On Pluto

I'm a little upset that Pluto still isn't being referred to as a planet. Officially, along with Eris, Haumea and Makemake (Kuiper Belt Objects), Ceres (the biggest Asteroid), and technically Charon (as Pluto-Charon is really more of a binary planetary system with 2 extra moons), Pluto is listed as a dwarf planet.

Now don't get me wrong, I totally support a better system of classification. But part of me just wants things to make sense. What is the second word in the term dwarf planet. It's fucking "planet." I'm sorry, but if you want to strip Pluto of it's planetary status, you at least have to admit that it still falls under the broad category of "planet."

I know, the whole mnemonic is thrown off, and if only to prevent the other interlopers from getting in, I'll agree that technically Pluto isn't a planet. Yes, it's sperical, yes it orbits the sun, but no, it hasn't cleared it's neighborhood of space debris. That's cool, whatever.

Just call me when the IAU decides decides to stop dicking around and integrate the planetary negro league.

Of Doritos

Pint of fact: Doritos are an oil-saked, corn-based product that is highly flammable. The oil allows for a slow-burning wick effect by which the entire chip is consumed.

Interesting side note: If you were to, say, accidentally drop a chip or two into a citronella candle at your friend's 4th of July party and leave it there for a year or so, when the candle burns down to the chip there will be a large combustion flame.

So yeah, you live, you learn.

On Art

A few years ago I purchased prints of two of my favorite paintings, Girl with Hair Ribbon and Drowning Girl by Roy Lichtenstein.

Now it's always cool to have pop art on your walls, but it's only when I hang these two prints in the same room that I notice they give off a kind of childish, serial killer vibe. Sad Americana looking back over her shoulder, tumultuous waves crashing over a resilient but flailing young woman. Despite my efforts at making a swinging bachelor's pad, I've at best designed a semi-chauvinistic lair worthy of Chris Walken's "Continental."

"Wow. Wowie-wow wow WOW!"

On That Mr. Man Picture

We get it. Your friends have predominant personality traits roughly similar to one-dimensional squiggle characters named after a single personality trait.

Read a fucking novel.

A Joke

Knock knock.

"Who's there?"

Cripplingly lonely schizophrenia.

"Cripplingly lonely schizophrenia."

…

Of Good Fortune

I bought McDonlds today. My meal came to $5.50 and I handed the woman six. I received $4.50 in change.

Now I wondered if perhaps I had given her a ten by mistake but, no, I had no ten, I had a twenty and a five and singles, and in any event the change she gave me would only suite one ten-dollar bill, so again, no, this was fortune smiling at me.

I really thought about giving her the $4 back. It legitimately worried me briefly, but repeatedly. Was I a good person? Would God be angry? Is it selfish to assume that this is a reward for prior niceties on my part or a test of my will in the now?

In the end I kept the $4. I figured the woman was in her early thirties and pregnant, so even if the error is noticed and the culpable cashier identified, they won't fire her. Hell, she can chalk it up to hormones if she wanted to. For all I know she felt bad about short-changing the guy ahead of me and decided to balance the register and her karma in one go, I don't know.

Now I need to decide if this is better than finding a sixth nugget in your Wendy's 5-piece pouch.

On Marketing

You know, you buy one gay porno for a lesbian's birthday present and you're on their mailing list for life. Jesus.

Awesome Thing #115

Seeing pictures of your ex posted online and seeing that they're less attractive when they were with you. I mean, seriously, that's pretty awesome and it's a double whammy if she's significantly worse looking now and I'm in the fucking best shape of my life YOU HEAR THAT YOU PALE MALNOURISHED WHORE??

On Light Bulbs

How many Mexicans does it take to screw in a light bulb?
1, but he brings his whole family.

How many white people does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Three; one to take a Mexican's money, one to get him over the border, and one to pay him sub-standard wages to screw in the light bulb.

How many French guys does it take to screw in a light bulb?
We give up.

How many Communists does it take to screw in a light bulb?
All of them.

How many capitalists does it take to screw in a light bulb?
“If you look to the graphs we’ve provided to the left we’ll see that while we normally would seek to find the maximum profit for minimum expenditure while still retaining most of our workforce overseas, it is actually easier in this case to hire a single Mexican off the books.”

How many Zen monks does it take to screw in a light bulb?
"What is the sound of one lightbulb screwing?"

How many Buddhists does it take to screw in a light bulb?
I dunno, but they do it over and over and over again until they don't care about the lightbulb.

How many Hindus does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Doesn't matter. Last life the light bulb was a candle and now that it's dead it'll become a tanning bed.

How many Christians does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Jesus.

How many Jews does it take to screw in a light bulb?
No, don't bother for us, we'll just sit here alone in the dark going blind and would it kill you to date a Jewish girl every once in a while?

How many couples counselors does it take to change a light bulb?
"Are you sure its the lightbulb that needs to change and not you?" - (Aaron F'N Gold)

How many Twilight fans does it take to screw in a light bulb?
None, they'd rather brood in the dark anyway.

Of Hypothetical Ovaries

Way back in the day, probably a Thursday, we 'd ask each other hypothetical questions to fill the time we could have been using to actually experience things. One hypothetical I never liked was "What would you do if you just woke up one morning [as the opposite sex]?"

Now it's an alright question, and the default answer is usually something akin to "Not what you're thinking, you fucking perv!" But this is just factually inaccurate. If you were to suddenly find yourself with the wrong chromosomal and genetic expressions you would, in order:

1. Freak the fuck out
2. Only stop when you have to go to the bathroom/Examine the goods while in the bathroom
3. Masturbate profusely
4. Go about your day, eventually try to have sex in some bizarre manner featuring either whores or some moderately homosocial chum like Ana Faris in "The Hot Chick" starring Rob Schneider.

The question now becomes, after you've done all this, after you're tired and fucked out and are trying to come to grips with how your life has become, what do you do fifth?

The greatest answer I have ever received is simply this: "Buy new pants."

Of The Things Of Dreams

So I kinda baked myself to death tonight.

After a long day I was compelled to make this, this thing.

The other morning I had a waking dream of a royal bakery, and the single desert they were charged to make as an assembly line at a moment's notice.

It involved molds, and chunks of chocolate cake, chocolate mouse, shavings of dark chocolate, and optional white cake cookies.

Tonight I made this confection. My housemates decided it was one of the greatest things ever. I thought the textures were a little off and it needed something to cut the chocolate. Maybe fudge….

10th Footnote From My First Paper For Vaughan's Film Class:

"Dude, if Tina Fey married Michael Bay, they'd be celebridubbed “Fey-Bay.” 30 Rock would suddenly have a massive special effects budget and his movies would start being, well, good."

Fact of Life #617

All things sound better when said in the voice of Sean Connery.

Thoughts That Seem Like They'll Change Your Life Forever But In Retrospect Won't Really Because They're Not That Great-Slash-Feasible

#344:

"I don't understand how my eyes can feel so tired and i want to sleep but I feel energetic and my brain thinks too fast. I want to bake." (twitterd 4:31 A.M.)

"I MUST ENTER A TRANCE AND GO SLEEP-BAKING. It is like sleep-walking but when you wake up you have cookies!" (twittered 4:32 A.M.)

Of Mistakes That Were Made

I've been posting a lot of nonsense entries lately due to erratic sleep cycles. I have decided to take today off such that the number of posts will close in on the number of days I've posted, in more of a 1:1 ratio.


Oh. Oops.

On Timing

I just got a spam email from AARP.

I am 22.

Note to Self:

The reason SNL sucks now is that the writers can't end a sketch. They start with something that can go either way, but then there comes a point where the joke needs to go over the top and they just never hit it.

Except Andy Samburg. He manages fairly well.

Of Polygymy on MTV

So I tried partying to tire myself out and maybe shifting my horrible sleep schedule back a few hours. It failed horribly. It is now 4:25pm, I have been awake for 25 minutes, answered 3 texts while asleep, and am now watching "Tru Life: I'm In A Love Triangle."

It's pretty awful. Apparently this dude Jeff got this girl preggers, so she did the coat hanger thing and they broke up (seemingly unrelated). Jeff immediately started dating some chick named Kelsey who got preggers to, but she's having it so they're staying together.

Now whoever this first chick is is getting emotionally butthurt because Jeff wants to have two simultaneous girlfriends and this Kelsey chick is vocally in favor of either two loving relationships between 3 people, or a full-up polyamorous trifecta of sexing, most likely because even sans-offspring Kelsey is the less attractive female, and very likely the kind of girl who decided at age 15 that girls are softer than boys and on-the-whole nicer, so it's best to make out with friends in order to attract the most geneticaly appealing cock and then to return to said chickernizing after said cock reveals himself to also act like … a cock.

Also, there's some blinged-out gangsta wannabe torn between his new strong-willed honey and the codependant played-out bitch he used to have, but that's not a train wreck, so I've been writing this durring his segments.

On High Hopes

My phone just rang, on the eve of Valentine's, and I thought perhaps it was someone wishing me well. The idea of a heartfelt confession fleetingly crossed my mind, before I picked up a call from an Eastern European man inquiring about the 1 or 2 bedrrom/1 bath house I've put on the market.

I have no such house and informed him it was a wrong number. He did not apologize before saying goodbye.

Of Puzzlements

Did I seriously update this earlier? Huh. I'm more awake now than I was then. I'm sure I make less sense, but this feels less forced. I'm taking great pride in updating this daily, but it's starting to feel like taking my vitamin and remembering to brush my teeth.

I think I'm going to buy the fixin's for cookies tomorrow. I make fucking awesome cookies. Like they're fucking fucktastic. Basically, what you do is get a package of Nestle Tollhouse chocolate chips and follow the directions exactly from the back except to lump the dough onto the pan like a retarded and lobotomized mental patient who hasn't yet learned quite the right way to hold a bunny rabbit. I mean really glob that shit on there.

The cookies will come out looking like fat scones, grown bulbous and round in their complacent retirement years in the English countryside. Plus, they're stay soft in the center for like 3 weeks, so score.

On Deism

Last night I discovered that there is little information on Wikipedia of the historical, non-religious development of the idea of the Abrahamic God, but a plethora of information on his personal appearances as character in the DC Comics Universe.

I was a little upset at first, but then I realized I'd stayed up until 4:30 AM editing a list of Jewish superheroes because of it. Wiki gives me insomnia, so I started feeling really weird. I washed my face and resigned myself to being awake until I go insane and die, but as I looked in th mirror something clicked off and I felt so tired I laughed.

Today was a fun day to muddle through, following this.

Mostly True Ways I've Preemptively Foiled CSI From Solving My Future Possible Murder

• Regularly leaving finger prints in odd locations and in anatomically unlikely grip patterns.
• Randomly smudging and wiping my fingerprints off of door handles and other places they should be.
• Constantly reminding my friends of the proper procedure for sinking a torso in water.
• Constantly explaining the proper use of ammonia and lemon juice to destroy DNA evidence.
• Keeping climbing supplies, rope and disguises in the trunk of my car at all times.
• Leaving .txt notes on my computer referencing the legality of all my hidden porn.
• Meticulously organizing said porn to a frightening degree.
• Keeping a standard-issue police handcuff key on my keyring.
  
• Occasionally wearing other people's undergarments to comedic effect.
• Stipulating that I shall receive a green burial only if my death is not under investigation.
• Paying migrant workers to bury my corpse in a mass grave filled with dead hookers I've absolutely never met before in my life.
• Stealing David Caruso's sunglasses.

On Valentines

Every year (read: "last and this one") I take it upon myself to send Velentine's Day cards to various persons of interest in a friendly manner.

However, I do not fall into the trap of the greeting card companies. I have at no point ever had a significant other during any holiday of a B.S. gift-giving nature, and I tell myself this was a strategic move.

No, my friends, I now make my own Valentines to send out to my friends. Last year I worked several days to painstakingly replicate the cover of the Spider-Man issue in which Peter Parker and Mary Jane finally tie the knot, replacing their heads with those of my comic non-persona and his ineffable catgirl bride. I tirelessly found ways to force my printer to eject this image onto a cheap 4x6 photo placard, and then slapped a brief note and a stamp on the thing and called in a post-card. The US Postal Service was none the wiser. Hallmark has left me no threatening messages.

Really, if it's properly addressed and not hazardous, liquid, or fragile, you can mail pretty much anything. A nice dirty old shoe with a heart where the Nike logo used to be, with enough stamps, is a more original and personal V-Day greeting than Shoebox ["A Tiny Little Division of Hallmark®"] could ever conceive.

This year, I chose to take a heartfelt approach, one that would tell my friends just to what lengths I would go for them. The things I would do for these people, well you have no idea. So here's one:









^,_,^







Happy Valentine's Day, corporate tools.

On Fenagling

After two weeks of unsuccessfully attempting to steel a specific font for my comics, of failing to find free alternatives, of Steve the Tech Guy failing as well, I broke down and asked the financial guy if he'd reimburse me the $20 to legally buy the font pack.

Horror of horrors, I know, to legally buy something that is available on the internet. Surely it exists somewhere to be had for less than the cost of a twopence whore.

But alas, no. Overhearing the conversation, my Super-Boss, Evan, Final Boss of the newspaper, beleagueredly pleaded that if I'm gonna buy anything I should tell him about it. What was it I wanted to buy anyway? I informed him: a USB hub for the computer that runs both the scanner and drawing tablet. Oh, also, a font--

How much does it cost?

Oh, like $20 if I go through the manufa--

Do it.

Really? That was it? The simple fact that fonts normally cost hundreds of dollars in licensing rights alone is enough to allow me to spring for shit we don't technically need? INCONCEIVABLE!

So yes, from now on, comics will be looking a tad more professional on our page. No longer restricted to Comic Sans MS but in the full glory of BB Alter Ego. I already have my man Steve working to upload the font to the server, to make it usable to everyone. The requisition for reimbursement is in the Business IN box. A copy of the font is on my personal computer (for legitimate telecommuting).

It almost hurts to do something legitimately, but having knowingly exhausted all illicit courses of action, it's almost gratifying to know someone else paid for it at least. Even to aid the paper, a quick Google search for discounts on the site revealed 10%-off, from the site itself. The Universe wants me to have BB Alter Ego. It's too awesome not to have.

Of Big Wheels and Bigger Wheels

When I was little I had one of the Big Wheels electric car things powered by a small car battery. It was a fire truck. Larger wheels with more traction, perfect for off-roading, at least back when it was a fire truck, a convertible, or a pink Barbie jeep.

Fuck, that was a great toy.

Well late last week I walked around the corner to mail off a parking ticket, and low and behold I was nearly bowled over by a twelve year-old wearing a sporty track suit. He was munching on something with one hand, so I couldn't quite see his face. Probably an organic wheatgrass and oat bar or some such nonsense.

This child, if I can even call something that size but that much swarth a child, was riding along on a miniature mint-green Vespa scooter. Let my impress that upon you. A miniature moped. A tiny tot's toy in electric scooter form. And much like the pre-pubescant public I see meandering through my mall on those wonderous Wheelies shoes I swear were stolen from my yesteryear yearnings, I wonder if the look of contempt on the boy's face stems from being too cool for school, or if deep down he knows that he's bcome less American than Yachov Smiernov.

In either event, yes, I fucking wanted that scooter like the drunk chick at a frat party.

On Head-Banging

Several times a year I seriously injure my neck as a recurring result of head-banging and an original massive neck sprain due to making-the-bed-somersault-ohshitquickavoidthecat-splat.

Now I can no longer crack my neck in one direction, and had to learn all sorts of new ways to do it. Moreover, I invariably manage to sprain my neck again once every few months. This almost exclusively stems from the the guitar solo in the middle of "Bohemian Rhapsody" or "What Is Love?" from Night At the Roxbury. However, last night I believe it might have resulted from playing Kings with Rolling Rock and Bailey's whilst listening to the album Circus by Britney Spears.

When you hear Britney, well, if you can't shut it off you just tend to drink faster.

Of The Things to Come That Came

Signs We Are Living In The Future:

#17 The bizarre selection of sleek but functionally inefficient eyewear.
#32 The collars and lapels on men's jackets.
#64 LCD HDTV.
#91 The iPhone.
#138 Bluetooth headsets/anything.
#167 www.thinkgeek.com
#231 The acceptance of hybrid cars and vegan eateries as both rational and commonplace outside of San Fransisco, CA.
#352 Even the notion that technology allows Michael Bay to be considered a successful director rather than a raving lunatic.

On Shameless Self-Plugging

I hate doing this, but I have to bring myself to do it once in order to placate the ravenous exposure bunnies grazing through my head. (They feed on wild grasses and self-loathing.)

I have a webcomic. When my rants need visual elements, they usually end up there. If interest ever gets high enough, I will also be plugging t-shirt designs, one pictured in today's update. I assume this is how people make a living off the internet. They begin by having under-appreciated art, which they then plug as being already established in a new, more literary artistic endeavor. Eventually, they move everything to one server, pay out the butt, and then whine about my inability to sell enough shirts to afford my rent.

Aahh, the magic of the arts.

On The Stage

Life is a moderately amusing play. For the most part ably cast but poorly written with too many superfluous scenes and characters. The popcorn, on average, could be better.

Of Creative Vocabuary

I've always found it admirable for individuals properly versed in the English language to produce their own words, assuming they utilize proper grammar and prefix/root/suffix systems.


Words I've Made and Enjoy:

Awesomeness - adj. The quality of being awesome.

Self-demoralizing - also adj. The quality of self-deprecating, when one doesn't know the word "deprecating."

Tofucken - n. A tofu turducken, made by stuffing faux-chicken patties inside Chinese restaurant canned faux-duck, all inside a tofurkey. Intended only for hilariousness in the company of vegitarians on Thanksgiving.

Hilariousness - adj. The quality of being hilarious.


Words My Turkish Grad Student Teacher Made Up By Accident On Her First Day:

Filmic - adj. Like "cinematic," but with fewer syllables.

Intertween - adj. Interpolated inside "between." Literally in the middle of the middle. Whatever's between the two things, this thing is in the very middle of that like a fuckin' molten core of iron, spinning quickly to thus provide a large magnetic field.

Of Nerf Guns

I firmly believe that there should be some kind of rating system on toys, like the MPAA and Video Game rating systems, whereby persons over the age of 20 are given exclusive rights to the most kick-ass of recreational foam-dart technology.

Case in point: the Nerf N-Strike Series.

This is a line of toys modeled after semi-realistic designs, built for large hands and arms, and with features lacking in all previous sponge-weapon technology. Magazine clips and ammunition belts. Hoppers. Adjustable stocks. Flood lamps. Chamber hatches. Adjustable sights for arcing long-distance. Sniper scopes. The ability to break down into innocuous component parts.

Children cannot possibly fathom the awesomeness of such things, let alone hold the fuckers. Until you've spent an eternity of breathless seconds crouched, back against a fallen log, frantically trying to pull a final jammed dart from your gun barrel, hoping to God you can get it out and load that final shot before Charlie comes creeping around that muddy hill, you don't know man. You just don't know.

The N-Strike line is more deadly than ever, featuring Wii-like DVD technology in training programs, silent-motored fully automatic machine guns with hopper and belt-feed, capable of firing off 3 rounds per second as it's swung on it's dual-axis tripod in a truly volcanic eruption of orange-tipped death that can only call it "The Vulcan." The new line is rounded out by the N-Strike Recon, a simple side arm with deadly accuracy and enough add-ons to takw you from sniping, to assault, to close-quarters assassination. Veterans will also be familiat with the Longshot, a sniper rifle with built-in bipod that is relatively lightweight and can break down into a mid-range assault rifle and large, one-shot sidearm.

A few heroes however stand by their trusted ally, the N-Strike series forerunner sidearm "Maverick." Featuring none of the frills or attachments of later models, the Maverick was a 6-shot revolver-style pistol that survives on it's heft, balance, and deadly accuracy alone. Many have stared down the barel of a Maverick and heard their last click-POP.

Despite it's continued production in the yellow-and-black run, many original blue-model Mavericks are still in use today. Avid collectors have taken to routinely diasasembling and maintaining their originals, even going so far as to modify the weapons for deadlier functionality.

"Every few months I take the whole shebang apart and give it a good cleaning," Sgt. David Zucker was reported as saying. "The internals need a once-over and I'll stretch the spring out to give it more air pressure, resulting in longer, more accurate shots."

"My personal touch is a modified chamber design. The day I bought it I used the broken blade of my buddy's pocket knife to take it all apart. I didn't even have a screwdriver!" he laughs. "I stretched the spring in a couple minutes and spent the next two hours filing down the guard nub and cutting away until the entire chamber was free-spinning. Now I can load darts 50% faster and when I slap the barrel I can do that cool looking spinny-snap loading move."

"We usually do that with one dart and play Russian Roulette for shots of vodka. Everybody wins."

On the Origin of Viagra

Clinical trials of a (then) new anti-coagulant heart medication found that it was less effective than medications already in use.

Most male participants however reported a single highly-consistent, startlingly happy side effect.

Then they added blue and handed it to Bob Dole.

On Car Keys

About a year ago my mom locked her keys in the car whilst cleaning snow off the roof. In having the defroster on as well, she had to have the keys in the ignition, so it wasn't hard to happen. Problematically, my spare key was on my spare-key-ring, 150 miles away up at school, as I was only home for a short break.

We failed in our attempts to both find relatives with spares and break into their houses to find other spares. A quick trip to the dealership where we bought the car and get maintenance brought us to the ultimate problem: with my mom's purse in the car, she had no ID to prove she was herself, and thus could not requisition an emergency key duplicate be made.

Stretching reasoning, we showed that as her son, I could vouch that she was herself because my name is on the registration as a secondarily insured driver, of which the dealership must have had a copy somewhere. Eventually, we got the key made and came home and went about our lives.


Well yesterday I drove out to Oneonta from Binghamton (about 65 miles) to visit a friend. In cleaning off my car at 9 P.M. in attempting a return trip, yep, you guessed it. Ice scraper in hand, I had to trudge back up the steps after saying my goodbyes, bag and coat safely locked in my trunk and defroster on full-blast. My spare key, yes, still in Binghamton.

Almost luckily, I had no other options and immediately called AAA. They were so wonderfully nice to me and I had a nice warm place to sit, so I happily waited on the couch with my friends, after convincing them that waiting was preferable to spools of wire. I considered writing this then, in the present tense, because it was just too funny. I was about to do that instead of saying "Screw it," and spending the night.

The body shop AAA called for me called at the exact moment they were due to say that they had come and gone outside without even needing me, and that my door was unlocked and I was safe to go home. I didn't even get the chance to tip the guy for coming out at 10 on a Saturday. I got into a warm, toasty car and found my GPS and iPod exactly where I'd left them, and my precious garbage bag of Wendy's food was untouched. Maybe 8 minutes later I was driving down the highway and received a phone call from AAA making sure I was okay.

I made exact time, despite it snowing lightly most of the way back, and arrived back in Binghamton only to find a massive party at my house, comprising relatives of two different roommates and a series of friends celebrating out roommate-in-exile's imminent midnight 21st birthday. What could I do but have a beer and join in?