August 23, 2012
The Guidance Counselor
Grading Grills and Getting Grounded (Warning: Non-Baseball Content)
Many of you have come to respect Jason Parks' opinions about prospects. Some of you have also come to enjoy his opinions about refrigerators, alcoholic beverages, and Martin Kove. The answers below are not about baseball. Because this is a website about baseball, we'll be keeping Jason's non-baseball answers in a separate blog section called "The Guidance Counselor" to make them easy to find if you enjoy them and easy to avoid if you don't. We've also made this feature free. None of the quality BP baseball content you've become accustomed to was harmed in the making of this article.
But tell your friend Stephen that I love his fastball.
The Guidance Counselor: First and foremost, a grill needs to be honest. When you ask it to cook your meat without prejudice, you want to receive an honest answer: “Yes; I can cook this meat to your specification. I won’t let you down." When you ask it to protect your meat and keep it safe while it cooks, you want a grill to respond with, “I’ve got your back. I won’t explode and burn your face and ruin your meat.” Grills come in all shapes and sizes, but the makeup of the grill is paramount to the overall grade. In a world where choices are the waves crashing over our consumerist heads, integrity of product emerges as the shield to calm the onslaught. If you want a good grill, ask the metallic beauty if its heart is true and of honest intent. If it answers yes, construct a pyramid of charcoal in its open mouth, grab a match, and take the first step towards love.
The Guidance Counselor: If you take a bunch of prescription drugs and get into a large pillowcase, you can call yourself a piñata and nobody will know the difference. Just provide the kids with candy and the adults with booze and a platform to gossip, speculate, and complain. Everybody wins.
The Guidance Counselor: Were you grounded because of the somewhat rude conversation intrusion or were you grounded to make your sister feel better about her life choices? Either way, being grounded in the modern era doesn’t seem like punishment. When I was kid and I acted a fool, my father made me dig holes in the backyard for hours at a clip, taking dirt out of the ground and then replacing it after the dirt pile was deemed sufficiently robust. Always the method parent, my father wore country overalls and would drink whisky from the bottle while inspecting the efforts of my manual labor. Assuming the holes met with his approval, I was allowed inside, and we would watch R-rated movies and smoke cigars together. I was 8. If I turned out okay, you should be fine.
The Guidance Counselor: True Story: I once met this daytime dance employee named Happiness, and she invited me to sit in a swimming pool with her. I worked for a moving company when I lived in Texas, and Happiness was a customer moving from an apartment complex to another apartment complex in my hometown. Her hair was strawberry blonde, and her face featured an aesthetically incongruent makeup display that made her look slightly unbalanced and sleepy. She introduced herself as Happiness, and I introduced myself as Jason. After a few laughs and a few awkward stares, we were in the communal swimming pool of her complex, and she told me the story of her life. She collected miniature antiques, and I called them faux-antiques because they were clearly modern pieces of crap sold to people who aren’t capable of determining the provenance of collectables. She told me to take good care of them, and I told her that I liked her smile and asked her out and she said no. Happiness was the ultimate moving company customer on a hot summer’s day in the state of Texas, and we shared a body of water, the chlorine and pedestrian urine stinging our skin as we splashed in our own ignorance. My co-workers weren’t happy with me because they were busy navigating the two-story climb and filling the truck with her belongings as I sat in the outdoor bathhouse, hoping to play a game of Roman soldier with Happiness, the half-ginger daytime dance employee. It was a fantastic time. Don’t judge every child by its daytime dance employee name, and don’t judge every daytime dance employee for being a daytime dance employee.
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