, the last of whom died last month, a black and white photo of my father when he was 7, a dageurrotype of my great grandfather’s first wedding…
And a polaroid of me, age 2, scrote ass naked, riding Bradley. Who the fuck is Bradley. So, while I was a fetus, my family went to a state fair. My father decided to stop at the carnie section to play ring toss. My hilariously pregnant 5 foot tall mother wanted to play too. So Dad gave her a fistful of rings. And she got one. As my dad tells it, the second my mama cheered, that carnie took the rest of those rings from my father, chucked them in a different, empty basket presumably to inspect them to make sure they are in fact smaller than the neck of the bottles, and begrudgingly told her to pick out one of the hilariously huge stuffed animals on display, and she picked a life-size tiger. On the way back out of the fair, my family walked past a National guard exhibit, including several tanks and armored vehicles. My grandmother, the idiot that decided to carpet my bathroom, noticed the sign next to a particularly large tank-like machine said “Bradley Fighting Vehicle” and she said “Oh how cute, they named it.” And lo the 6 foot long polyester tiger was named Bradley.
Three years later, I got out of a bath tub, and before some toddler sized tighty-whiteys happened I mounted that very tiger like a horse, which amused my father enough to go get the family Instamatic. My grandmother ended up owning the resulting photograph, time makes corpses of us all, I inherited my grandmother’s estate to include a 37 year old picture of my own dick.
So when I build my drinks cabinet intended to go on that wall, and pull down that photo collage and give it to my parents, one of whom was the photographer of several of those family photos, am I going to be arrested for trafficking child porn?
Probably, in Trump’s America.
You write well. Also, is it illegal to possess a naked picture of oneself as a child?
I guess it’s about the risk of someone viewing it sexually.
The key to a good stand-up routine? Imagery. And crowd-work.
Correct me if I’m wrong but the key to any good long text/speech is having as many interesting visual descriptions as possible. Emphasis on interesting.
See? Imagery. And also, buy a bottle of bourbon and a bottle of rye with the excuse of doing A-B comparisons of Old Fashioned cocktails, drink like 6 and come away with the opinion that your favorite between the two is Luxardo cherries.