A special message from Jay Piscopo among the comments.
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Page 33 (it’s below page 32) of this.
Hey, remember when I used to post a comic here? Well I don’t. Could you remind me what that was like?
The moral of this story: believe in yourself and you too might one day cause someone else a spinal injury
The page size limit affects me yet again. I do not think it is as obvious today as the previous time, though. The size was FINE when I was PLANNING the thing. It was only when I drew it and started thinking “maybe THIS should happen instead…” that problems arose. Problems often arouse themselves in this way.
Once this “story” is finished, I intend to use a different content-delivery method if I think of one that seems like I would be capable of working with it. I imagine the shift would be considered abrupt if I did it mid-action. Even though I apparently have no problem with taking month-long breaks mid action, ideally at the conclusion, when the next images are posted, the gap isn’t visually apparent. Surely it’s fun enough to track the color depth changes between pages.
I wanted to be like Hergé. As far as cramming lots of stuff into little spaces and having it not seem like I crammed it beyond reasonable protocols of crammage goes. I still do. I cannot. Look at this page. Or don’t, but I’m going to continue talking as if you’ve looked at it regardless of whether you have. FIVE rows of panels. I never even realized the pictures were smaller than usual here until a few years prior to now because the author was a master at what he did. Every little box gets my full attention, as if it’s all I see (ehhh, in the actual book, off the internet, at least). Not only are there lots of boxes, a lot happens into. Herge gets China invaded and occupied, and then the invasion gloated about in ONE PAGE. Maybe it’s a little bit racist, maybe Tintin’s survival throughout his numerous captivities is incredibly improbable, that these guys who start wars just because they feel like it will point guns at but not kill the one meddler who threatens them the most, but that’s beside the point that my drawings are incomprehensible. It’s beside the point of itself because the improbability doesn’t affect my desire to finish viewing the story nor my ability to enjoy it. That improbability is all around us and people are used to it. I need to realize that I can get away with some blatant improbabilities. I do, but most of the ones I set up are, at their roots, attempts to avoid other improbabilities that are easier for people to ignore. Or something like that. I feel asleep back when I used a form of “improbable” in the fourth consecutive sentence.
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Apparently, updating this page once every five days is even too frequent.
There is clearly much more important business to tend to, besides.
Poliglotery sounds horrible only to dumbs…
From: “Heart Attack Jones” <[email protected]>
To: “Diane Sawyer” <[email protected]>
Date: Fri, 18 Sep 2009 6:01 AM (5 days 11 hours ago)
Esteemed M. Fabrax,
As you may well know, the G-20 summit will be taking place next week here in Pittsburough. You of course do not live in Pittsburrah, but in light of the recent economic brouhaha, I understand this has been quite a topic elsewhere, as well (or at least Deutsche Welle news gives me this impression). Avid social commentator as you are, I thought that perhaps you might be interested making a work of art to commemorate this event. Ah, but of what subject matter? Well, I personally can’t help you there, but perhaps there’s a chance some third party may have given you a suggestion at some point in the last few weeks which might somehow be thematically appropriate…?
Hmm…
– A retarded samurai
Seven brides for seven brothers
cakecakecakecakecakecakecakecakecakecakecakecakecakecakecake
I like your bread, Chabasco, but you’re not my mother.
Choose mountain dew color based on War-Craft allegiance, please. And sure, as long as that’s important to you, go ahead and buy ten. Although I can’t help noticing that red potion favors green bald guys and the blue potion favors pink ladies. Maybe the dewsters had some old formula left over from a Double Dare promotion 15 years ago, or the only two player video game they had in the office was Contra. Unfortunately, it’s still Mountain Dew. Although this is probably to the benefit of the pink ladies, as the huge green oafs already, I suspect, can take bigger beatings, and everybody knows the red kind refills all your hearts twice, so this would give a very unfair advantage to oafkind, me thinks.
Oh, ho, it is not “still” Mountain Dew. Now it is Mtn Dew. Spelling stuff right is officially considered throwing back. Like, get with the program, puzzlewit. Unless you’d like to help us unload some old, unsold, flat, particle-separated inventory in a zanily misguided quest for nostalgia. If you really want to take me back, try tickling my innards with your manhuntin’ firearms and Appalachian stereotypes.
Kentucky Fried Chicken to “KFC” i can understand, because it’s a mouthful (of chemically-infused, frankensteinian steroided up grease flavored meat product that by the way animals were bred in captivity, abused in tiny cages, and killed to make (which I lamentably enjoy eating occasionally)), but mountain is only two syllables with no negative, truthful connotations to distract people from. In fact, the word “mountain” was about the LEAST creepy thing printed on the bottle (“dew,” is, afterall, a near-homophone for a childish euphemism for dog excrement). It’s like the Pepsikooks thought “gosh, mountain dew just isn’t inorganic and mysterious enough! How can we make it seem LESS natural? Apart from turning it red and putting shrek stand-ins on the label, I mean.” It’s not as if there isn’t inadequate space to spell out “mountain” in. Nor is the background better off for absence of letters. Get me more green starfoxy void, STAT! Maybe there’s something inherently extreme about abbreviations. Awkward, vowel-less abbreviations of single words.
August 25:
Here, for the first time performing together anywhere, the Karate Kid, Harry Potter and Michael Moore!… Cripes, I’m going to bed. Except I can’t because I just woke up. Everybody is in my business this week. There will be no proper site updates until each and every person who is in it that shouldn’t be gets out from within my business. Why don’t you instead go to the most boring seaside restarauraurant in the world and not eat anything for approximately two-thousand hours and get nauseous from heat and rage, all the while knowing there is business to tend to? And when you’re done with that, please, by all means, hop on over to Harbor Health for a series of meetings with the world’s dumbest clinicians because your brain is broken and legally that means you have to meet with people who have advanced degrees in dumbness every once in a while so you can tell them about the things which bother you that aren’t them.
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page 32… or perhaps it is more like 31-and-a-half, of this. The stupid comic. It is still not what I want, but I like to think it is better than it was. I am fully aware that the curtains I previously showed from outside the room don’t correspond at all with the ones I have been showing from inside it recently. I’m pretty sure I covered this in the last page’s excuse.
It is hard to accept that aside from their respective brief ventures outward, the red and green creatures have been in that room for a year now.
I forgot that page 31a needed fixing. I will get to that right around the time I do so. Page 4 needs fixing, too. Most pages need fixing. We must do what we can to control the stray page population.
Watchmen on DVD, featuring an additional 24 hours of never-before-seen footage! When I watched those men in a theater, indeed my greatest complaint was that the film had used its time too efficiently. We need to pad this out, yo.
I like this new “wheelchair access” symbol. It has action lines. Much like Wheelchair Mario, it really emphasizes handi-CAPABLE. It also communicates “look here, sonny. I have to use my ARMS to move these WHEELS, and THAT’S why I can’t open the door.” Although the old one looks like it wants to punch somebody, I don’t reckon it would be a very effective punch from that starting position.
I don’t know why people complain about their Department(s) of Motor Vehicles. The floating, misshapen smiley face in the corner puts me completely at ease and cures all my worries. Although I do begin to think perhaps that is a character flaw of mine.
Which is not to say my sense of alarm has dulled to a sirloin tip:
Maybe I’ve been on the internet too long, but I find something intensely upsetting about somebody having brown fluid dripped on itself and also being jaw-detachingly ecstatic about that happening, and then this getting the unconcerned, “inoffensive” label “muddy.”
Oh.
Ohhh… Wikihow.
I didn’t realize what site I was at.
Slap Susan Boyle! This ad makes me really sad. And I didn’t even watch the Susan Boyle video(s). Do you have any idea how hard that was? They were the cat’s meow, as I hear it.
Here, on May 25, it’s five of the top ten videos. Big deal, Miss Susie can sing nice. People do that all the time. People do that on junkety tv “talent” competitions aller the times. I can’t confirm that they do anything else these days. Sure, it’s harder than randomly placing high pitched noises over the words of daytime talk shows, per the terms of number six on our countdown, Jimmy Kimmel’s “unncecessary censorship,” which by the way his staff does every single week and never puts any more or any effort into, but really, what’s the big idealio? Because Ms. Boyle doesn’t meet your orange, tight-skinned tv standard of “beauty” you assume I assume she’s a terrible singer, and therefore I should be shocked and mesmerized when she isn’t? And once you’re over her, I should want to simulate bringing bodily harm to the woman? Without even having to be promised a freeasterisk ipod? Just because I feel like it?
I somehow, without trying, heard that this lady was one of two or so megafinalists… The ads for these shows are invariably stuffed with people juggling trees, sculpting sphynxes out of cornmeal, metamorphizing into butterflies, eating manwiches through their noses, and yet “it” always comes down to a couple bozos who can move their mouths good. But it is not the fault of the singers themselves that the international council of lousy vote-off shows has screwy standards.
Which is not to say they are entirely without fault in life, certainly.
You know… forget purging the orange juliots who just sing, if we must. With enough orchestration and background dancers any creatively stillborn barbado bope can potentially be entertaining. I would be relatively fine if They could do these variety shows without the judges. We always need a high council of loud-mouthed morons with questionable, pro-trash values there commenting on our behalf and wasting program time. It’s like those youtube videos with the stupid pop-up text during the clips. That’s better than when people edit big stupid caps lock Arial letters into the actual video, and I believe it can be disabled. Our task force has yet to devise the technology to disable Sharon Osbourne.
This explains so much.
I am trying to do a thing, but it is taking too long. Oops. I will try again tomorrow.
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That really isn’t my problem. I couldn’t help you if it was. I wouldn’t if I could.
Michael Jackson is not a good Nerf gun, apparently, regardless of how many of his body parts are reported to be constructed from the orange, foam-like substance.
“Other farm games”: why are there any, much less if they are reputed for their slowness? I don’t doubt that even a video game about filling a bucket could be entertaining if done properly or merely spammoed to enough idiots in the facebook who forget that actual video games still exist, but I’d still be baffled if an entire genre formed around it. At best, you’ll get a series of Double Dare physical challenges out of it.
I could scarcely grasp the popularity of amusement park simulations, but farms just seem slow and dull. I liked running around with the guy in Harvest Moon until I realized I had to make him buy seeds and plant stuff. Although even more popular to others and more baffling to me are simulations of the yet more mundane, less consequential strictly residential existences of The Sims, and I filled a couple of notebook pages complaining about that which neither you nor I are likely to see in our futures, to our non-detriment, so let us talk about something else.
Great!
< Why is there a life size cardboard cut out of just some guy in this store? I thought it was one of the employees, at first, because of that necklace he's wearing, but soon I knew the truth:
Yes, hopay, I understand it’s one of the characters from the feature film Twineline… but if I had not seen the movie I would not know that. And as somebody who’s seen the movie, I can’t imagine why anybody would want to own a thing which reminded them of it. The guy’s boardsona is utterly ordinary looking aside from his chalky skin, which could easily be a result of it being out in someone’s back yard for a couple years.
Here are some things. You may have seen them before. Maybe not.
Don’t you know, this is a PRIVATE beach.
It is supposed to be a thing getting shot at and struck by arrows. It does not look like that. It looks like a thing standing around with either Nintendo graphic glitches or nothing attacking its right leg. Oops. I will hope for better luck next time.
The castle guards, those who have defended themselves with the arrows, are either invisible or possessors of ant like strength to lift such comparatively big, almost ballista bolt-sized arrows with. I kept the guards intentionally unseen because I thought it was funnier that way. You see the castle, then you see the arrows, then you look back at the castle and wonder. If there were visible little men running around in it, the creature would have approached more cautiously. I like it being ambushed and being stunned by the ambush. With a single image, by me, this is the only way it can work. But that does not mean that it always will work, and on this occasion it did not. And so I wish myself to make a better effort in the future.
Somebody wanted a “shoreline themed” image, specifically regarding United-State Connecticut’s shore line. Several pictures, actually. I only made two, though. And you might suggest to me that armadillos don’t live in or near Connecticut, and I would (I know myself better than I know you, after all) respond by pointing out the many differences between that thing and an actual armadillo (and that is why you should never ever talk to me). In fact, these do not live anywhere, for they do not exist. Go directly to school. Additionally, I exaggerated the likelihood of a sand construction recognizable as resembling anything existing in this place. I know, I tried to build one to use as a model and it was impossible.
You know how sometimes people will claim something they made is “bad” but they’ll show it to you anyway, expecting compliments? I won’t even do that.
This Aztec eagle thing that I made without trying, just by digging my fingers into the ground so to grasp sand for lifting looks better than the castle I attempted to make. Part of the trouble was that I did not want to actually sit on the ground, preferring instead to awkwardly semi-crouch around, which is painful and not helpful, only cleaner. Also, the people who make “real” sand castles bring their own special sand for the purpose (as I understand it). And in that case I ask: why even use sand? If it’s not the stuff you’d find on a beach, why bring it to a beach? Why not just sculpt it in your house? Why not use a more permanent medium that you can actually save? Why make castles all the time? Some people don’t make castles, but overwhelmingly they do. In addition to bringing their own sand, they also have sculpting tools, experience and clothing they don’t mind getting sand on. Elitists.
Getting back to the failings of the thing I made and did show you, the only realistic aspect of it is that dreadful pink house. I’ve been seeing that thing for years; one [human (me)] would think I could produce an accurate representation of it without endless redraws and multiple references. One, as usual, is dreadfully misinformed, as the house is just normal dreadful. However, at the time of this picture making I did not guess how dreadful it could be.
The pink house now has a stupid pitiful fence around it. We don’t want anybody touching our precious sand, does we! You can still see the house, and any person weighing more than a pumpkin could easily topple the thing, so why is it there? To make me mad! I’m glad they’re thinking of me, but not enough that I am no longer mad.
It showed up about two weeks ago. One week ago I discovered an attempt to put a fence around the marsh, despite the fact that nobody can walk in the marsh and there’s no reason, logical or otherwise, to attempt to restrict passage by tall, bipedal humanoids into it.
Oh, somebody’s a fancy katydid now.
The walkway is admirable. Now instead of having to wander into the road and then down a short path to the beach, a few people can walk down a slightly shorter path to the beach that nobody else can walk on. I don’t know enough about marshes to be able to say what natural life this harms, but I can complain about the gate: id ecch: why is there one? Even the Heaven’s Gate cult made more sense than this one. People feel a need to announce “I made this path, only I may make walk on it.” Nobody but you wants to go to your dopey house anyway! I might have wanted to visit, but I changed my mind when you started to build a fence around the marsh. Sneer! All these fences are new. They were not here ten years ago. What prompted this? These people would put a fence around the moon if they could. Then they would put a fence around that fence.
No, I am not going to blame nemitz for all fences in the galaxy. I know you’re disappointed. I promise to yell at nemitz about something later.
I always either do too much research or too little. All the New England fish that I like are ocean fish. A lot of grey, ugly fish in the “fresh” water around these parts. And then I find out that the two dopey imps prominent here don’t actually exist. Hopefully I can keep that a secret.
I wanted to put a viking ship in the background but I forgot until I had already put the other ship there. They pillaged the part of my brain that remembered to put them in there. They also pillaged all my good viking jokes. Chris Browne offered to buy them but changed his mind when he saw that only my good jokes had been stolen.
My setting this time was less scripted than the one with the beach. Because of that it took much longer but looks just as mundane. How do I do it?! (sorcery)
The pile of boots was the hardest part. It’s still not quite clear what that is without prolonged investigation. Must tend to later. Probably won’t.
The boots were the hardest part to draw, I mean. Overall, that reddish thing toward the left gave me the most reason to be upset.
Yes, of course I was talking about you! That doesn’t mean you’re special.
Obviously we are collecting boots today. I don’t see how you could have POSSIBLY messed that up. Hey, fool! We are not catching fish here. And yet you caught one. You couldn’t even catch cholera by eating food or drinking water contaminated with the Vibrio cholerae bacterium, and still you caught a fish. Good job. “Good” as in “opposite of good.”
This is a first grade concept. I guess you would know that if you weren’t in the orange reading group, that’s only up to level two skillpack booklets. You probably aren’t even aware that
Knowing what I now know about what you don’t know, I would most certainly not be
I don’t know what’s dumber: that they’re deliberately catching boots or that NEMITZ is too dumb to not accidentally catch fish. And it, as usual, refuses to accept the consequences for its own incompetence. You, NEMITZ, knew you weren’t supposed to do that, but you did it anyway, and then you pouted when scolded. Bad, bad nemitz. As we see here, nemitz can NOT handle criticism. Hey, thing, you did a bad job! You can’t consistently, exclusively do things poorly, do things WRONG and expect to be tolerated.
It’s bad enough that you’re naked, but how dare you appear before me without your shading on? Disgraceful! Meet me on the battlefield!
Am I better off with total whitening or total advanced whitening? How is it possible to advance beyond total? Does the advanced one make teeth translucent? Is it just more challenging? How can this goop hope to accomplish any whitening at all without
whitening oxygen bubbles? Clearly, they are essential. Ha ha, I pity any poor fool who bought normal advanced whitening without knowing oxygen bubbles had been invented. That person is doomed to a life of sub-caucasian bite bricks.
I actually tried this eventually, and you’ll be surprised to know that in actual usage it’s exactly the same as every other toothpaste I’ve ever used.
I might go so far as to declare that the finest regular I’ve ever tasted.
How are there so many different types of toothpaste, with so little information provided to help a person choose? Is it important which one I use? I did not think it was like with soda or salsa or saltlakrids, where it’s a trivial thing I don’t need, am actually better off without, and should choose entirely upon the whim of a moment. This is supposed to be a tool for cleaning a sensitive, integral series of body components. It’s a health issue, not a fashion conundrum. Yes, there are heaps of soaps, too, but they are competing soap brands offering similar products. This is one brand offering similar products. When you do see multitudes of soap under one label it tends to be about the various smells they give off. I try to avoid smelling people’s teeth.
This article’s author has encountered far more colgates than I, but doesn’t answer, nor ask the question of what’s actually in the interests of teeth themselves (it does, however, include a picture which clicking upon causes to appear a javascript window with a smaller version of the picture inside it). Do I want to prevent cavities or fight plaque? Why do we lack the technology to do both? Long ago it was my understanding that all toothpastes did all these things. Now, though, they’ve gone soft. Toothpaste? More like toothglue! Eh eh eh.
Which of these is actually the most beneficial is impossible to discern. Not just because your deteriorating vision has rendered the print a blurry, unintelligible mess, but because each paste type only includes the check boxes which would be checked. They are, in effect, mere bullet points, but this makes them seem like bonus features. Which reminds me…
With Webster Premier Banking you get 5000 bonus points. Do you have any idea what that means? That means you’ll be one fourth of the way toward getting your first extra life. What other bank can promise you something so matenopoulos?
See! Only Wachovia gives you a Way to Save. You don’t even need extra lives when your bank has exclusive access to the Imperial Scrolls of Honor. Truly a glamorous bonus.
No, Baramos Bomus! Nobody ever calls you! Get out of here! You are not needed at this time! Go away before your friends show up…
Wonderful. Now there’s some idiot purple monster skeleton here. Surely you can admit that’s kind of stupid.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN “KIND OF” STUPID?
Aren’t you glad I don’t update this site every two days anymore?
This is the saddest day of my life.
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I have been busy, lately. The internet has been regularly dysfunctional. These are not good circumstances for keeping websites. Only a fool would continue to do so!
“Time to head on home”
Said Dad to His Son
“Not ’til my Fruit by the Foot is done”
He started to eat and don’t you know,
Three hours later “still not ready to go!”
YOU SEE, with Fruit by the Foot, the fun just lasts and lasts
So he kept eating, “and the time just passed”
==============================
“Star” is a popular word in the world of marketing and public opinion. We have Energy Star, Starbucks, Sinistar, Kenneth Starr, Star Jones, Starburst, Starbirds, on and on.
Plenty of newspapers, radio stations and other media outlets identify themselves as “Star.” The people who occupy the most prominent roles in acted productions are said to be “stars.” The quality of various products, services and military ranks are often shown rated in amounts of stars.
Throughout human existence we have been infatuated with the mysterious glowing bodies that fill the sky at night and the ever present giant ball of light that commands our respect during the day. However…
“Foot Star” is not filling me with awe and amazement.
Ah, such majesty and splendor!
You’ll get over it.
Papitas crujientes.
99999999999999999999999999999999999
The time has come to determine the superior soup. Prepare yourself.
The Stop and Shop super-market features two distinct generic store brand soups with the same flavors.
Even the hypey promotional copy on the can posteriors that’s suppossed to make me super excited about eating out of a can is essentially the same, and you’d know that if I’d taken a better picture of it.
So which is better?
Select, the left soup, obviously, for while Homestyle boasts the more appetizing image of actual soup, only Select comes in a GOLD can.
It was my assumption that I had merely acquired generic soup on both ends of a needlessly overdone packaging change; select’s food photography gives the impression of a thing that’s been hanging around since the 1980s; either just from label decay or because it was more feasible to find a depiction of a containers’ actual contents, rather than an idealized color-enhanced mockup, printed on one back then. The reality only becomes clear in the context of the store from which it takes its name:
The two leading / only evident to exist brands of canned soup come in red & gold and blue & grey cans. In its natural habitat a store brand’s survival instinct leads it to disguise itself as best as is legally permissable as a major multinational company’s brand, despite few competent people likely to be fooled by this for long enough to actually make a purchase. In a situation where there is no unquestionably dominant producer of a thing, and that there is no longterm risk in producing an excess amount of, it makes perfect sense to imitate them both. If Stop & Shop sells just as much soup as before, only with sales divided between its two colors, it won’t have been a total waste of effort because they can keep that stuff on the shelves for essentially ever. For as long as it takes for Progresso or Campbell to significantly alter their own label colors and layouts, which probably won’t happen. You might have noticed that the red cans shown are not “Select” but “Chunky,” which is apparently a word that makes people think of things other than vomit. That is because Stop and Shop actually has three identical generic soup brands.
Select is paired with, sure enough, Campbell’s “Select Harvest,” and while that comes in a primarily white, rather than red, container, the somewhat sickly depictions of the regular Select cans’ contents creates a whitish impression at a great enough distance.
I do not intend to criticize stop and shop for its curious multiplicity; I can’t tell the difference between Campbell’s identical soup brands, either. I merely wish these sorts of label shenanigans weren’t necessary to get people to buy less overpriced soup. Some years ago I would never have considered purchasing Stop & Shop anything. But it had really ugly, bland labels then. The sort that make you question the standards of the overall production. The labels are better now. I just don’t like that they’re playing along with the myth that there are three distinct styles of soup being peddled here, each worth being imitated individually.
.jpg "It might be time for a shave if your beard is growing legs.")
Mmmm, yes… fascinating…
Oh, I know. Also of great potential interest: I wrote most of this entry while eating about 1/3 of a can of raisins. I had become aware of the 82% sodium rate in a full can of soup, any one of those, and thought I should eat something boring as punishment. No cereal, though; too much iron. I’m worried I’ll be walking past a junkyard, because I got lost in a cartoon from the 80s, and I’ll get stuck to one of those big car magnets. So I ate a lot of raisins. And then I felt diabetic for a bit. It can be hard coming to terms with the fact that eating fruit can make you just as sick as cookies. You might not get as fat, but you’ll feel like you ought to be. So if I’ve conquered dehydrated grapes and passed the test of soup, what, then, remains to be addressed by my can agenda?
GRAPE SOUP.
Pretzel companies love to brag about their great traditions on the back of their packages; often citing the dedication with which their founder hand twisted them and such. That would be relevant if you were trying to sell me a bag of hand-twisted, slow baked, 1900s style pretzels. What I have is a sack of tiny, cold, factory-mold prefabricated thingies flavored only by salt, designed to be eaten fifty at a time. The only tradition in the game here is my own tradition of gluttony. Even when I do see a big pretzel, it is still most likely a thing from a machine that has not earned the right to be shaped like an ampersand. I would settle for a circle if that meant you’d charge me less than five dollars for it.
What’s more wholesome than a big jar of salt? How about one that had been spilled and gathered up prior to usage? I would not trust desert-dwelling men without hats to handle these ingredients. Only to dance safely, and only if they want to.
Coca Cola is even older than a lot of pretzel brands and there’s no proud boasting printed on containers of that. Because it’s just dumb soda (and because it was originally sold as medicinal wine made with cocaine by a morphine addict with no business sense who suffered from Henniganism).
You don’t pick up a bag of cheetos (I hope) and see on the back something like
Nobody would take it seriously. THIS is what is printed on the back of a bag of cheetos:
I don’t trust any company that can show full tv shows for free yet still make a big enough profit to make produce 2 minute long ads with computer effects and superfluous celebrities and air them during America’s worst (id est: best) shows. They think they’re being clever with that tagline, but it comes across as just about the only thing sincere about it to me. There’s another ad that you’ve undoubtedly seen, if you see ads, featuring Alecander Baldwin, but I can actually tolerate him off the ads, at least. Denis Leary, however, always makes me uncomfortable, and this is regardless of whether or naw he ripped off Bill Hicks. Bill Hicks, by the wuh, I never heard of until maybe a year ago, by which point he had been dead for fourteen of them. I have since seen his name in several places. Did he come back to life recently? It’s hard to say, because if he had he still wouldn’t have appeared in this ad (this is, of course, assuming it would have been offered to him and that in fourteen years he did not undergo the necessary changes in character, which I would not put past anybody I have yet witnessed within my electric picture box. And that assumes his supposed anti-consumerist stances reflected his actual character and not just viewpoints adopted for the sake of a comedy routine).
Even before I knew about those ads, I didn’t trust Hulu. I just hated its name. It reminded me of hula. More specifically, Tony Danza, Fred Flintstone, et arrrg; america’s least respectable father figures and miscellaneous male oafs wearing grass skirts and coconut brassieres during inexplicable island getaway sweeps episodes that were always embarrassing. Also, nohulo, the non-website some garbanzo boron tried to make me pay homage to once.
Now I hate Hulu’s money and its attitude. I like to think what draws people to youtube is that it’s so ghetto and junkety that it seems like it can’t possibly be a corporate conspiracy (though with the bandwidth it carries it could not function if it wasn’t). But really, people will go anyplace where there is visual record of cats being idiots. You know that. I know that.
What I hate is when that isn’t enough for people, when they have to add obnoxious commentary, often attributed to the cat, in [non-negotiable] impact-font lettering, superimposed over the image.
It is scarcely a step above what cats say on greeting cards, except everybody’s too busy making more of them to charge money, so they’re inescapable.
Did I make that just now in 20 seconds or find it somewhere in 10? It doesn’t make a difference! (and I actually made it over a year ago in 20 seconds in recognition of a more general untraceable, unquestionable internet non-joke tradition complaint whose specific uninspired inspiration I have fortunately forgotten, which is why it doesn’t have a cat in it) We’re all grunting apes pasting letters on things. Everybody wants to be like Frankenstein. There used to be a thing kids did back when they talked to each other, they would hold one hand out, palm downward, slap the nearer edge repeatedly against their chest and say “URT URT URT I’M INTARDED!” That was as far as it went. If it went any further it would be dumber than whatever it thought it was mocking. Things were different back then. We could see a picture of a cat doing something strange and think “that cat is doing something strange.” We can’t be trusted to do that now.
I would like this without the awful letters. Now, though, it makes me mad, and this is probably one of the less awful examples. And, and, why should we univerally assume that if cats could speak it would be like that?
Some cats are very classy. Not this one, obviously, but some.
I’ll be brief: I don’t know how to be brief. Or I do know, I just routinely fail to be satisfied by remarks and explanations by myself that are not as informative as they could be or that don’t make use of all the available resources that seem reasonable to make use of. Even this does not prevent me from making inaccurate statements or saying things that I regret, and in fact when I do they are only worse due to the longwindedness that they are presented with. This is a continuing problem.
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I just received an invitation to join something called flixter. I thought it was just another stupid facebook thing and didn’t realize it had redirected me to some scam thing (rather than a totally valid, useless vacuum of misery) run by one “smileymedia” until it repeatedly rejected my fake telephone numbers and addresses. Ordinarily a service does not take the trouble to verify who actually lives at 99 Luftballoons, Dumpsteropolis, Arizoner. Obviously I know my own address and a valid organization would get the hint that I just didn’t want it to know. Only in the event that it had no other purpose other than to get these things would it have a mechanism in place that looks for names of actual places. On one of the submits it somehow pulled up my normal email address rather than the backup I had initially entered, and I suspect it may already be too late to totally unbind myself from the wretched thing. Peh.
Smiley Media. As soon as I saw that name I knew. Why would anybody distrust a company named after the international symbol of walmart and the third most revolting banner ad series after “lookit my ugly teeth” and “what state do you live in?”
Also, I have found some other pages complaining about sleazy flixter invitations, like just the normal ones that don’t have some other site hijacking involved. Flixter is creepy enough that harvesting social security numbers and such isn’t even necessary. The page writers tend to get some scummy message from a supposed employee saying that they aren’t sleazy or scummy soon afterward. Because it’s apparently easier to individually tell every person in the world that there is no problem than to fix the problem that there obviously is. I also encountered this a lot when I was researching web hosts. They like to lock people into longterm deals and hold domain names hostage when somebody tries to get out and nonsense like that. “Oh, gee, we can’t really be that bad if we’re personally addressing you in your very own comment form, can we?” That’s what being an entrepreneur is about. I think D. Trump is a magnificent scumbag, but at least he isn’t so pouty and insecure that he needs to assign a task force to look up everybody who complains about him on the internet and get in their business about it. I don’t even do that. Yet.
Forgive me if you’ve seen this already. As has been previously noted I sometimes forget that I’m allowed to show my own dumb pictures on my own dumb website. I have been too engaged with other matters recently to edit any of my recent long-form gripes into something resembling coherence, and that’s when I’m supposed to put these up instead. And then I started writing about this for an hour. Sure enough, I was too weak to make that make sense, so it is unfit for display, but I still need to tell of its existence to… no, I can’t even make something out of my excuse this time. I am well and truly out of… and this is the same thing. I can’t close it. There is no resolution to be made. Here, have some shift key dividers.
may 23
I think I need to reconsider what justifies a new, separate page entry.
may 21
Am I mistaken, or have we (collective United Statians) heard more from Dick Cheney in the first four months of the Obama administration than in the first two years of his own? Toward the middle of 2001, wasn’t his absence so absolute that it seemed plausible that he had gotten dead at some point following the inauguration? Is he now merely making up 16 months or so of metaphorical snow days? Can we yet rule out the possibility that he actually was dead during that time?
may 20, maybe
I don’t think I could have sanely survived ads for Night at the Museum movies without mute powers. Those are some embarrassing ads. The merry melody people used to make cartoons about supposed books which would cause mischief based on their titles and cover illustrations. They were only about six minutes long which is precisely as long as that sort of thing is tolerable for (though apparently seven minutes, I used to have this one on a vhs tape, the more prevalent version with the bell guy and some of the racism removed, which took out a solid minute of it)
And that’s when it’s good, or decent. I can take roughly three seconds of Guido Thinker. And even then I will only take them to the dumpster.
Aw beans! page 29 of this.
It is below page 28. It is sort of dull.
The creature’s horns are different because of some reason. This change may not have been a good change. The thing looks too much like a pokemon. It did before, but the horns at least were in opposition to that. I may change them back. I have that power. (and I used it)
Monday, the eighteen
For the first time, I cooked a ham today. Or, more accurately, I placed a pre-cooked ham on to an aluminium foil-covered tray which I then placed into an oven and checked back on an hour later. It tasted adequately hammy, but that it bore a flavor like the flesh of a slaughtered animal proves very little. How well I actually did will only be revealed by how soon and how severely I become confined to the intestinal cleansing chamber. As a child it was common for me to eat just meat during a meal and ignore any side items provided and I suffered no ill effects from it, as far as I can recall linking ill effects to meat consumption. Today, less than ten minutes after eating four or five sizable slices of the ham I’ve already consumed nearly two snapple bottles* worth of water as part of my recovery process. Phlegm production has only just begun. It is an exciting time to be alive.
*I used this curious unit of measurement as I drank the water out of a snapple bottle.
And now, I place here the things I placed above the previous entry, because it was already obscenely long, and I hate to dilute the glory of Buck Choc, besides. I will have a nap and decide if I still like these being here when I wake up.
And no, I don’t, but they can’t go anywhere else.
Sunday the seventeen: I am not a third wheel. Third wheels provide safety and stability. I am a fifth wheel. I am the tire-shaped object attached to the back of a jeep after the tire has been used. I’m just some round thing that you have to teach yourself to not be aware of because it’s so out of place that it cannot be tolerated.
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Saturday, the sixteen:
Mad Television, a program which I have spent far too much of my life (that being any of it) complaining about the errors of, never quite able to totally pull myself away from, much like a drug, just without the superficial fun times and convenient dulling of the senses, seems to at last be airing the series “finale” it’s had coming for a decade or so, thereby pulling itself away from me instead. Ah ha, ha ah! I win! The question on every me’s mind is: can the Mad Televised get through the last show they’ll ever do without padding up the 48 minutes of air time with old sketches featuring people who aren’t on the show anymore and isolated instances of writer competence despite producing at least eight best-of specials, presented as new content, in the past two years, these specials themselves not able to find enough usable content to justify their existences, needing to be padded up with needless, annoying “host” segments? The answer may bore you.
The still thriving program alleged to be its counterpart also had some slightly unusual thing going on today, yesterday or tomorrow and I said something about that but I’ve been in strange places lately and what I wrote currently still is. Curiously enough, if I had it I’d say nothing because I’d realize it was a mess and I just wouldn’t use it. I don’t have time to realize this is also a mess.
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Friday, the fifteen:
I’m tired of “funny” white rappers. Saying rhyming stuff over slow beats while wearing sunglasses isn’t in fact incredibly hard, and it isn’t necessarily hilarious just because you have light skin and chose deliberately dweebish subject matter. I don’t think Andy Samberg invented them nor embodies their absolute worst qualities but he certainly empowered them. I realize I linked on more than one past occasion to a web [my-space] page by some Mad Dome Gettaz, but a: I am related to one of them and 2: they could actually rap, however big a fan of that I may not be.