I rock the look. I'll be the first to admit it. Never has one man made one shirt look so darn good.
Perhaps I should take a step back and explain myself. For those uninitiated into the Jellyfish Conflict of '09, no explanation will be provided. The twists and turns; alliances and betrayals; heartbreak and anguish are simply too much to be explained. Suffice it to say that my dear friend Klarissa and my mom-away-from-mom Sister Ludwig made me a shirt. Here's me rocking the look:
Now I fit in with my gelatinous relatives
I'm not sure what this turn of events means. One could be led to believe that this is a peace offering:
Smoking the peace jelly.
However, those two are far more devious than their pleasant appearance suggests. Perhaps it's a way to make me look stupid or go against my principles. Perhaps "kick me, I'm a liberal" is written on the back in invisible ink. Or worse yet, perhaps it's made of recycled fibers! This would be terrible indeed.
However, I think it seems more likely that my neighbors are just overly kind to me. Somehow, they found it in their kind hearts to forgive the room vandalizing, name calling, ferocious young man next door and help his sense of fashion at the same time. Maybe it's a dis against my fashion sense, but I appreciate Klarissa and Mama Ludwig all the same.
Nation, it's no secret that I start off a large number of my blogs these days with the phrase "Nation, it's no secret that..." It's also no secret that I hate the environment. That's why I was so happy to see today was "Earth Day." I can only guess that, like "VE Day," this means we've finally won the war on the environment. To celebrate, I cleaned the house this morning, using cleaning appliances like the vacuum cleaner and the dishwasher to enlarge my carbon footprint (bigger IS ALWAYS better).
There are a number of arguments for saving the planet; all of them are stupid. I will take time to debunk one of them, mostly because I want to use the energy in my laptop battery:
Nation, there's been a whole lot of talk about preserving the planet for future generations. This smacks of age discrimination (I'd like to smack everyone making this argument). Sacrificing quality of this generation to better the lives of younger generations? (it stands to reason that unborn generations are younger than this one) Classic age discrimination. Already our quality of life has diminished from that of the height of the Industrial Revolution (sort of like the French Revolution, except trees lost their heads). We are no longer allowed to dump industrial waste into clean waters, or release harmful pollutants into the air. It's clear that our "Constitutional" rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness have been infringed upon.
Nation, I demand that we, as the Siebert Nation (pronouced "See-bear") take the planet in the stranglehold of democracy. Send a letter to your Congressperson. Send several letters. The more trees we cut down, the more they'll get the point. Refuse to recycle. If it's not new, it belongs in a museum or a dump. I think I've made myself very clear here. More clear than our "Clean-Water-Act-Mandated-Cialis-And-Various-Other-Pharmecutical-Laced-Municipally-Cleaned-Water." Happy Earth Day Nation, we've finally got the tree huggers on the run.
Nation, I'm a broken man. To be honest, I don't even feel like a broken man, I feel more like a broken nothing. I used to believe in love, but now, I see that, like Santa Claus, it was nothing more than a way to sell Coca-Cola.
Someone very dear to me stomped on my heart. Or rather, she chomped on it.
Yesterday, I decided to make peace, and I decided to make a token of our friendship and my forgiveness for her putting up those terrible posters. I spent days agonizing over the perfect symbol. It had to be something amazing, and yet be meaningful. Finally, I hit upon the perfect idea, something that would endure the test of time:
I thought that finally, things would be alright between us.
Sadly, today when I opened the door, I found the shatter remnants of my gift:
Nation, I'm crushed. Nothing can console me but a half gallon of vanilla ice cream. I now know it's too much to ask to be understood and accepted. My tears run into my ice cream and make it taste terrible, a bitter reminder of my pain. But I eat on, sadly devouring the ice cream like she devoured my love for her. I hope it tasted as bad as my ice cream does.