I didn’t know this, but did you know that in New Zealand, students can now write their school work in the Cell Fone Text Language? ‘R u kidng?’ you may ask? Judging by the amount of time it took our Front Desk Lady to check us out of our hotel, I’d say they’ve been doing it 4 years. Also, she may have been retarded.
But I wish not to distract you from the real meat of this post. Sheep. With a 4:1 ratio of sheep to bipedal homosapiens, how could one not find companionship here? I don’t care what ethnicity you are, them are good odds.
We now welcome you to Wellington, New Zealand. Our fifth and final stop on this Steve Irwin look-alike tour. I say that not because many of my students have chompers resembling that of a high-speed train accident, but because I just can’t understand a freakin’ word they say. Did you know that Wellington is the third windiest city on the planet? I didn’t either. I encourage you to look it up and tell me the truth.
Back to the sheep. Ooh, also, last Saturday marked the day in which a new anti-child smacking law goes into effect. We are now bitch-slapping our way through the first full week where it is now illegal to smack your offspring. And by “smacking,” I mean, “beat the ever-living piss out of.” I didn’t know this either, but in the Northern Hemisphere, parents can legally spank, slap, smack or otherwise knock you upside your fu*king head (ok, actually, I did know that), but in New Zealand (Southern Hemi), the term “smack,” literally translates to, “make you feel the black and blue wrath of near-death as my God-hands publicly jack you the fu*k up.”
No joke, kids. Latitudinal differences in child-rearing. It’s real. Fo’ sho’. Be glad it wasn’t you living through the Anarchy last Saturday morning. Pajamas and Sugar Pops everywhere, ya’ll.
But back to the sheep. Oh! I forgot to tell you about this Indian restaurant we ate at. I don’t know what cowboys beat these guys into submission but to say their manners were fit for a dinner with Jesus would be low-ballin’ it. I’m stereotyping my reader now, but I think you’ve eaten out before. Did the waiter ever approach the table with a platter full of curry-laden, sweet, sweet Indian goodness and say, “Gentlemen (pause for dramatic effect) it is time,” hold in his suit jacket, and lay down a silver tray full of whatever it is people from India eat as appetizers? A product of a disciplined up-bringing. No doubt.
But I wish not to distract you from the real meat of this post. Sheep. With a 4:1 ratio of sheep to bipedal homosapiens, how could one not find companionship here? I don’t care what ethnicity you are, them are good odds.
We now welcome you to Wellington, New Zealand. Our fifth and final stop on this Steve Irwin look-alike tour. I say that not because many of my students have chompers resembling that of a high-speed train accident, but because I just can’t understand a freakin’ word they say. Did you know that Wellington is the third windiest city on the planet? I didn’t either. I encourage you to look it up and tell me the truth.
Back to the sheep. Ooh, also, last Saturday marked the day in which a new anti-child smacking law goes into effect. We are now bitch-slapping our way through the first full week where it is now illegal to smack your offspring. And by “smacking,” I mean, “beat the ever-living piss out of.” I didn’t know this either, but in the Northern Hemisphere, parents can legally spank, slap, smack or otherwise knock you upside your fu*king head (ok, actually, I did know that), but in New Zealand (Southern Hemi), the term “smack,” literally translates to, “make you feel the black and blue wrath of near-death as my God-hands publicly jack you the fu*k up.”
No joke, kids. Latitudinal differences in child-rearing. It’s real. Fo’ sho’. Be glad it wasn’t you living through the Anarchy last Saturday morning. Pajamas and Sugar Pops everywhere, ya’ll.
But back to the sheep. Oh! I forgot to tell you about this Indian restaurant we ate at. I don’t know what cowboys beat these guys into submission but to say their manners were fit for a dinner with Jesus would be low-ballin’ it. I’m stereotyping my reader now, but I think you’ve eaten out before. Did the waiter ever approach the table with a platter full of curry-laden, sweet, sweet Indian goodness and say, “Gentlemen (pause for dramatic effect) it is time,” hold in his suit jacket, and lay down a silver tray full of whatever it is people from India eat as appetizers? A product of a disciplined up-bringing. No doubt.
