Family Feud

There are not many t.v. shows that our entire family can watch together. Certainly, there are very few that I watched as a child that are still on today. The one exception to that rule is “Family Feud.” The family trivia show that everyone can enjoy has been on as long as I can remember. The hosts have changed throughout the years (Richard Dawson, Louie Anderson, even Puddy from Seinfeld did a stint!), but it is now being run by Steve Harvey, who is actually a great host. The problem is, I don’t know who is writing this show anymore. I’m pretty sure it’s the staff writers from Playboy Magazine. Every question has a sexual undertone, and even the “family friendly” questions that do not involve sex always have a sexual answer in there. On a recent night I spent watching the show with my 11 year old daughter and 6 year old son, the question was, “You should never argue with a woman when she’s holding …” My answer: a grudge (not up there.) Lauren’s answer: a knife (yes.) Aidan’s answer: a gun (#1 answer.) For the remaining answers, we all guessed shoes and frying pans and even “baby”, but to no avail. The last answer that 100 people surveyed when asked the question, You should never argue with a woman when she’s holding, apparently all answered: “Your weiner/sag bag.”

Which got me to thinking: Really men? Is that your biggest fear? That a woman who may be mad at you is doing so while holding your dick? I don’t think that’s going to happen, for several obvious reasons.

But, when I analyzed it further, I wondered what you were worried we would do while we were mad and holding your manhood? Pull it? Punch it? Flick it? Squeeze it really hard?

My 13 year old son says that the worst pain in his entire life is when his younger brother punches him in the balls (i.e. SAG bag-which is a hipster expression I have never heard of) I’m sure it hurts when you get punched there. I don’t question it. I just have a lot of trouble pitying any of it.

We women are blessed with vaginas. As anyone who has had both a baby boy and a baby girl know, the girl parts are much harder to clean. From the very start, it’s already much more complicated to have lady parts. As we grow, everyone gets to giggle at our growth (or lack thereof) of our breasts. I’m pretty positive no one is able to catch a guy’s balls starting to descend from the outside of their jeans. Yeah, I know you get underarm, leg and facial hair, but guess what: we do too. And we have to shave ours the minute it starts growing. As we get older, our need to hide our hair is so intense that we allow a person to pour HOT WAX all over our bodies to make sure not one unwanted hair will grow. (This is especially goes for pubic hair, which if you are a guy, does not get shaved or waxed unless you are a swimmer. Porn stars have made it very difficult for us ladies to feel confident with any amount of pubic hair except for a nice, clean “landing strip.”) The bikini wax is just, well, the only comparison I can give is if you poured HOT WAX up your butt because that’s basically what we do too. Not one hair out of place, right ladies?

And then there’s the blood. Yes, fellas, for 8 days each month we get to worry that when we get up from a chair or couch, we have left a stain that will leave homicide teams wondering who died there. They do make adorable things to help stop the “flow,” and I’m sure you would just love to have a string hanging from your penis all day too. Sorry if you are jealous.

We get to squeeze people from our bodies after nine months of feeling the joy of it growing inside of us (joy can include: intense nausea, exhaustion, vomiting, and dramatic weight gain. Can also involve loss of waistline, self-esteem and sleep for a very long time.)

And then there’s the boobs. After they “grow up” and become “mom boobs,” they hurt like hell when you are pregnant, nursing, or even having your period. They serve no purpose except to turn men on and to feed the children. Otherwise, they mostly get in our way. They jiggle when we exercise, make us look heavy if they are too big, and require us to wear underwire bras for “support” which push wire into our ribcage all day long.

This past week I had a bad scare: a mammogram that yielded some negative findings. After that, I had to do another, more intense mammogram, followed by uncomfortable ultrasounds and some intense doctor exams. I am incredibly grateful that I do not have cancer. What it turns out to be is that I seem to have two giant bags of nerves hanging on my chest. You see, when you are a woman and you have (a) stress or (b) caffeine or (c) estrogen: all of which we have all day long, it can turn into painful cysts that literally be “hanging around” forever.

By the way, for those unaware: a mammogram is where we have to put our tender, always sore boobs into a giant machine that smooches them down into pancakes. The machine does this at least twice on each side and you must stand still and hold still even though you want to scream.

And so to those “100 people surveyed who are probably men:” do not be afraid if we are holding your “wiener/sag bag” while we are mad at you. The number one reason to not be afraid is because most women won’t be holding your penis unless she is really into you and is generally hoping it doesn’t stay flaccid for too long. Usually, if we are upset with you, the first thing we are going to drop out of our hands is the thing that makes you most happy when we are holding it.

The second reason is that if this angry woman is holding your penis and she “squeezes it a little” to make a point, I think you will be ok. Toughen that shit up, man. Even a pull or a tug is something you can deal with. If you can’t deal, just picture that woman putting your dick in a vice and cranking it down as tight as it goes and telling you to hold still and not move. She will do this at least 4 or 5 times.

That’s the kind of stuff that should freak you men out. From us women to you men, in the words of Katy Perry, “this is how we do.” (meaning, this is what we ladies do when we get a mammogram. I was trying to be all hip up in here fellas.)

Got it? So just go back to being worried about your pissed off lady holding a knife in her hand when she’s mad at you. Even a gun. Or waving your newborn child at you while she’s yelling at you for flirting with the waitress. All of these seem more realistic than her yelling at you while simultaneously holding the family jewels.

But, If, while she’s still mad at you, she then makes you lay down on the floor with your legs spread wide apart and stabs you in the balls. If you feel like the pain is going all the way in the back of your throat and you feel a burning sensation so awful that you want to scream out “Make it stop! Make it stop!”, please remember:

This is what we ladies call a pap smear.


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Analyze This

I stopped napping when I was 18 months old. My mom likes to tell me this all the time. It’s a little too late for a formal apology, but perhaps I can explain why: I can’t stop thinking. More specifically, I have an inability to relax, because I am constantly over-thinking the world around me.

I am a “that glass is neither empty or full because neither make any logical sense” kind of gal. I don’t soak up my surroundings as much as I try to figure them out. I just have way too many questions.

This week alone I wondered, if I went on “Jeopardy”, what would be my funny story for Alex Trebeck? I don’t have any idea what I would talk about since all of my witty stories seem inappropriate for t.v.

Why do restaurants think it’s fancy to serve hot coffee in glass cups? Coffee belongs in mugs, end of story.

DID she break the Internet? I don’t think she did. No one cares. Everyone is naked these days. America seems to prefer school shooters when it comes to whom they want see more of in a news cycle.

After living in a hotel for 8 days, I returned home this weekend. As I told the painters, I would rather inhale poisonous fumes than spend one more night in a hotel with 3 kids. I told the kids that it was safe to go home, even with all the dust. Then we took the kids out of the house for a break to see a movie called “Interstellar”, which turned out to be a movie about how dust will eventually kill everyone on earth.

But what it was also about was how the human race’s greed and gluttony is what will lead to our demise. While this was supposed to be an enjoyable day at the movies, I had trouble relaxing. Not because I was at a dine-in movie and ordered salad (FYI: one cannot eat salad in the dark.)

No, it was because I couldn’t stop thinking: about how much money it cost to make this elaborate movie with it’s amazing special effects and to pay the actors salaries (every single role was played by a huge star: even if the part was minor.) How many millions did they spend? (Answer: 165 million dollars) Couldn’t this money be used to cure disease, or feed the poor, or help victims of disaster? If the message is that we need to take care of the Earth by taking care of the environment, shouldn’t we start by not making movies that cost so much and probably create tons of pollution when filming? Do we really need these three hours of entertainment to cost so much money? Couldn’t a simpler movie have been made with the same message?

I know, I’m overthinking. Don’t get me started on what I put my poor 6 year old through when we saw “Big Hero 6″ earlier this week (sooo many plot points didn’t make sense to me. The message just didn’t jive with the storyline.) I am really killing their childhoods with all of this.

But at the same time, I am slowly observing all three kids starting to question the world around them. They are starting to challenge those in charge whose beliefs don’t make sense to them. Each of then are choosing to go against the grain when deciding who and what they want to be. It makes me proud.

So, even though I don’t enjoy the things around me the way lots of people do, I think it’s ok for me.
I’m happy to question it all if it will bring change to the world.

Maybe one day I will break the Internet. And I won’t have to balance a glass on my ass to do it.

I can just do it by asking why someone felt the need to do that in the first place.

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We recently moved into a new home that, we were told, was recently updated. Now that we live there, we realize that “recent” meant the 1980s. Ah, the recent 1980s, when splatter paint wallpaper trim in the kitchen and glass block walls in the entryway were all the rage.

I love to remember the 80s: when closets were covered in full length mirrors, and every bathroom had gold plated faucets. However, just as I do not want to wear my leg-warmers and flash-dance sweatshirts anymore, it’s time to move on.

So, we are “remodeling.” Never heard of it? This is a game where you look at your own house and imagine it looking like someone else’s house. It’s just like Jane Austin’s “Emma,” (or Clueless for you youngsters. ) Take an unpopular girl and, to make yourself feel better, try to make her prettier so she’ll be really cool.

You take your house to get a makeover and a personality change, and hope it will make everything all better. However, when you remodel, even if you ultimately realize that what’s on the inside really matters, you can’t go back in your house because the toxic paint fumes may kill you. And even if you realize your house didn’t need to change it’s looks to be cool, you are still stuck living in a Days Inn for weeks because you have no floors.

So, while we are living out a really bad episode of extreme makeover: home edition, no one has whisked us away to Disneyland while we await the results. Instead, we are in a musty old hotel room with NASCAR fans making out in the hot tub near our room.

My home is in shambles, and I haven’t been able to locate either my strapless bra or Lauren’s science project.

My house is covered in plastic sheets, and I’m having nightmares that they are not actually remodeling in there. I’m scared that they are actually doing experiments on E.T. and Elliott. I have panic attacks that the men in the white face masks are not painters, but are actually scientists trying to kill an innocent little alien who just wants to phone home.

I dropped off my dogs with the vet and told them I would be back as soon as I could. I felt how Annie’s parents must have felt leaving her at the orphanage . Perhaps my dogs are there right now singing “Maybe” out the kennel window. I should have given them a locket so they know I’m coming back for them one day real soon.

Many a singer has crooned that home can be anywhere, as long as you are with the people you love. Those singers, however, have never undergone a remodel.

I’m with my children, and, as anyone who has lived with children in a hotel during school, its fantastic. They suddenly realize they need items from home all day long. Homework, certain pieces of clothing, and, in our case, scripts and cheerleading uniforms, are all “back at the house.” In all these cases, they need it NOW.

I, too, want my things. I want my hair straightener, my coffee maker and my washing machine. I also need Valium.
I want to find the mail and some clean underwear. Both are equally important.

So let’s be clear. When you are displaced from your house, it doesn’t matter that you are still surrounded by laughter and warm hugs. You cannot charge your phone with the love of your family.

Home is not where the heart is.

Home is where your shit is.




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Fantasy Island

Every single Saturday night was the same for me growing up in the ’70s and ’80. Around 6:00 p.m., I would change into my favorite cotton nightgown. I would get into my parent’s bed, with their gold satin sheets and watch them get ready to go out for a night of disco dancing with their friends. As they gussied themselves up in their disco-finery, I would begin the evening by watching “Soul Train.” For those of you from the West Coast, “Soul Train” is a show I’m sure would not be aired today because it was basically about black people boogying down some sort of an aisle to black music (also called, “The Black American Bandstand.”) Now that I think about it, it may only have aired in Detroit.

Next would come Dance Fever with Denny Tertio, a similar dance contest show but this time with white folks trying to dance like black people. My parents would usually leave to go out mid-Fever, and either a babysitter would arrive, or, as I got older, it would just be my sister and I to carry on the night alone. I would grab some sort of healthy snack, like carob raisins or Shacklee bars, and go back into my parents silky bedsheets. I would then watch an episode of the always wacky show, “The Love Boat.” Then, if I felt like freaking myself out, I would stay up really late (9 to 10 p.m.) and watch “Fantasy Island.” I would eventually fall asleep in my parents’ bed, and one of them would carry me to my own bed once they got home. Sometimes, I would wake up and find my parents and their friends still hanging out at my house until the wee hours of the night.

Flash forward to this decade. My own kids have no similar Saturday night ritual, and probably never will have one. In this decade, parents just don’t get the weekly Saturday night out. They are too busy driving their kids to activities that start in the early morning and last literally into the dark of the night. Baseball, soccer, basketball tournaments last all weekend long, when they are held locally. Otherwise, one parent is in some other state with a child on their monthly “out of state” competitions, while the other parent is at home, driving their other children around town.

Weekend meets for gymnastics, dance, cheerleading all include driving to cities at least 45 minutes away that begin at either 6 a.m. or at 6 p.m. Either way, parents are either too exhausted or not physically able to go out to dinner or to a movie, let alone dancing with buddies or hanging out partying until the wee hours of the night. When there are no tournaments, recitals, performances, rehearsals or games, parents are taking their children to 4-5 birthday parties per weekend. (Or bar/bat mitzvahs for the pre-teen crowd.)

We have simply lost the weekend. It has been handed over to our children and we are never going to get it back. Not in today’s society.

The television shows of today will never match our Saturday night line-ups. First of all, Saturday night is not primetime for new episodes of hot shows to air. In fact, shows aimed at kids are aired during the day, and re-runs play all day long, every single day of the week. Shows on Saturday nights are from being stories about a family taking a hilarious cruise full of mishaps. They are usually shows with initials that mean scary killings are being investigated (SVU, CSI, etc.) or reality shows about families exploiting their children for fame or people who call 911 for wacky reasons. The plot lines on “Love Boat” would just not exist on mainstream television today. (I mean, no one hooked up with Julie “Your Cruise Director?” No one challenged the fact that Vicki Stubing, a 12 year old girl, worked full time on that boat? Where was her schooling? Why didn’t Isaac get fired? He seemed to be a sloppy drunk most of the time he was serving those drinks. And what was it about Dr. Adam Bricker that made all the ladies swoon? Was it the large rimmed classes and short white, crisp linen shorts?)

Then there’s “Fantasy Island”: did you ever try to explain that show to one of your kids? Go ahead, try. I will help you: “So, there was a mysterious Spanish man who lived on an island and always wore a white suit. There were tons of hot ladies that lived there too, as well as a “little person” named Tattoo. Each week, some family ended up on the Island and something really scary and disturbing happened to them. Tattoo would get so excited to see the guests arrive on their seaplane, he would shimmy up a flagpole and bang a large bell and scream out, “Da Plane! Da Plane!” I have no idea what travel agent would arrange such a trip, but Mr. Roarke’s Island was always booked solid with bad people needing to be taught a lesson.

And so, I bemoan the lack of my Saturday night disco boogie evenings of my youth. My children should have been able to have the same experience. I loved it. I loved looking forward to my t.v. viewing routine all week, and to knowing that my parents had one night that they knew they were going to have fun. It is actually nice to see your parents get dressed up and go out. Especially when that means you get the house to yourself.

Saturday nights: gone to the world of competitive sports and parties. Now, I always look forward to Sunday night, which used to be the most bummer night of them all as a kid. But I love Sunday nights, because I know the insanity of the weekend is going to end. (TGIF? Um, I don’t think so. It’s TGIM. Give me Monday over Saturday anytime. Less driving)

And so, here’s to the days of the innocent racist dance contest shows and sexually uncomfortable story lines on Love Boat, followed by the mystery of the possible evil brothel being run in the middle of the Ocean by Richardo Montelban and Tattoo.

Goodbye to carob. You were really just chocolate made of even worse chemicals. Goodbye to Shaklee and the Shaklee lady in my neighborhood. I hope you and the Herbalife lady are doing well.

And finally, a special goodbye to satin sheets. “T-shirt” sheets just aren’t the same.




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I have always made exactly three meals for dinner. Ever since I was in college, I could make a) turkey spaghetti, b) turkey tacos and c) sloppy joes (with turkey meat.) That’s it. Occasionally I can throw in a chili or a soup, but you get your basic meals with me and there’s not much more to add. Now, “they” say that if you have sit-down family dinners at least twice a week, your children will do better emotionally, physically, and educationally. Also, this meal has to include a representative from all the major food groups. And everyone has to sit down at the table, even if they are not eating. This past Monday, realizing I was about, oh, four weeks behind on the requirement that “they” told me I should do, I served up my infamous turkey tacos, cut fresh strawberries, blueberries, grapes and cucumbers and had little bowls of chips and salsa and taco toppings all ready to go. I was so proud.

It was only when I called out “Dinner!” did I realize that Craig was not home as he had a work meeting. So, I soldiered on. “They” told me I have to do this so that Lauren doesn’t have an eating disorder and so that Sam will be more emotionally stable in the future. I called to 11 year Lauren, who screamed that it was too early to eat (6:00 p.m.) and so she sat at the table and rolled her eyes and made grunting noises. 6 year old Aidan had eaten dinner on his own time, at 4:30 p.m., and was also not hungry. He refused to turn off “Spongebob Squarepants,” so we dragged him to the table where he sat there and cried very loud. I realized that I shouldn’t be eating carbs, so I opted out and had a weight loss bar instead. This made me jealous of my kids, who could sit there and eat anything they wanted without gaining weight. So then I start to resent my children. That left 13 year old Sam, who, as all boys his age, are just glad to eat anything, any time of the day, all day long. As I listed to the grunting and the crying and the loud, annoying chewing at my “emotionally supportive, educationally bonding required family meal” that “they” told me that I must serve my children, I realized something. I realized that “they” don’t know what the fuck they are talking about.

Whoever “they” are, they make all of the rules these days. They say we should watch Gotham because it’s the best show on t.v. (they also say that about “How To Get Away With Murder). They say that we should all be mad at Renee Zellweger for changing her looks. They tell us what to wear, what to eat, what is hot and what is not.

“They” are also spending a lot of time talking lately about how they can’t believe that a “homecoming prince” shot four of his friends because he was so “popular.” They want us to think that since he had the proper school titles that “they” think should make teenagers happy, then he had absolutely no other issues in the world. This is all “they” are talking about when they report this story. They haven’t really mentioned the fact that he was incredibly troubled by issues in his life, and had been previously suspended from school for a fight. They haven’t even wondered aloud as to why his parents would allow him access to a weapon when he was publicly dealing with some very upsetting emotional issues, including feeling left out and breaking up with a girlfriend.

“They” are just so proud of his social status, they don’t discuss the gun involved. Either that, or they just don’t want us to focus on that part of the story.

Who are they? Let’s be honest. We have no fucking clue who they are. Most likely they are people being paid by someone to tell you what to think and what to wear and how to view the world. “They” have their reasons and their motivations, and they also have their view of the world and what is realistic and important to them. These same things may not be as important to us. But they get their articles published online or they write their opinions in magazines or in the newspaper, and suddenly, they have created world-wide stress and anxiety and shaped all of our social views on everything. They focus on the issues that they want us to focus on. Like Zombies, we listen to what they say because they know what’s best. They know what’s the most important part of the story is, and what questions to ask. They tell us what books to read and what movies to watch; where to go on vacation, and what restaurants to avoid.

What should you do? Be your own “they.” I’m going to start trying. In my house, I have to admit that we don’t really enjoy the new “hot” t.v. shows (they are boring and confusing and ridiculously over the top and they put Viola Davis in unflattering clothing for no reason.) We try to have healthy dinners together, but only when it works out for everyone. Most of the time, we just do what we do to get through the day, even if that includes eating in shifts or eating on the way home from an activity that ends at 7:00 p.m., or ordering in from Pei Wei for the fifth time that month. The important thing is that we make time to connect with each other each day, in any way we can, even if it’s just sitting in bed and talking. I try not to judge celebrities for trying to look better, because I know that no matter what celebrities, or even politicians do, someone out there will criticize them. I know I’m not putting myself out there in a way where I could be subject to scrutiny, so I’m not going to try to constantly criticize those who do.

And finally, I believe that leaving children with unlimited access to guns is a daily problem in our country. Sometimes I take a running poll of how many kids used guns to kill other kids that week vs the amount of people who used their guns to successfully defend their homes against dangerous criminals. If you do the same, you will find that you will have tons of check marks on one side, and none on the other side.

I’m going to try each day to live my life by my own rules and beliefs and not to listen to “them” all of the time. I’m going to explore things and form my own conclusions. I’ll decide what’s best.

Because like many people that I have met over the years, I have realized that “they” are opinionated and annoy the shit out of me, and I don’t really have time for them anymore.


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Dear Arizona,

You know that embarrassing relative whom you HAVE to invite to family events? The guy that no one wants to claim as being from their side of the family?   The one who thinks that it is o.k. to use racial slurs in conversation?  That old man who pinches the waitress’ behind and then winks at you?  Yeah, Arizona, up until today, that was you.

We, your family, are very proud of you for what you did today.  It was a long time coming, and you certainly could have done it much, much sooner. I guess what matters is that you finally did it.

Now, Arizona: you still have a long, long way to go.  You need to stop arresting people for being Hispanic, get the retirees in your state to vote for budget overrides to improve our education, and you need to stop your senators from making homophobic and anti-semitic bills.

If you do that, we might stop denying that we are related to you.  We may even stop saying “I live in Arizona, but I’m really FROM (insert state)” so that no one thinks we actually like you.

We might even start to brag about your recent accomplishments. Like proud parents, we might start wearing aprons that you made, or t-shirts with your picture on them. We may even may put bumper stickers on our car that say “My state is less homophobic than your state.”

But just like that second-cousin twice removed, you finally got your GED. Now you need to go out there and go to college or find a real-life paying job. Stop living in your parent’s basement. It’s time for you to grow up.

Good job.


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The Day My Computer Died

(Sung to the tune of the classic song “American Pie” If you are not familiar with it, you are not old enough to read this blog)

A long long time ago
I can still remember when
Those Facebook posts made me smile
And I knew if I had my chance
That Youtube video would make me dance
And maybe I’d be happy for a while

But February made me shiver
With every tweet that I’d deliver
Bad news on my game app
I was starting to feel the age gap

I can’t remember if I cried
When I learned that my computer was fried
Something touched me deep inside
The day my computer died

Bye, Bye to my Social Media Tie
Called Apple for help from the computer guy
They told me to come in and I started to cry
Sobbing this’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die

Did you write that tweet of love
And did you Instagram a dove
Was it a picture from your recent trip?
Did you receive my LOL?
Can you text me if you decide to bowl?
And can you teach me how to snapchat real slow?

Well I know that you sent a Vine
But the problems here are all mine
We both binge-watch The View
And I dig Whoopi’s fashionably shoes

I was a lonely mom and stuck
With kids whining and it all did suck
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the computer died
I started singin’

Bye, Bye to my Social Media Tie
Called Apple for help from the computer guy
They told me to come in and I started to cry
Sobbing this’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die

Now for three years I’ve blogged on my own
Sharing deep thoughts as I get stoned
But that’s not how it used to be

I’d walk outside to get seen
Or write a note when I was fifteen
In a letter that went from you to me

And one day we all looked down
The computer stole the pencil’s crown
Play time was adjourned
To our homes we all returned

And while all the dogs did bark
No kids played there in the park
They sat there and Facebooked in the dark
The day our social skills died
And we were singin’

Bye, Bye to my Social Media Tie
Called Apple for help from the computer guy
They told me to come in and I started to cry
Sobbing this’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die

I went down to the sacred store
Where I’d bought that laptop years before
But the man there said I’d have to wait for awhile

And there we were all in one place
Several generations trying to find a parking space
With no time left to come back again

So come on Genius Bar guy be nimble
Genuis Bar guy be quick
Genuis Bar guy don’t be a dick
Because the internet is your only friend

Oh, and as I watched the guy whose half my age
Go so fucking slow I fell into fits of rage
No angel born in Hell
Could break that teenager’s technology spell

And as the hours ticked high into the night
I realized I hadn’t eaten a bite
I saw Steve Jobs laughing with delight
The day my computer died.
He was singin’

Bye, Bye to my Social Media Tie
Called Apple for help from the computer guy
They told me to come in and I started to cry
Sobbing this’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die

I met a neighbor who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news
But she just smiled and turned away

And in the car my children screamed
They cried and cried, for hours it seemed
Not a word was spoken
The family computer was broken

And the three men I admire most
The cable guy, the electrician and the guy that brings us the post
They bolted out of town and I knew we were toast
The day the computer died
And they were singing;

Bye, Bye to my Social Media Tie
Called Apple for help from the computer guy
They told me to come in and I started to cry
Kids are sobbing this’ll be the day I’ll just die
This’ll be the day that I’ll just die


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