When asked who should be cast as a monkey at his birthday party, my buddy Ethan immediately identified me (thanks, pal!). The party was a lot of fun, but the ancillary insight is a little harrowing. In researching the role, I found myself wondering if I really am a Bobo.
I’m pretty sure that’s not me, but I’m buying the book to make sure. If I’m buying it used, does that mean I’m a Bobo? If I’m typing this on a sweet black MacBook, does that mean I am? If I find myself doing internet research to prepare for a nonspeaking role as a mischievous spider monkey, does that mean I am? If my daughter wears thrifted, borrowed hand-me-downs, but rides in a top-end carseat strapped into a Japanese car, does that mean I am? If her favorite toy is her very own (RED) Motorazr (made in China), does that mean she is? Oh, man.
Freeze, Bobos!
I hate demographics– they are so dehumanizing.
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I just hate Japanese cars!
uncle Chuck
Do you repeat yourself four or five times, every time you say anything? In English, and Espanol? Do you drive every parent within earshot bat-crazy?
If so, you might begin to qualify.