Japan Tales - Tulibo through the sex machine

A request has been made by my darling wife that I clarify something from an earlier post.  In truth, the Japanese "arcade sex machines" I mentioned previously:

are not sex machines at all.  Although they are found in arcades in Japan.  No, they're photo booths.  Which makes it slightly less weird that I used one with my wife and two of her cousins during our last trip.  


I didn't really understand why there were so many of these photo booths, especially since everyone has a camera in their phone, computer, car and, er, camera these days.  But these aren't simply photo booths, no, being Japan they also have a small robot implanted inside that digitally manipulates the images, supposedly to make you more attractive.  


Of course, if these were brought to the states, they would just blow up your tits and lips, making you look like some fish faced milk machine.  Or they could just save the computers and output pictures of Pam Anderson.  Either way.  But no, these machines digitally transform you into, well, apparently, what is the pinnacle of Japanese beauty and desirability.  For your reference, here is what I look like, sans digital sexifying:

And here's what the sex machine did to me:

So, it smoothes out the blemishes on your skin, lightens your skin tone, makes your eyelashes darker, fair enough.  However, it also appears to make your eyes much larger and rounder.  Hmm, apparently, in Japan, big eyed baby looking things are incredibly sexy.  Could have been weird though, it could have given me big boobs.  

Merry Christmas!

From everyone here at Tulibo Heavy Industries World Headquarters located in beautiful Ohio ("The Heart of It All", mildly more appealing though arguably less accurate than the runner up "Hey, At Least You're Not In Iowa!") we wish you a Merry Christmas, a Pleasant Post-Hanukkah Hangover, a Kick-Ass Kwanzaa, a Fucking Amazing Festivus, a Splendiferous Boxing Day, and a Wonderful New Year.

Hullo daddy

My wife and I put our heads together, thought long and hard on it, tossed through many a sleepless night, and have finally come to this conclusion vis-a-vie our daughter: We are going to raise her British.


Yep, she'll grow up bundled in stripy jumpers, pushed in her pram, have to wear nappies until she learns to use the loo, we'll take the caravan on holiday, discuss the 'appenings of the day, guvn'r, whilst sipping our Earl Grey and nibbling on crumpets.  Trouble is, as you may have discerned from the previous mess of a sentence, neither of us is British.  Nor do we even know anything about "britishness" though I think failing to take her to the dentist will help.  Most troublesome for our endeavor, we won't be moving to England.  Or even Wales for that matter.  But hopefully a combination of James Bond movies and BBC America will convince our child that she IS british.  Maybe we can instill some class and sophistication in our daughter in the middle of America.  Or at least the illusion of such.


Now I just need to find a set of crayolas with the color (whoops, colour!) grey. 

Christmas Time for Kiki

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting morbidly obese, and it's time to buy presents for Kiki for the first time.  Now, we've bought things for our daughter, you know, the exciting things like diapers and formula and even, sometimes when we're feeling crazy, a new pacifier.  Before you begin sending us donations for Kiki's well being (we accept cash and most major credit cards but no Discovery cards, we're not whores), let me clarify that we were lucky to inherit a vast assortment of clothes, toys, and baby paraphernalia from friends and family, so Kiki has not had to crawl around naked.  I'm not saying she hasn't done so, but she didn't have to.  It was her choice.  What can I say, she's a free spirit.


But this Christmas, her first Christmas, we've decided to go all out.  No, we're not getting her a combination bathtub and changing table.  Nope, not a whirlpool child bath either.  Not even a combination whirlpool bath and changing table (I don't think it exists, but just in case I'm putting a patent on it.  By the way, saying "I put a patent on it" in your blog will hold up in a court of law, right?).  No, this Christmas, her first Christmas, we're going to do something really special, we're going to get her three of her favorite things:


1) Shoes
What can I say, my little girl loves shoes.  Mainly hitting them on the ground, smacking them, and especially licking them, particularly the soles.  My wife is less than thrilled with this new hobby, since, apparently, shoes are dirty (I know, it's a weird Japanese thing).


2) A refrigerator
Not a full size one, that would be ridiculous.  Just a mini-fridge.  She thoroughly enjoys slapping the outside, looking inside, and, if unattended, attempting to climb inside our current refrigerator.  So, being the smart, thoughtful parents that we are, we figure we'll get her a little one of her own.  


3) Boxes
Yes, like all sub-four year-old humans, our child loves boxes, and why wouldn't she?  They're brown, boxy, and smell of cardboard.  All the things little girls love.  And, being creative, enterprising, and thrifty parents, we're saving the earth and our wallets by re-gifting the boxes her other gifts came in as separate gifts.  It's what Jesus would have done.  

Sinistration

For those of you who didn't take Latin: 
(yeah, way to take a "useful" language, who'll be laughing when the Romans take over the world economy?!?!  What's that?  A dead language you say?  Well don't that just bite it.) 


SINISTRATION
Pronunciation: (sin"u-strā'shun),
—n.
the quality or state of being left-handed
Synonyms: Left-handed, Awesome, Totally Awesome, Totally Super Awesome


Yes, left handedness.  A surprisingly prevalent talent in my family.  Of the 5 of us, 4 are lefties.  Oh, and the dog was also a lefty, so 5 out of 6, that's what, 233%, right?  Well, sinistration does not indicate a propensity for mathematics.  


Anyway, my wife, whom I love dearly, is not left-handed.  So she's somewhat defective, but I've learned to look beyond that.  But now, horror of horrors, my sweet, beautiful daughter seems to be exhibiting right-handed tendencies.  I mean, I guess I can still love her and care for her.  Somehow.  Maybe I only look at her in a mirror so she appears to be a lefty.  It's either that or tape her right arm down for the next three years.  


Hmmmmmmm.


Okay, fine, the mirror it is....


But taping her hand down is the only way to guarantee that my daughter is more creative, better spatially aware, and much more likely to die in an industrial accident...


Man, this parenting thing is hard.

How To Determine the Proper Parenting Style for You.

Well, you've mastered the diaper change, gotten feeding under control, and may, just maybe, have had a few nights of uninterrupted sleep.  Now comes the big decision, what type of parent are you going to be?  There are thousands of books, millions of websites, and billions of other parents who are just dying to tell you how to do it, and warn that any deviation from their method will result in a sociopathic child.  Well, I'm here to put all your fears to rest.  My simple, 5 question test will quickly and accurately tell you which approach to parenting will work for you and your child:


1) Your child is crying.  Do you:


A) Pick them up immediately, hold them, coddle them, and smother them in kisses and praise.  Continue until they tell you to stop or turn 18.


B) Ignore them.  They'll figure out eventually how to fix what's ailing them on their own, after all, you're never too young to learn how to reset a dislocated elbow.


C) I don't know that I can answer definitively with so little information, I mean, what are the circumstances?  Is she hurt?  Then I'm absolutely comforting her.  Is she just cranky or bored, then maybe I'll let her cry a little bit and see if she resolves it on her own.


2) It's bedtime. Do you:


A) Sleep with your child in the same bed, always there to comfort, breast feed, and smother in love.  Continue until the child tells you to stop or turns 18. 


B) Put child in crib.  Close door.  Ignore all crying, screaming, and whimpering until morning.  Alternately, get infant an apartment of their own, it's never too early to learn self-reliance.  


C) Well, I don't know again.  I mean, I guess sleeping on their own would be nice, and we will all probably sleep better, but if she isn't having it, I don't know that I'm totally against sleeping in the same room, at least for a little while.  


3) Time to go to the Pediatrician.  Do you:


A) Defer all immunizations until your child contracts the disease.  No one dies from tuberculosis anyway.


B) Demand that the pediatrician combines all the immunizations needed for the first ten years into one mega-shot.  For best results, make your child self-administer it.


C) I think I'll talk with the pediatrician and take their advice pretty seriously, since they went to, what, 15 years of medical school, and have since dedicated their lives to helping infants, and deal with these issues every single day.  


4) Your child is hungry.  Do you:


A) Breast feed.  Nothing but breast feeding.   Again, repeat until they ask you to stop or turn 18.


B) First off, if it is not a designated feeding time they will just have to wait until the next scheduled eating period.  We're not running a 24 hour diner here.  And breast feeding?  Ha, we'll give them something they can really use.  Like a steak.  Oh, and don't cook it, let them figure out how to turn on the stove.  


C) Feed them.  Something.  I mean, breast feeding is great, if it works for the mother and child, but at some point you've got to stop.  And then, I guess formula, if they still need it, or food of some sort.  


5) Your child is misbehaving.  Do you:


A) Hug them and calmly explain that their behavior is brilliant and wonderful.  Breast feed them.  If behavior is really bad (stealing, hitting, murder), maybe kindly ask them if they would enjoy possibly redirecting their energies in another direction, but only if they want to.    


B) Tell them no.  Firmly, clearly, and often.  If this fails, tell them they are a disappointment and send them to their room/apartment.  


C) Well, what are they doing?  Are they just being somewhat annoying, or are they acting in a seriously violent/destructive manner?  How could one response possibly correct for all misbehavior?  Should the courts just have one verdict for all crimes?





Please put down your #2 pencil and await results.


If you answered all A's:


Congratulations, you're what is known as an "attachment" style parent.  Your child will grow up nurtured, loved, and emotionally fulfilled.  They may die of tetanus, but then every rose does have it's thorn.


If you answered all B's:


Congratulations, you're what's known as a "babywise" style parent.  Your child will grow up independent, strong, and resilient.  They may become a psychopathic murderer, but as they say, you can't make an omelet without turning a few eggs into psychopathic murderers. 


If you had any mix of A and B or, god forbid, any C's:


You are obviously unfit to parent, attempting to apply logic and thought to a process that should be marked by blind adherence to a theory created by an author primarily motivated by profit and personal gain.  Your child is doomed.  You should just do everyone a favor and drop them off at the fire station now.  

Evolutionary Development

If I was forced to name my favorite aspect of evolution (it could happen!), I would have previously listed vision, maybe speech, and quite probably sexual organs as some of my favorites.  However, I have just rethought my entire approach to this question.

This sea-change was brought about when I came across the following sentence: "This cycle of glaciation ceased after the evolution of the anus" and I realized, with stunned insight, that I had never before considered the anus in the evolutionary process, I'd always accepted it as a given.

Yep, it's my new top item.  In fact, it's numbers one through seventy-four.  Because, let's face it, wouldn't you rather be blind, mute and sexless than forced to live without an anus, doomed to spend the rest of your hopefully short life walking around wondering why you're getting larger?