Note from Mondoo: Mr. Mondoo offered to write a post today. I asked him why and he replied “I don’t know!” Well guess what? I don’t care why. Solo blogging has been really tough for me lately (I couldn’t even eek out a Love/Hate on Friday, for Pete’s sake!) and I welcome the help. Plus, he’s funnier than me. So, enjoy this post from Mr. Mondoo. He alludes to writing more, let’s hope.
I’m going to be a Daddy soon. Not a father, because terms like “Mother” and “Father” are for old farts like Mondoo. Hot young studs like me are called “Daddy.” Regardless, like a honeydipper, I’ve got to get my shit together. I can’t risk screwing up Baby. I’ve got to get all my important life lessons ready. So while I’m doing it, I might as well share them with you, Mondoo’s devoted readership. This week: Maps.
I want Baby to be self-reliant—to a point. In reality, I want her to rely on me and appreciate that I know more than she does. That’s what keeps my marriage together, and it’s what will keep my children in line, too. Unfortunately, technology has made it so that idiot kids are sometimes more capable than world-wise adults. Witness GPS. Ten years ago, there was no such thing. You can’t read a map? TS. Those of us who knew how to get from Point A to Point B could feel confident that the Douglas Corrigans of the world couldn’t just drop in on us unannounced. Now? Even mouthbreathers like Mrs. Zack Morris can get in a car and find my house three and a half hours later.
Baby won’t be allowed to use GPS. People do whatever that voice tells them to do. The only voice she needs to follow blindly is mine. The only time I’ve been in a car with GPS, it bypassed the interstate in favor of ten miles of one-lane gravel roads. I will gladly drive the extra 15 seconds if it means avoiding the terrifyingly Confederate flag-bedecked West Virginia version of the Branch Davidian.
Guess what? Mapquest is out, too. Baby will be lucky if I let her use the internets at all. I remember surfing the Information Superhighway© when I was a kid. Listen Baby, IM “chatting” with your mother is how she and I eventually ended up in this situation. I don’t need you stumbling into a chatroom with Ben Roethlisberger (I’m sure chatrooms totally still exist).
Nosirree, technology. If Baby wants to go somewhere, she’s going to ask her Daddy to chart her a course in the ol’ family atlas. When I was growing up, nothing let me know that my father was the man of the house more than his mastery of the atlas—and his ability to handle baked potatoes with his bare hands. You always knew vacation was just around the corner when the Old Man took the atlas off the bookshelf. Whether it was Ocean City or Cedar Point, he’d forecast our path like he was Christopher Columbus—except he never infected the local population with smallpox upon his arrival. The Old Man would always trace the fastest route in yellow and the “sightseeing” route in pink. We NEVER took the pink route. Then again, I can’t see wanting to spend two extra hours in the car with Mrs. Zack Morris just so we could see some extra trees.
So Baby, there you have it. No GPS. No cell phone map apps. No Mapquest or Google Maps. If you want to find your way to the mall, you’re going to have to ask Daddy for the atlas. If you want to find your way to some young punk’s house, you’re going to have to hope Daddy doesn’t shred the atlas.