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Wednesday, November 20, 2002

One day I'll grow up and write like James Lileks.

And while I'm dreaming, I'd like the MegaMillions numbers, too.

Anyway, here's the master's latest offerings on everything from the improper use of beach balls to Wacko Jacko. Especially the Weird One:

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"He is now, officially, the World’s Creepiest Man-thing. Those horrid eyes transplanted from a carved-up Bambi, the mini-butt cleft chin, the Uglaut nose that’s peeling like cheap wallpaper. He’s a slow-motion shapeshifter. All this we knew, but now we know he’s crossed over into sheer madness.

What’s wrong with this picture? Well, what’s not wrong? The towel over the face suggests that the Jackson Facial Rearrangement Project proceeds anew on the pliable flesh of the newborn. The very existence of an MJ offspring makes one shudder - I’d rather chew off Aunt Selma’s corns with my incisors than think of that unholy thing having carnal relations. (At least Bubbles got the night off.) The maniacal expression suggests that he will be consuming this tidbit as soon as he lurches back into the shadows. But holding your kid over a balcony with one hand - well, that’s the thing parents have nightmares about doing. For God’s sake! I duct-taped Gnat to my chest just to climb the stairs."
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Heather concurs, having advised me today that if I pulled a similar stunt:

"I don't know if I'd divorce you for holding our child like that; I might just outright kill you. As in, push you off the balcony (after I took the child back from you, of course)."

Sensible woman, my wife.

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