First of all, I realize how trivial this is. In a world full of tragedy and despair, I write about acceptable descriptive words for eggs. I know this is meaningless babble, but I don’t care… I have to get this off my chest. Don’t call my eggs fluffy.

Take, for instance, a commercial whose goal is to entice me into buying breakfast at some restaurant. It hits me with the slow-mo shot of pouring orange juice. Then a voice describes the crispy bacon, the tall stack of pancakes over some beautiful food footage. My mouth is watering and I can almost smell it… Then it happens. They tell me to enjoy their fluffy eggs.

I realize that there is nothing technically incorrect about describing eggs in this manner, but I can’t help but view this description as anything but revolting. When a word has multiple definitions, one needs to be aware of possible misconceptions. I know what they mean, but I just keep thinking of fur covered eggs. Another thought that wanders through my psyche is that little baby chicks are fluffy too. So in a matter of seconds, I have gone from fantasizing about a delicious breakfast, to a waking nightmare where hairy eggs and baby chicks are considered breakfast.

In response to the resurgence of all the great 80s cartoons in Hollywood, we decided to put together another list. We have compiled what we believe to be the 10 best and the 10 worst 80s cartoon movie concepts. First we give you the cartoon, a brief description (for anyone who isn’t familiar) and then OUR movie pitch. We have worked day and night to give you some great and terrible movie ideas!

Keep in mind, that just because something is in the “bad idea” section, it doesn’t mean we don’t love it. This is about whether it is a good idea for a movie or not. Begin wherever you like!

Start at 10 Best! … or start at 10 Worst!

Enjoy!

I’ve been noticing a growing trend at my local Walmart Superstore. I think we have all, at some point, decided against a purchase while shopping. Rather than take the time to put said item back where it belongs, we simply stick it on some random shelf. Not something to be proud of, but not a huge deal either. But what I write about today is just wrong. Wrong! More and more, I am discovering abandoned meat on the shelves. Really.

Waiting in the checkout line, my eyes scan across the four foot wall of candy, magazines and beef jerky before me. I see Snickers, Reese’s, RAW CHICKEN, Skittles… Wait, was that meat?!? In the past few visits alone, I have come across everything from chicken wings to Swedish meatballs. Meat lives in the fridge, dammit. What kind of standardless human would think that was a good idea? Not only are you ruining the product, but possibly contaminating all the surrounding products. Not to mention Walmart’s complete inability (or reluctance) to keep their shelves clean. I actually feel like a dirtbag just shopping there.

I hate Walmart, and people who abandon meat. So there.

Around 4 o’clock this morning, I was sleeping soundly in my bed when I was ripped from my slumber by the sound of glass breaking. That doesn’t quite do it justice… It was really more of a glass explosion. My wife and I instantly sit up, trying for a moment to clear the fog from our minds. I jumped out of bed, asking her if she knew what it was. She didn’t.

Though I had considered the possibility of a break-in, I wasn’t too concerned about it. I opened the bedroom door to find that the large picture frame mounted above my bedroom door had managed to somehow fall off of its nail onto the wood laminate floor. Apparently, when a 20 by 30 inch piece of glass falls a distance of around ten feet, the blast radius of glassy doom is around 15 feet. Needless to say, it was everywhere. After almost an hour of sweeping, vacuuming and even swiffer-mopping, we returned to bed. This however, is not today’s observation. What has me thinking, is my initial reaction to the crash.

You see, at no point did I really think it was a break-in. Given my complete lack of information at the moment, that decision was based on instinct, and instinct alone. Question is… Is that a good thing? Sure, I was right in this case, but what if someone was breaking in? Should I have kicked the door open with a flying Karate kick? I do have a family to protect, after all… Should I just always assume the worst?

Not sure I have an answer for this one. Do I trust my instincts, or start at paranoid, and work back to rational? One thing is for sure… If I had burst forth from my bedroom John McClane-style, I’d still be picking shards of glass from my feet… John McClane-style.

My wife and I went to a wedding in Orlando this past weekend. The ceremony was nice and it was great to see old friends, but as the title of this post suggests, I need to talk about the reception. It took place in the gym of a church with good food and a nice atmosphere, though sadly, there was no alcohol. (This is the second of two consecutive dry receptions I have attended, and I’ve had enough. I’m not even a big drinker these days, but even the J-Man turned water into wine, am I right?) As unfortunate as this was, we had a bigger problem to deal with… The DJ.

This was the bossiest DJ I have ever encountered. He interrupted every song with demands… Desperately trying to induce more dance (which is tough at a booze free event), and calling for applause repeatedly. “Everyone give a round of applause for…” was heard countless times over the 3 hour event, each round more meaningless than the previous. These are all minor grievances compared to the moment he was officially deemed: The Condescending DJ.

The best man stood with mic in hand, ready for his toast. For some reason, a large portion of the crowd continued talking, unaware of his speech. Before he had a chance to ask for the crowd’s attention, the DJ swoops in and nabs the mic from his hand. In his most commanding voice, he says:

Clap your hands if you can hear my voice!

Okay, now if you can hear my voice, clap twice!

Now if you can hear my voice, clap three times!

Now put your hands on your hips!

Now put your finger over your lips… and shhhhhh!

Some people clapped and some didn’t, but it certainly hushed the crowd. If they were anything like me, they were probably quietly wondering why they were being treated like 2nd graders at an assembly. Needless to say, he was the butt of many jokes at our table for the duration of the evening. I’d say he actually managed to entertain us in the end, although not the way he meant to.

While waiting in the always terrible return line at Walmart yesterday, I noticed the man in front of me was quite interesting. He was a middle-aged black man, and judging by his dirty clothes and the time of day, I would gather he had just left some sort of construction related job. The first thing that caught my eye, was that attached to the carabiner that held his many keys was a pair of children’s scissors. You know, the really small ones we used in kindergarten. This seemed mildly odd, but I then realized his pockets were packed with bizarre items.

In his left pocket, there were two things that were not easy to identify. The first was a metal tube, nine inches in length with a half inch diameter, most likely aluminum. Next to that was what I recognized as one of those cheap bottles of spices that go for a half dollar. All I could see was a red cap, so I am thinking it was either garlic pepper or cinnamon. Protruding from his back pocket was a surprisingly long comb, clearly intended for managing his lopsided afro. And finally, his right pocket was barely containing a giant bottle of Maalox. These items looked to be well used, so he apparently carries them with him often.

So we have child scissors, metal tube, cinnamon or garlic pepper, comb and Maalox. Oh, and he was wearing big rubber boots. Are these seemingly unrelated items part of a bigger story? Who is this man? Why do I care?

One of the best things about comics is their ability to tell a very serious story about something as silly as a guy in an animal suit. To celebrate, I have created our our 3rd list, The Top 20 Animal Themed Comic Characters!

Well my uncle has sent me another fantastic story. It follows our misguided hero, Professor Biggerstaff in the aftermath of his last adventure. Now I’d like to thank Mark for sending me this… Thanks Mark, for sending me this.

(more…)

So I am on my way to work today, and the car in front of me blasts a Mourning Dove out of the shallow sky. This was at about 55 mph, so you can imagine the feathery explosion. The bird, awkwardly deflected to the right, landed in an unexpectedly natural seated position in the street. It actually looked like it may have survived the collision, but was soon to be crushed by any one of the thousand of wheels zipping by. I had considered going back, but even if I managed to reach the creature before the Firestones or Goodyears, I doubt I would be much help… Not to mention risking my own life in the process.

So I keep driving…

Seconds after said event, I catch up to the driver of the car. It was a middle aged woman and she was seemingly unfazed by the incident! I’m sure there was no way for her to avoid the bird, but there was basically zero emotion on this woman’s face.  Now I realize that I am one of those sissy animal lovers, but the woman was behaving as if there weren’t a bloody and feathery stain adorning the front of her vehicle. I am reminded of peoples disregard for life too often.  I couldn’t help but imagine her being plowed over by a bus… teeth and grayish hair stuck in a sticky red mess in the grill of a TalTran.

Yeah, I know… just a bird.

A month ago, Dean Trippe weighed in on the ongoing discussion involving the sexist mishandling of Supergirl, from plots to look.  He then held an open forum of Supergirl interpretations from illustrators across the land.  I have posted his, because even after looking at a cornucopia of variations, it is still my favorite.  He has some more heroes on on his portfolio site as well.

I’m just catching the tail end of this thing, but just for fun, I may need to attempt a Supergirl of my own.

This thing is awesome.  As the son of two teachers, I can remember having friends growing up whose parents made more money than mine, yet I always felt nothing but pride for what my parents were.  Mali seems to feel the same way, and his intensity is inspiring.  He has a nice website to check out as well.

So yesterday I was waiting for my food at the drive thru window of my local Taco Bell and I noticed an employee working inside.  As she was cleaning up the counters, I realized that this woman’s left arm ended at the elbow.

I immediately began to empathize with this person, and imagined any number of scenarios a disabled Taco Bell employee may have to endure to make that measly paycheck.  My heart filled with compassion and sadness.

Then an amazing thing happened.  She extended her arm, dispelling the optical illusion I had been duped by.  She now had two perfectly functioning limbs to work with.  I felt an enormous weight lifted off of my heart, as if her arm had been miraculously reattached!  And frankly, in my perceived universe… it had been.

Won’t it be great when we’re all dead

and zombieing around?

Everything will be like Prom

except with eating people instead of gowns

and maybe shotguns and survivors

instead of corsages.

And of course all that awkward guilt

about my dancing abilities will be

turned into gnawing hunger

instead of gnawing shame.

The qualities unburdened by any clear

critical stance make me blur

with distinction. Healthy trumpets

wake the dead again. I’m cloying.

————

[Source=samizdada.com]

Thanks Kevin!

My uncle Mark has struck again.  This time with a short story that he threw together after finding a Soldier Fly larva.  Not until recently did I know that my uncle has such a bizarre imagination.  Take a few minutes and check it out!

I won’t over explain here…  In a recent email, my uncle Mark wrote this piece of hilarity:

“So according to your blog, you’re a comic book hero whiz. Wasn’t there one who was a cigar-store Indian? Called him the Oaken Warrior or Maple Mohican or something? Had a handful of wooden cigars in his hand. Only came to life at night to fight crime and evil deeds done cheaply. He was able to fling his wooden cigars with lightning speed to disable cars, people, whatever. ‘Course, the cigar shop was on the central square in a really small town, so all he got to do was take out jaywalkers, double parkers, and the occasional homeless dude trying to score some spare change. Not real exciting, so I guess he didn’t last long.”

Thanks Mark!

[apologies to any American Indians or homeless dudes possibly offended by this post]