(Warning: the following is intended to be a non-flattering commentary on the authors own lack of sartorial splendor. It is not intended to endorse or poke fun at school violence. The timing is simply ironic. Please, if you already believe the author to in fact be some sort of immoral monster, do not read on, or, if you choose to do so, keep your inflammatory comments to a bare minimum.)
As any of my usual cadre of readers (yes, both of you) are too well aware, there was an anonymous threat made that acts of violence were to occur at Barneveld school today. It also happens to be the day that I had scheduled to take my own kids for flu shots, at a clinic in Barneveld. This, I feel compelled to mention, was pure coincidence.
Getting everyone ready in the usual we-are-now-five-minutes-late fashion, I simply threw on my clothes with the standard amount of forethought (none) and headed out the door, hoping we'd make our appointment.
Now, since I started being Daddy Caretaker five years ago, clothes for me are purely functional items that keep me from being too warm, or too cold. I don't think I've worn anything other than slightly frayed jeans in that time, and my shirt is generally whatever I grab out of my closet that has the least amount of stains on it. Call me a slave to fashion, and I will call you a big fat liar. Or a blind man.
Today, however, serendipity intervened in the form of a strange little voice in my head that said, "For Chrissakes, old man, stop and look at yourself in the reflection of your automobile just this once....."
So I did. And here's what I saw: on my head, my favorite beat-up, dirt stained old ball cap, which I picked up years ago in Oure, Colorado to benefit the local wildfire smokejumping company. The company name is Columbine. My hat reads: COLUMBINE FIRE.
My shirt-a near threadbare, 50 cent rummage sale favorite circa 2001, was a long sleeved college logo T-shirt. Virginia Tech, to be precise.
Combine the scraggly four-day growth of beard with the COLUMBINE FIRE hat and the VIRGINIA TECH shirt, and I was about to enter Barneveld as the reigning fan boy champion for psychopathic school shooters.
Assuming I would either be arrested or beaten to death, I opted instead to swap the ballcap for a grimy ski cap, and just keep my jacket zipped up. This gave me an appearance strikingly close to the Unibomber, but at least he wasn't the evil we were fighting today.
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5 comments:
PRICELESS.
someone at another site called you an artist. I think you are kind of sick.
Now here I am, smiling, even though I had convinced myself I was in the worst mood ever.
That's damn near the funniest thing I've heard in a long time. And the fact that something made you stop and look in the mirror makes me believe even more that God is a funny bitch.
P.S. That anonymous up there wasn't me, either. Or am I fucking schizophrenic now, too? Just what I needed, one more thing to obsess over.
Hey anonymous-check back tommorrow when I finally write about sleeping with your mother.
She BETTER not be cheating on ME.
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