Yes, The Rumors Are True.

I am a gigantic nerd.

Need proof?

I see this sign every morning on the train on my way to work.

And every morning ... I mean every single morning ... I am seized by the urge to add: "EXCEPT ON PARTY BUSINESS."

Hobbiton represents, bitchezz.



Till next we meet ...

I've Finally Figured It Out!

After many, many years of wondering, I think I've finally figured out Charlie Brown's Halloween costume.

He's the ghost of Clyde Barrow!

(With thanks to The Missus for the photoshopping.)

Or maybe he's supposed to be the Ghost of Sonny Corleone.

Not sure how big a cinefile Chuck was.



Till next we meet ...

The Stick-er Man (Stick Figures in Peril!)

If only Nic Cage had seen this warning label on the welcome sign of a certain secretively insular, neo-pagan, honey-producing island lady-commune.

NOT THE BEES!!

So much bear-suited lady-punching could have been avoided.



Till next we meet ...

The Perilous Wrongness of Being (Stick Figures in Peril!)

You!

Stop!

Bad!

You're being!

What did we tell you about that?!

Do not be!

Till next we meet ...

The Circle of Life ... The Rectangle of Death (Stick Figures In Peril!)

The zebra has the lion.

The cape fur seal has the great white shark.

The airborne salmon has the gaping, toothy mouths of grizzly bears.

And, of course, unattended cake has John Goodman.


Mother Nature, it has oft been said, is red in tooth and claw. The great, deadly dance of predator and prey is old as Time itself.

Life on this blue-green orb, it seems, is fraught with Peril.


And so it goes, that for every Stick Figure ...

... there is a Hurtling Rectangle of Death*.


Just waiting for its moment.

Its opening.

Its chance to pounce.

Whether from above ...

"Oh, my skull!"

Or from the left ...

"Oh, my innards!"

Stick Figures have no greater natural foe.


And, unfortunately for the Stick Figure population ...

Rectangles are also wily and ruthless pack hunters.

"Oh, my everything!"

So you watch your back out there.


Or is that your front? (I can never tell.)

__________________
*NOTE: The Hurtling Rectangle of Death should not be confused with the Skittering Cube of Inconvenience.

"Oh, my phalanges!"

Till next we meet ...

I Wonder What's On PBS ...

Well, that's peculiar.

Why is the soundtrack for this episode of NOVA nothing but wakka-chicka-wakka 70s porn music?

Let's click that info button ...

Oh.

I see.




Well ... as you were, I suppose ... eh ... Doctor.


Don't let me interrupt your ... eh ... club-wielding.

(ahem)



Till next we meet ...

It's Like I Don't Even Know Me Anymore

So this bizarre thing seems to have happened to me.

For no particular reason -- and I mean NO reason -- I've started waking up without the aid of an alarm clock at precisely 6:00 AM. Every day. Even weekends.

Now, as anybody who's ever lived with me can attest ... parents, siblings, pets, college roommates, grad school roommates, post-grad school roommates, The Missus ... this is HIGHLY unnatural behavior for me.

Waking up too early is just not a problem I've ever had.

I'm nocturnal. A late sleeper. A night person. A bat. A night owl. A complete and total slugabed. (Yes, that totally is SO a real word. No, I didn't make it up! Shut up! No, YOU shut up! Yeah-huh! Is so!)

In fact, the caffeine blast generally necessary to propel me first into a vertical position, and then to send me shambling forward through a typical work day ... well, it's roughly the equivalent of what a few kegs of black powder and some Mythbusters might generate.

"But Mooooom! My ass IS out of bed!"

So it's something of an understatement when I say that not once in my four decades of life have I ever been a morning person.

Until about a month ago.

It's like a switch was flipped.

The weird part is, I have changed absolutely nothing about my routine. No changes in exercise, diet, caffeine intake ... nada.

My body, it seems, has engineered a bloodless coup d'etat and has seized control from my brain. I have been in charge, it seems, for quite long enough. I can no longer be trusted to operate myself.

So there's a new sheriff in town and now it's lights out at 11.

Gone is the 3 AM channel surfing. Gone is Twittering till dawn. Even if I want to stay awake, it's just not possible. It's like C-3PO when he gets switched off. I'm OUT. Down. Gone. One minute I'm there, the next I'm not. (Amusingly, I'm told this often happens mid-sentence.)

So what's the deal? Why the hell is this happening?

The way I see it, I figure there are three options:

1) It's just possible, I suppose, that this might potentially perhaps just be a sign that I'm getting ... you know ...... old.

"Grrrr ... Letters to the Editor, prostate glands and opinions about new music!"

Or ... and I personally believe this is the FAR more likely scenario ...

2) Maybe, just maybe ... I shouldn't have poked that thing I found next to the bed with that stick.

"Maybe it's filled with candy! Wait ... OH, GOD! That's not candy! That's not candy at all!"

3) Of course, it would be irresponsible of me to rule out the possibility -- remote as it may be -- that I'm actually an avatar being driven around by a wheelchair-bound space marine.

One must cover one's bases, after all.

"Wait. So last time I got to operate a bad-ass, ten-foot, blue, monkey-cat-alien on a mind-blowingly fantastical jungle planet ... and now I'm driving around in a little fat guy in Jersey? You suck, James Cameron. Hard."

Oh, well.

(sigh)

See you in the morning, I guess.



Till next we--- (snore) ...

Come On. Nobody REALLY Runs On Dunkin.

Okay, America, it's time to be a little more honest with ourselves.

How much more honest?

I'd say about 45 degrees more honest.


So, we've all seen the commercials.

And, if you're anything like me, you may have even visited this particular establishment on occasion to enjoy some of the sweet, sugary delights they have on offer.

(Okay, if you're really anything like me, you waddle up to their door almost daily to cram your slavering maw full of grease and sugar-soaked awesomeness. So, for your sake and the sake of the children, let's hope you're nothing at all like me.)

But I digress.

Anyhow, the point I wanted to make was ...

This guy.

What's his deal? Seems a little edgy, right? A little too intense?

And most importantly, not even close to how I feel after a visit this establishment.

So I headed straight over to do some "on-site research."

After messily devouring a sausage, egg and cheese biscuit and a bowtie ... I got to thinking.

(Okay, I had a nap first, then I got to thinking.)

And I concluded that, to accurately reflect their brand, Dunkin Donuts really needs to tilt this guy 45 degrees ...

Thaaaat's better.

Now that says "donuts" to me. Friendly. Easy going. And most importantly ... sedentary.

Also, he probably ought to be a bit ... eh ... thicker, too. Which, in the realm of Stick Figures, I suppose means he should be drawn in bold.


(NOTE: There's a very slim chance you might be seeing in this image a kind of bizarre "man-tini." If this is, in fact, what you're seeing, I would like to welcome you to my blog, Ms. Cattrall.)



Till next we meet ...

Like Breastmilk Off A Duck's Back

I'm an inquisitive fellow. Ask anyone.

And while I personally happen to be childless (which, trust me, is for the good of humanity, really), that's not the sort of minor detail that's going to keep me from ambling down the aisle at Target where they keep the various and sundry baby-maintenance supplies.

Because every so often I like to have a look to see how folks are maintaining babies these days.

Anyhow, on a recent amble, I happened upon a curious box of baby formula.

I find it curious for two reasons. Both of which have to do with the graphic down there in the corner.

Well, a duckling would know best, I suppose. They are experts, after all.



Wait, what?

Okay, firstly, I may not be one of your fancified, elite, east coast "zoologists," but I've been under the impression for some years that not being -- you know ... mammals -- that ducks generally do not come equipped with mammary glands.

In fact, I've been lead to understand that ducks do not suckle. Not even for fun.

(NOTE: If ducks ever do start coming equipped with mammary glands, I will likely find myself furtively deleting the Audubon Society's URL from my browsing history. Am I right, guys! Hello? Guys? Anyone? Hello?)

(Oh. I see.)

(It turns out, I am not right. Apologies.)

Secondly, what's up with the company's passive aggressive, self-loathing tone?

"Experts agree breastfeeding is best."

"But ... if maybe you don't care so much for the baby? Or the baby's kind of an asshole, maybe? Eh ... you could probably do worse than our third-rate slop."

"Probably."

(sigh)

"Oh, who are we kidding. We suck."



Till next we meet ...

This Cookie Has Seen Things ...

... terrible things ...

"You're going to put me where? But that's not even a place cookies should go!! PLEASE DON'T!! OH GOD! PLEEE--"


Till next we meet ...

Two Wrongs Make A Cake, Apparently

I'm not sure which bothers me more ...

The blatant flouting of child labor laws?

Or the complete and utter lack of hygienic food-handling regulations!



Till next we meet ...

There's A New Cirque De Soleil Show, You Say?

Yay!

And I'm sure there's absolutely nothing disquieting or creepy about that at all!

I mean, how could there be? It's Cirque de Soleil! They're so full of light-heartedness!

And whimsy! Don't forget the whimsy!

You know ... for kids!

Heck, it's a circus! And who doesn't love a circus?

All right! Let's have a peek under the big top, shall we?

Well ...

It's a vaguely spooky ringmaster.

Huh.

Okay, that's a little disquieting and creepy ... not sure why exactly ...

Huh.

But you know what? It makes sense! It's a circus! And circuses have ringmasters!

And I'm sure the whole "disquieting and creepy" thing is just me hauling some of my own personal baggage into an otherwise perfectly innocent image!

So please. Ignore me!

Although ... with his back to us ... the blood-red cape ... the twisted, thorny Hell-shadows swirling about his feet ...

God! There I go again! Seriously! Don't mind me! Obviously I'm just reading too much into things! I'm sure the show is packed -- PACKED -- with light-hearted whimsy!

Let's just lean in a bit closer and see who else might be there.

I wonder! Could there be elephants? Jugglers? Clowns? Acrobats?

It's ... um ... yeeeeeah ...

That lady.

You know ... the one with the horns ...

... and the raffia ...

... and the icy feeling of existential dread that emanates from the dark, soulless void where her heart ought to be.

Yeah.

Her.

Gah! There I go again! Sorry! So sorry! I don't know what's come over me! Honestly! I guess I shouldn't have skipped breakfast this morning! Don't know where my head is sometimes ...

Oh hey! Good news!

Who could have anything negative to say about the inclusion of what would appear to be 16-time Grammy winning pop and R&B songstress Beyoncé!?

Nobody, that's who!

Although ... she did co-star in what is widely acknowledged to be the worst of the Austin Powers movies. Not an insignificant feat ...

Oh, never you mind! Ignore me! I'm looking at this whole thing all backwards! Surely there's plenty of light-hearted whimsy to be found!

I just have to really lean in there and look a bit harder ...

OH DEAR SWEET BUTTERY FUCK!!

KILL IT!!

KILL IT WITH FIRE!!!



Till next we meet ...

But Mom ...!

... I NEED SOME OF THOSE WRINKLES TO LIVE!!



Till next we meet ...

The Bystanders! They Do Nothing! (Stick Figures in Peril!)

One of the more insidious Perils faced by Stick Figures is also among the least well-known. Because it lurks within the inscrutable and insular heart of Stick Figure society itself.

That Peril? The complete and utter disregard for the health and well-being of other Stick Figures.

According to the latest research, the vast majority of Stick Figures -- an alarming 94.2%* -- will stand impassively by and watch vacantly as a fellow stick figure is fed screaming into the grinding, entrail-caked wheels of a moving train. They will not lift a finger to assist.

Even if they had fingers.

Which they do not.

Is it apathy? A lack of compassion? A psychological inability to empathize with another?

Or are they just jealously resentful of anyone in a swanky, red, business unitard?

We may never know.

____________________________
* Studies show that, at any given moment, the remaining 5.8% are actually being fed under the wheels on the other side of the train.


Till next we meet ...

I Can Haz Journalistic Professionalism?

(sigh)

So, apparently it's "Casual Friday" in CNN's headline writers' room.


It really is a shame they couldn't manage to work in "Dick-Measuring" as well. That really would have classed up the whole affair.

(Though, to be fair, I suppose a good number of headlines feature the word "Santorum" ... and we all know how incredibly filthy that word is.)



Till next we meet ...

Lawnmower Man(gle)! (Stick Figures in Peril!)

What's the most Perilous chore in the world for a Stick Figure to perform?

Mowing my lawn, apparently.

According to the warning labels on my mower, Stick Figures face a veritable cornucopia of eviscerating, bloody Peril whenever they venture within miles of my backyard.

Firstly, there's the ever present Peril of being peppered with heavy machine gun fire should a Stick Figure EVER begin to dance.

(Though, to be fair, this shouldn't be much of a surprise. We have laws for a reason, people.)

(Little known fact: This was actually the original inspiration for the film Footloose. True story.)


Next up ... the specter of bloody, agonizing dismemberment is never far behind your average Stick Figure. But for those Stick Figures on the lookout for a cheap, do-it-yourself alternative to the pricey spa-style "mani/pedi" ... it's all but a certainty.

"OH NO! NOT MY EXTREMITIES! I LOVED HAVING THOSE!"


Lastly ... it would seem elderly Stick Figures with mobility issues are also at an increased risk of being violently run down and messily fed, cane and all, into the whriling, gore-strewn blades of my mower.

On the other hand, perhaps this particular warning is more properly targeted at Brooklyn-based Hipster Stick Figures who have developed the annoying affectation of carrying Victorian walking sticks. Hmm. You know what? I like this answer better.


Oh! One more thing.

Before I let you go ... this may be something of a tangent, but it seems Lawnmower/Human Hybrid Cyborgs vehemently disapprove of traditional human reproduction.

Just so you know.



Till next we meet ...

Didn't You Hear Me?! I SAID NO STANDING!!

Seriously.

Get down.

Lower.

No, lower!

On your belly!

Because they have RULES in this town, is why!

Now will you please GET DOWN!

All the way!

LOW-ER!!

(sigh)

Great. This bus never going to stop now. Thanks a LOT.

Oh, hey! I found gum!



Till next we meet ...

We're With You.

Yes, we're right there with you in the Tri-State area.

But take one goddamn step outside that area -- into The Forbidden Zone? Well, then you're on your own, motherfucker.

Because you'll be dead to us!

You hear me?!?

DEAD!



Till next we meet ...

I'm Gonna Go Cook The Pasta, Cook The Pasta.

Naturally, I'm also looking forward to his imported Italian knees.


Till next we meet ...

What Are You Planning, Pick-Axe?

So I was roaming the hardware store the other day ...


... and I fear this pick-axe might know something ...


DON'T LET HIM ON A PLANE!


Till next we meet ...

That'll Be Five Dollars! YAY!

I hate how delighted this parking meter is at the thought of taking my money.

Come ON, man! Have the decency to do your giggling behind my back!


Till next we meet ...

All I Want For Christmas Is ... Well ... Anything But These Things Really.

And now an entry I forgot to post the week after Christmas on 1/5/11. Better late than never, I suppose. Apologies.

As we bask in the post-holiday afterglow, I invite you to rummage with me through some sadly unwanted items in the clearance bin.

A veritable Aisle of Misfit Buys, if you will.

Walk with me, won't you?

First up there's this delightful item ...

What could be better than week-old cake, you ask?

What about, week-old cake made to look like Santa's batch!

"Show me on the cake where the jolly man touched you."

What kid wouldn't jump at the chance to scoop tar-black and blood-red frosting from Santa's "area"!?

Sign me up! I'm Ho-Ho-Ho-ungry for some some stale, sexually harassing desert!


Next, we have a hunk of this special ... eh ... Christmas-flavored ... um ... I guess ... cheese?

Nothing odd or surprising about the existence of cheese, of course. But I suppose I'm just puzzled as to why it would feature Santa.

And his famous Christmas ... um ... cat?

Of course! We've all curled up round the fire on Christmas Eve to hear that story, haven't we?

(Seriously. I'm asking. Have we? Because I'm pretty sure I haven't. Perhaps I need to have a word or two with a certain pair of negligent parents ...)

Also, what exactly does a cat have to do with Christmas?

Or Santa.

Or cheese for that matter.

And while we're on the subject ... aren't Santa's cheeks supposed to be rosy? And not his eyes?

"BRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAINS!!!"

And lastly, we have this delightful bath gel and body lotion set.

"Smear this on your person!"

Would you like some? Sure thing! You're welcome to it!

All you have to do is roll up your sleeve ...

AND REACH DEEP INTO THE LEDERHOSEN OF THIS PERVY DOG-BEAR-THING!!

"Just a dollop and do me!"

Looks like it's going to be a Happy New Year ... for somebody.



Till next we meet ...

Opinions Are NOT Like Assholes, Actually. They're Like The Highlander. There Can Be Only One.

Say what you will about her acting chops.

But on one topic, there can be no debate ...


She plays the everloving shit out of those zimbals.


Till next we meet ...

Wait ... So These Gloves Are For What Now?

Hang on a second ... I'm confused.

What exactly am I supposed to use these gloves for?

Are they for cleaning the house? Doing the dishes? Washing the car?

Because, judging by the box, they look like they might be intended for ... um ...

... you know ...

... um ...

... for ...

... eh ...




... "sexy time?"

*If used properly, may actually cause mess.


Till next we meet ...

SPOILER ALERT!

Christopher Nolan is planning a sequel to Oscar-nominated smash INCEPTION!

How do I know?

I spotted this prop from the new film!


Word is, the new movie will be called ... wait for it ... Conception!

You won't need 3D glasses, but you may need to wear a special BRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!


Till next we meet ...

So How Are Those Europe-y Gazing Sessions Going?

Um ... Hel-LO!

Phenomenally!?


Till next we meet ...

Let's See What's On The Menu Tonight At Gropey McFondly's ...

You know, I may not have much use for catering right now ...

But my Private Part? Well, that might just have a few needs, now that you mention it.




(Damn! I never know how much to tip here!)



Till next we meet ...