A few years after I was born, my Dad met a stranger who was new to
our small town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer and soon invited him to live with our family.
The stranger was quickly accepted and was around from then on.
As I grew up, I never questioned his place in my family. In my
young mind, he had a special niche. My parents were complementary
instructors: Mom taught me good from evil, and Dad taught me to
obey. But the stranger...he was our storyteller. He would keep us
spellbound for hours on end with adventures, mysteries and comedies.
If I wanted to know anything about politics, history or science, he
always knew the answers about the past, understood the present and
even seemed able to predict the future! He took my family to the
first major league ball game. He made me laugh, and he made me cry.
The stranger never stopped talking, but Dad didn't seem to mind.
Sometimes, Mom would get up quietly while the rest of us were
hushing each other to listen to what he had to say, and she would
go to the kitchen for peace and quiet. (I wonder now if she ever
prayed for the stranger to leave.)
Dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions, but the
stranger never felt obligated to honor them. Profanity, for
example, was not allowed in our home... not from us, our friends or
any visitors. Our longtime visitor, however, got away with
four-letter words that burned my ears and made my dad squirm and
my mother blush.
My Dad didn't permit the liberal use of alcohol. But the stranger
encouraged us to try it on a regular basis. He made cigarettes look
cool, cigars manly and pipes distinguished. He talked freely (much
too freely!) about sex. His comments were some times blatant,
sometimes suggestive, and generally embarrassing.
I now know that my early concepts about relationships were
influenced strongly by the stranger. Time after time, he opposed
the values of my parents, yet he was seldom rebuked... and NEVER
asked to leave.
More than fifty years have passed since the stranger moved in with
our family. He has blended right in and is not nearly as
fascinating as he was at first. Still, if you could walk into my
parents' den today, you would still find him sitting over in his
corner, waiting for someone to listen to him talk and watch him
draw his pictures. His name?....
We just call him, "TV."
Originally posted by Ice ColdI need a new TV... mine won't swear... or give me liquor.
A few years after I was born, my Dad met a stranger who was new to
our small town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer and soon invited him to live with our family.
The stranger was quickly accepted and was around from then on.
As I grew up, I never questioned his place in my family. In my
young mind, he had a special him
draw his pictures. His name?....
We just call him, "TV."
ðŸ˜
P-
A few years after I was born, a stranger moved in with us. He had nobody else to go to after a distant relative of us who had taken care of him, had died. Nobody wanted him. I think it was because he was black*. So in the end my parents took him in, but they never really liked him. They made it very clear right from the start that he wasn't welcome in the living-room. He got a small place to sit on in their bedroom at the window. It was cold and dreary there. We sometimes visited him there, and he told us some stories. He also taught us that red looks black. But his stories (which usually weren't all that interesting) couldn't keep us from other pleasures for very long. Looking back, I think the poor guy must have been terribly lonely. Anyway, I don't remember how long he stayed with us, maybe a few weeks, maybe a year; but one day he was dead. It turned out that he didn't tolerate rain very well. Nobody mourned him. He didn't even get a funeral. Humans can be so cruel to TVs.
:'(:'(:'(
* (and white)
Originally posted by Ice ColdOkay, it's quite obvious that it's a copy-and-paste, but still I think you should have mentioned that fact.
A few years after I was born, my Dad met a stranger who was new to
our small town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer and soon invited him to live with our family.
The stranger was quickly accepted and was around from then on.
As I grew up, I never questioned his place in my family. In my
young mind, he had a special him
draw his pictures. His name?....
We just call him, "TV."
http://warfarejournals.wordpress.com/tag/wisdom-of-others/
Originally posted by NordlysI thought maybe he was colored. 😞
A few years after I was born, a stranger moved in with us. He had nobody else to go to after a distant relative of us who had taken care of him, had died. Nobody wanted him. I think it was because he was black*. So in the end my parents took him in, but they never really liked him. They made it very clear right from the start that he wasn't welcome in the li ...[text shortened]... idn't even get a funeral. Humans can be so cruel to TVs.
:'(:'(:'(
* (and white)
Originally posted by Ice ColdI have seen many copy-and-pastes without people stating what it was, too. Sometimes it's so obvious that the person didn't write it xymself that I don't feel it's necessary to point it out. But if it comes over as if the person had written it xymself, and people wreck the person for it, I like to point it out, unless someone else has already done so. By the way, I have seen a lot of copy-and-pastes here in the forums where the source was given, too.
I have read alot of copy and paste in the forums. I have yet to see anyone state that it is.