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Gamer_152
Moderator of Giant Bomb, former tech student.

Dad’s Journal- 28/04/2016

I was cooking up some old copies of the Radio Times on the barbecue when I had to shoo some teens away from the bins around the porch. Slouching about on all fours, covered in tortoiseshell fur, the teen looked up at me and mewed. I can only guess this is part of some hip new pop culture trend worthy of my scorn. After grabbing a few morsels from the bin to go with my supper, I returned to the roaring house fire caused by leaving the barbecue unattended. This is the state of our country today: the irrational left refuse to come down tough on fire and will not secure the border, meaning as much searing hot flame can flood into our neighbourhoods as it wants. I scoffed at its failure to culturally integrate as it severely burnt my body and face. None the less, I remembered why I began penning that entry yesterday.

The other day, or perhaps in 1992 (mind shot due to arsenic poisoning), I was keeping a watchful eye over young Tabigail. I have always made it my duty to closely guard her for fear that at any moment some leather-clad hoodlum would sweep in and steal her away from me to a life of dangerous adolescent thrills like flavoured mineral water and lightbulb wattages above 40. On this particular occasion Tabigail directed my attention to a crude crayon drawing of a house with a rudimentary sketch of myself adjacent. In her words “Daddy, I drewd you a picture, do you like it?”.

I ejected my corduroy smoking pipe in unbridled anger and watched it fly straight through the line of Thatcher photographs I keep stationed on the mantelpiece. The pipe then landed in the mouth of the dog, which by common law made him the head of the house, but I presently had more pressing matters to attend to. This generation Y upstart had barely scrawled a few warped lines on a leaf of paper and already she was asking for a participation trophy! Is this what passes for art these days? Is this one of those “modern art” exhibits that I can expect to see plaguing our galleries? This was an utter mockery.

To elaborate, the lackadaisical Tabigail had already failed to engage me in my usually erudite discussions on the superiority of western values or how you can’t even be a rich Christian man anymore without the accursed peanut gallery kicking your damn rump in the comments sections! My wife had also had the gall to make me remove the interlocking contraption of sharp knives and power tools in my living room that risked wounding Tabigail and had already hospitalised several house guests. I am sick to the back teeth of liberals trying to create these safe spaces!

I, of course, gave Tabigail a stern talking to over the appalling blunder of a landscape drawing now thrust beneath my nose:

  1. The picture did not depict me with my seven threepiece suits I constantly entomb myself in (my trademark look is a sort of business-focused equivalent of the Michelin Man).
  2. I can only assume the plume emerging from the house chimney was of the notorious “vape” I’ve heard about.
  3. I am not interested in any picture that isn’t of men with strong jawlines believing in biological determinism and saluting the concept of the free market.

My wife rudely cut me off in the middle of my eloquent explanation just because it happened to include nine or ten slurs (purely as humouration). She also had the nerve to suggest that Milton Friedman may be too advanced for a four year old. When are we going to stop this sickening mollycoddling, and furthermore, why exactly is free speech dead and buried and had its funeral and been put in the ground and been given a grave and forgotten about, hm? (Wife may have vocalised an answer to this but it is irrelevant as I could not hear her over my uncontrollable shriek-sobbing).

I would continue this entry but I am now being escorted out of the Asda I’m writing this in for attempting to enlighten the slack-jawed gawkers here on the merits of an identity based on your large jowls and facial hair. I can only attempt to make the most of the rest of the evening by retiring to the garage, writing the words “affirmative action” on a notepad, and frowning intensely at it until I fall asleep and bang my head on the concrete floor, which I will then blame on reverse racism.