Drunk and Cartooning

When the Ice Melts in Texas - an expression in Haiku

 From your former state
 
Transform back to life elixir
 
The ground is now turd

The Final Countdown: Three...Two More Minute? Two?...One? Okay.

The 4 Weathermen of The DFW Apocalypse: 10 Steps to Fabricating Fear

10. Make the winter storm easy to hate. Frozen precipitation is the color pink on a Doppler
radar color code. This is on purpose, it makes the snow seem super gay.

9. When speaking of a storm system make it seem as if it's a freight train hauling a load of child molesters to the audience's doorstep.

8. Always compare current weather to extreme events that occurred in the past. It's okay to refer to pre-Biblical times.

7. Make sure you take off your suit jacket, loosen your tie and roll up your sleeves a quarter the way up your arm. Let the audience know this is the hardest acting gig since your stuntman days performing in the wild west show at Six Flags.

6. Keep reminding people that the freezing point of water is 32 degrees Fahrenheit, then point to areas on a map with temperatures below freezing and bug your eyes out.

5. Look at blurry pictures sent to you by people who can barely use a camera. Then let your imagination run wild to what you're looking at. "A frozen koi pond or a glacier, who knows? death is certain either way."

4. The holy grail, b-roll footage of wrecks where snow is in the shot. The accident footage can be from any location or decade.

3. When the news anchor throws the newscast to you act a little disgusted at the light banter they just made you take part in. You're a weather man dammit, not some mailman or zookeeper.

2. Break in at least once during primetime programming to reiterate that the Winter Season thinks everyone watching the newscast killed its dad. The storm system plans on using a "wintery mix" to avenge his death.

1.  Don't ever mention the fact that this is all taking place in Texas and the winter assault will end in 72 hours. If you do end up mentioning it, compare our few days of winter to the 3 months of desolate, soul-crushing, alcoholism-inducing weather of our northern neighbors.

Just add ice to make a
delicious Chaos Cocktail!

Christmas Drama

My Fantasy Curling Team

All these foreigners better start giving a damn. Flargin Lettinen, Zubo Kalkokov, Surge Meskinen and the other guy that spells his name with all vowels better step up their game or I'll cut'em. I'm colder than the ice they awkwardly walk upon.

Optimus Brim Will be the Must-Have Toy This Holiday Season

I Love Helping with Holiday Craft Projects

e-Cards for the Holidays are Here!!!

 

 

 

Why Mini Vans Exist

How to Punch a Sleeping Person in 10 Easy Steps

1. Wait for the victim to fall asleep. Take advantage of this downtime to perfect your yo-yo skills. You don't like my suggestion? Then just sit there with a dumb look on your face. I don't care. I was merely throwing out an idea to pass the time.

2. If you think the victim is sleeping, wait one more hour just to be sure. (A hunter's greatest weapon is patience.) I bet you wish you had a yo-yo right about now. It's too late. Just sit there and soak in the boredom. This whole fiasco of inactivity is your fault.

3. Before entering, inspect the area around the victim. If you've done this before the victim may have set booby traps. It's also time to stop playing with the yo-yo and place it back into your fanny pack.

4. Now that your recon mission is complete it's time to put on your Karate Gi. Practice your move on the vacuum cleaner. Being perfect never hurt anyone.

5. Harness/Focus Chi.

6. Set camera to night vision.

7. Get yourself in the right emotional state to throw a proper punch. It takes the average human a "ramping up" process to reach a point where they can attack a defenseless human.
 

8. Enter the room as if you were a cat. I like to dress the part. If you get caught before the attack, take full advantage of the insanity angle. A man lurking in the dark wearing a Karate Gi/Cat costume should be able to illicit a great deal of pity from the victim.

9. Stand bed-side with a strong pimp hand or a wife beating fist. Keep telling yourself you're coming from a place of love and concern. Be like Ike, but draw the line at O.J.

10. Punch, then become a ghost.
Retreat to a neutral
area. Quickly retrieve the yo-yo from your fanny pack. Then, if the roommate confronts you, say "What's up man? I've been out here practicing my yo-yo skills ,"(as you do the "around the world" trick.)  Your perceived mastery and increased skill will aid in your alibi. If you still don't have a yo-yo by now, not planning is planning to fail the way I see it.

 

There's No Drama in Tacos

The Bureau of Labor Statistics' National Census of Fatal Occupational Injuries shows that there were a total of 4,383 fatal injuries on the job in the U.S. in 2012. But more importantly, my TV told me catching King Crab is one of the most dangerous jobs of them all.

 

Think about that, there are people out there risking their lives to ensure we get to eat crab legs. I suppose that's why it costs more than most of the other entrées on the menu. I realize high compensation helps offset the risks, but someone still potentially died for the food sitting on the table before you. Doesn't that seem ridiculous?

Crabbing comes in 5th overall in total number of deaths per year.



I don't remember the last time anyone died preparing my combo plate at a Mexican restaurant. "Oh, one of the line cooks has a terminal disease," said the waiter. "Nope, not good enough. I want him trampled by the beast that will become my carne asada," proclaimed the diner.  





This picture has nothing to do with the story.

Therefore, because of price and prestige, I would like to know how many people died in the preparation of my meal. I think it's the least we can do for the deceased.

 

"Sir, here is your King Crab platter with extreme stuffed potato skins. A man named Jeremy fell overboard into the chilly Alaskan waters. He was overcome by hypothermia and his body now resides at the bottom of the Bearing Sea. This meal before you is more than delicious, but also a monument to a man," said the waiter. "Splendid, where is my side of ranch?" I reply.

There were 32 fatalities in the Crabbing/Fishing industry in 2012. That number remains constant and only slightly fluctuates from year to year.
 

Creating a Simple and Smart logo is the first step.

Maybe other restaurants need to "up their game." I keep going back to the fact that there needs to be more peril associated with Mexican food. I just don't see any way to add danger to taco preparation. I think the only way to increase the risk factor is for Mexican restaurants to unite with the sellers of King Crab.

Most of the time when things join forces the result is pretty good. Like, when those homeless kids put their rings together to summon Captain Planet. I think On The Border and Red Lobster should join forces.

I can hear the commercial now:
VO: "At On the Lobster you get quality Tex-Mex and a side of danger with every entrée! While you wait for your crab legs and beans, enjoy our complimentary Shrimps n' Salsa! 

Illegal Legal Advice

Papa John Steals Pizza from Himself

 

I just saw one of the new Papa John's Pizza TV ads and I'm amazed at its mediocrity. Right from the start, I know bitching about it on the interweb is exactly what they want, I just can't let it slide. It just doesn't make any damn sense.


Why the hell would the owner of Papa John's wear a mask to impersonate Jerry Jones and steal his pizza? The black guy makes sense, but Jerry is his business partner. Once more, he's stealing money out of his own pocket and making one of his employees look bad.

Jerry will call at some point and be like "Yo, where's my pizza?" Then the pizza dude's supervisor will ask the pizza dude "Yo, why didn't you deliver Jerry's pizza?" Then the pizza dude will be like "I was face to face with the man, I gave it to him myself."
All this confusion will lead to a triangle of frustration.(A triangle of frustration is like a love triangle, but far less sexy.)

Now Jerry's super pissed and wants the pizza dude fired. Then while the pizza dude's job hangs in the balance, Papa John is hiding in the dark whispering the company slogan into a camera.

I called a Papa John's and tried to do an interview, but the employee wouldn't submit to the use of her voice on BBaT.com. Anonymously she would confirm that the commercial made little to no sense and raised another question that holds some water. Why would a millionaire commit a B and E (breaking and entering) himself when he could hire someone to do it for him? Good point.

Remember the good'ol days when Jerry was a rapper and the world made sense?

A Beautiful Disaster

Clay vs. Music

Some Days You Win

As you approach the public restroom, you see the cleaning lady taking down the sign that says "Bathroom Closed for Cleaning." She's placing the Windex back in her rolling cleaning command center. You realize that at this moment, this specific bathroom is at its highest level of cleanliness. You open the door with confidence.

There will be no shit-cloud lying in wait ready to bitch slap you with stench. The poop mosaic on the back of the bowel has yet to be commissioned. The drips of urine that puddle in front of the urinal are not present. There isn't even the accumulation of excess soap below the dispenser.

This refurbished world is new and untouched. I feel like Columbus or Neil Armstrong? Am I pioneer, trailblazer or thrill seeker? No, I'm a merely a dude with impeccable timing. As I exit, I pass a co-worker in the hall on his way to the restroom. "Today's my day, Bill," I say in passing. "What?" he replies.

No matter how beat down you claim to be, never miss a chance to celebrate a victory. Some days you win. Some...days...YOU WIN!!! (Mat thrusts his fist into the air)

Floating the Backyard

The Crooked I...represent in moderation

 

 Photo Courtesy of Sarah Boyer

This playa was found near Barton Elem. represent.  

The Westboro Baptist Church: Savior of Mankind

They're mantra "God Hates Fags" is so brutal on the ears. Even the most pious person might have a bigger problem with the statement than the homosexual act itself. I don't know, I do anyways. From a religious standpoint, it's a contradiction in its syntax if you think about it . The protesting of fallen soldier's funerals and innocent victims is counter intuitive. The gays, straights, black, white, sane, pious, atheist and anyone with a pulse can count the ways they're actions are despicable.

As we ignore our differences and focus our dislike towards this organization, should we thank them? These universally hated people have united us. They've achieved a level of societal cohesiveness I've never seen in my life. It even transcends those few precious weeks after a tragedy when we put our humanity out there for free. Could this be the underlying motivation of these people? Are they becoming the lightening rod ,not out of ignorance or hate, but as players in a divine plan that the world has yet to see though? The actions of these seemingly heinous people is catalyst for a declaration of humanity by the masses. It's a blatant use of reverse phycology. Tom Sawyer tricked us again and we're painting the fence. 
 

These people may be brilliant. Every religious figure, in every celestial pursuit, has a story of persecution. A test of humility in order to achieve a higher being or state. On the surface, The WBC's members appear to be bigots, homophobes and fools, but what if behind the scenes they're watching the united front against them and smiling as their higher-level plan unfolds? It drives me crazy to even harbor the thought. Then again, why not? I know folks from all walks of life and not a single one endorses their actions. 

This scheme is no different than the convoluted stories in the Bible where god tests an individual's faith. Such as the story of Abraham. I realize it may be Old Testament, therefore "Old School", but when I first read this parable ,with naked eyes, I was sickened. I didn't stop and think it was a test of faith. I thought it was the act of a desperate ,mentally ill, man trying to appease an insecure deity that's even sicker. I still feel this way about any kind of holy literature that demands death. I suppose the whole story sounds better when it's sugar-coated by a man in a suit that practices his diction in front of mirror before he addresses the audience. Not every part of the "Good Book" is an easy sell.  

 

I know the above 'graph is antagonistic to the believers and a valid point to the atheists. It was meant to be. You either accept what I'm saying, discount it as opinion or give it credence. However, my best efforts to elicit any emotion will always fall short to the all encompassing "Hate Love-Fest" that's left in the wake of The WBC's teachings. Could these perceived monsters be the ever lasting light and the embodiment of true enlightenment?

You know, on second thought, maybe I'm giving these back-woods, inbred, hate-mongering, soulless pricks too much credit. Forget I said anything.
 

The Ramifications of Lotion

Lotion is a hell of an invention. Especially for a person such as myself that is habitually pale, yet enjoys the sun. The flavors are infinite and the utility of such a product is invaluable. Much like frozen pizza or firearms.

Everyday I shake hands with folks, and when there is lotion residue I almost throw up. It really is odd. Out of the bottle lotion is nice, but when not properly rubbed in on the hands of a stranger, it’s appalling.

Rubbing in lotion seems like a basic skill. If you have lotion on your hands just tell me. I don’t want to shake your hand anyway. You’re probably a person I wouldn’t even acknowledge on the street unless I was being paid to be nice to you, much like a prostitute or valet.

Also, as I grab for the door to the office I encounter greasy residue on the doorknob. Because of this nastiness, I now open doors like a hypochondriac. Now I enter the room with aid of a napkin. Which makes me appear OCD to others or worse, European. Either way, all of the sudden, I come off as the crazy one. Even though there’s some skank or brosuf out there making the world unlivable.

A fictional serial killer once said, “It puts the lotion on its skin…” Just for the record, you’re supposed to rub that mess in so you don’t come off as a slimy horse-jacker from a stud farm.

You Leave Now Round-Eye!!!

The following are 10 things to do at a Chinese buffet

1. Wear a cowboy hat. Draw attention to yourself right when you enter the joint.

2. If there is a fresh bread lady, always accept her bread. Take control of all bread within a 50ft radius. Be dedicated. Lie, cheat and steal until you're king of a mighty bread mountain. Four feet is the record.  

3. Make jello a universal condiment. It goes on everything.

4. Take at least three food items with you to the bathroom. It makes you seem mysterious. Throw away the food and come out chewing.

5. If there is a guy that will cook stuff on the Wok, keep winking at him. Go ahead and give him a hug before you leave.

6. Converse with post-it notes to appear deaf. Then, overreact to all sounds.

7. Keep asking the busboy to bring you lobster and a baked potato with ranch on the side.

8. When eating utensils aren't in use store them under your armpit.

9. If you talk to an employee, act scared. They're the hammer and you're the nail. It's time to cry on command if you can.  

10. When paying out, call the cashier "master."

 

My Cover Letter for Joining a Street Gang

I want to Represent!!!

Dear O.G. or Current Gang Leader,
I would like to join your gang! I know most folks become infatuated with your organization in high school, but the way I see it age is just a number. I agree some numbers mean everything, such as your click's area code or caliber choice, but age versus dedication are separate worlds. My 30+ years on this planet have taught me one thing, and one thing alone, now is the time for me to gang-bang.


Art by Matthew Palladino

With that said, I'd like to let you know I'm indeed true to the street. I've got no time for chicken-heads and no person disrespects me. Real talk. Case in point, I fed a seagull a kernel of dog turd cause the dirty bird pooped on my arm. As he hovered over me wanting a handout, I got my revenge. I wasn't going to merely front game. I demanded retribution. So, I threw that doggy deuce up in the air like I didn't care. Revenge is a dish best served cold and if the entrée is fecal it really teaches a lesson. Nobody poops on me and gets away with it. It's very easy to use poop as a weapon when you always carry Wet-Ones.  


This is my brother's dog.

Despite my ability to abuse wild birds, I will have an issue with any sort of dogfighting. All I can say is I'm a complicated individual. While the event is commencing, I'd be more than happy to go pick up the cold-cut platter at the deli for the after party. Don't get me wrong, I do think dogs are dope. I'm currently teaching my brother's dog the "f word." I know cussing is very gangster and there's no need to censor myself, but I'd prefer this cover letter remain professional so I'm taken seriously as a candidate.  

I was also thinking, instead of jumping me in we could have a cook-out. Then the worst thing that could happen is messy hands, but like I said before, I'll have plenty of Wet-Ones on hand. This way everyone gets to have fun and y'all get to see me at my best. I'm quite the grill-master and I'll pay for half the rental fee on a bounce house. We'll all be jumping in something that night. We'll laugh until we cry, there will be no need for teardrop face tats that night. :]

REAL TALK.

Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. The last thing I'd want to do is get it twisted. Simply put, I really want to join your gang. I want to belong. I want to learn all the hand signs. I want to do shadow figures on graffiti laden walls.  I want to represent. I want to keep it real.

As you can see I don't have a résumé to show because that would be bragging. I know someone ,such as yourself, has achieved nothing. The years you've spent climbing up through the ranks of the fools before you, only to become a leader of fools, doesn't impress anyone in the real world. But guess what, it tickles my pickle and I think your hella tight. I also couldn't get anyone to write a reference letter that stated I was incompetent. Don't worry, I can unlearn common decency and my honky work ethic.



I can relate to life on the street. I watch Maury.

Which leads me to my next point, my ethnicity. I realize the general consensus is to kill a cracker, but just give me a chance. Sure my skin is white, but I already own ill-fitting and over-sized garments in all the popular street gang colors. I can join any click, at a moment's notice.

Would you like to "keep it real" with me?,

Mat "Left Eye" McD

P.S. - I went ahead and gave myself a nickname. I'm a big TLC fan, can't you tell? Hit me up on my cell. We can talk about it. Then we can plan an ill conceived drive-by that hurts innocent people while we cowardly speed away! I enjoy murking.


Art by Matthew Palladino

 

Real Talk

Harley Davidson Owners Are Just Looking for a Buddy

Jamal is 1 of 33 black
men that own a Harley in the US.

The small-talk begins as I purchase my fuel from the cashier. Then our conversation is interrupted as we look out near the pumps. What caught our attention was a man on a Harley lurching forward into a pylon and stalling his bike.

Of course he's on a Harley. The American standard of cool has been transformed into a mid-life crisis that's a blatant statement of form over function. If riding a German Shepard became the trend this man would abide without question. 

The rebel is no more, Tattoos are no longer taboo and the quest for acceptance picks right back up where it left off in high school. The man stalling his Harley, desperately chasing his youth, will never catch it. He'll most likely be crippled on the road, because wrecking on a bike is inevitable. I always thought ignoring the inevitable is a young man's sport, but times are changing.

He's definitely not alone in the pointless pursuit of cool.



A Super Gay and Super lame movie.

In fact, the Harley rule of the road: "If you're on a bike, you better talk to me. And if you're too far away, you sure as hell better wave. Make me feel special because I'm not driving a car."

I never knew a common ground demanded so much work. I guess folks that ride motorcycles are just looking for a friend. I watched as two "bad ass" bikers sat next to each other at the red light. The two strangers sought each other out as they zigzagged perilously through traffic to share a moment together. Don't get me wrong, motorcycles are sort of cool, but I just don't want an arranged marriage with a man in order to own one.

I know there's other cults of machinery and clubs centered around vehicles. Where the Harley cult differs is they seem to be posers. I honestly think most of them think there's a camera crew making a digital record of their bad-assery 24/7. Being a master of your machine comes second for most Harley owners. The primary focus of finding the elusive jacket ,that matches their chaps, is paramount.


The father of this family owns 3 Harleys.

While I'm on the topic of chaps. I understand chaps serve a practical use, but wearing them when purchasing a slice of pie ,inside a restaurant, sort of says "LOOK AT ME!!!" Look, the helmet you're currently carrying tells us all we need to know. Don't worry, we see you and we're still laughing from when you stalled your hog earlier.

Wearing chaps for fun is also super gay. I've seen some graphic things on the interweb that confirm the above statement. A buddy of mine often emails me attachments titled "Fishing Trip", "Vacation Photos" or "Pics of My Kids." Then when I open it I get a lesson on what it takes to be a power-bottom. In 4 out 5 of these nefarious emails chaps are involved. Blindly opening email attachments is how I live on the edge.

Maybe I should start walking up to every person that drives a truck and hug them. I could put a patch on my jacket. I can see it now, my truck gang shall be called THE TRUCK PHAWKS and our rivals could be Hybrid owners, they'd be THE PHAWK TRUCKS.

I'm not above talking to someone just on the guise of a common ground, but I draw the line at toe jobs at the red light. What's a toe job? I don't know, but I assume only Harley brand oil goes on that toe. "It's got to match the jacket!" said the effeminate dance choreographer doing Jazz Hands.