Home > Cogitation > Maybe I’m Growing Up

Maybe I’m Growing Up

I don’t tell people this, but before we were branded here as ‘The Philosophunculist,’ the alternate name was to be ‘The 420 Boner Fart Blog.’ How did such a fork erupt?

Some internal force is telling me to mature. It’s telling me to settle down, have a child. I’ve been told it’s the greatest feeling in the world, and I can imagine it—sitting down with my son, buying him his first cigarette. Teaching him that yes, everyone is equal, we are all human. Except those in the service industry—you must never make eye contact with them. And people who have to sell plasma to make ends meet. Also, anyone with more or less than one total job. If you don’t have one, you are society’s burden, if you have more than one, why are you taking up all the jobs? The general guideline, I guess, is this: don’t look at anyone with less money than you. These are the people who are technically ‘equal,’ but not really.

But then I asked myself, why should I have to buy my son his first cigarette? Go get a job as a busboy and buy your own, kid. Of course, then all eye contact would be banished between us. Life isn’t fair.

Once I stop looking at my own son, I’m assuming it would develop one of those pill problems that you get from all the head doctors out there. The pharmaceuticals, coupled with the strife of my shunning, would then serve as the fuel that drives him to write a bestselling novel or Grammy-winning album. So now the son is making more money than me and hogging all the cigarettes. But the joke’s on him—I don’t need cigarettes! And I can look at him again, but he can’t look at me. I now have a rich, estranged son who smokes. Dangerous combo there. He’s headed for an early, watery grave (He always loved canoeing. And popping pills. At the same time.).

Guess who’s number one on the inheritance list? Me.

But I thought the kid hated you. He did. Yet because he made so much money from his book or album or reality show he literally had no one to look at, and mine was the only name he could remember. Chaaaaaaaaa-ching!

Reading back over this, the wise course of action would be to get a vasectomy. And change the title bar to the 420 Boner Fart Blog.

  1. Eva
    March 14, 2014 at 11:19 am

    Using the 420 Boner Fart Blog as a tagline would make a lovely addition to the site. Also, don’t grow up.

    • March 14, 2014 at 6:17 pm

      The jury’s still out on the 420 Boner Fart Blog, but I can assure you that I will not grow up.

      • Eva
        March 14, 2014 at 7:04 pm

        Well done.

  2. March 15, 2014 at 9:43 pm

    Laughed out loud at this one! 420 Boner Fart Blog, eh? As usual, I showed up too Late. Maybe you can cop the pen name of Scrotie McBoogerballs (unless some copyright issues rear their ugly heads).

    • March 17, 2014 at 10:40 am

      Ha! Maybe the 420 Boner Fart Blog will have to be a side project, run by Sir Anoos Fartigan, or any other name involving bodily orifices and the things that come out of them.

      • March 17, 2014 at 11:00 am

        Lol! Thanx for livening up my dull-ass work day! 🙂

  3. November 17, 2014 at 5:54 am

    I get the distinct impression you are already well acquainted with pharmaceuticals. Or should be. Weekend’s comin’.

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