June 23, 2004
Scrap Heap
I was having lunch the other day with some wonderful female colleagues, dear to me, and the topic of scrapbooking came up in the context of an ex-colleague. What, says I? Scrapbooking? Yes, says they. It is a Big Time Hobby.
Now, I'm always the last to know these things, probably because I spend too much time in the water closet coaxing Girth Vader to givvums a little burp, but scrapbooking? What the Hell?!?
So it's a big deal. Not just seminars, and conventions. Scrapbooking cruises. I confess I've always wanted to go on one of those Show Everyone Your Penis cruises, but The Bride demurrs. A scrapbooking cruise? Shoot me God. Smite me. Thunderbolt works fine. Don't give me cancer, please.
My idea of scrapbooking is to take all of my pictures and throw them in a shoebox under the bed, after I've laid out the negatives by the pool in the sun in order to "cure" them. Occasionally my girls will find a picture they think flatters, or amuses them, and I will grudgingly drive to the Walgreen's and buy a photo album so they can memorialize that picture, as well as four of the kitty licking her twat. If the album costs over six bucks I'm pissed. That redounds on the girls to wash my car.
I understand, and this is hearsay, because my corneas melted upon opening Scrapjazz.com, that albums get a little more expensive than that. Customised leather stuff, and all. Emboss your name in gilt. I believe some come with voodoo dolls of your ex, with 12 pins in the crotch.
ONLY WOMEN could come up with such a bizarre waste of time, and resources.
Scrapbooking, indeed. I've seen my old relations in a few musty sepia-toned photos. The ones with the serrated edges. Clue: they look like assholes, and Okies. I didn't know them, I have no desire to know who they were. They look like their life sucked.
I have, as the inmate said, seen it all.