Masturbatory Self-Congratulations

All I'm saying, is this guy looks cocky as shit and I love it.

Supersize that image to look at Romney's "I'm getting photographed" sad smile, too.

I'm going to sleep now. I'll try to catch up on those 300 mutual facebook congrats notices tomorrow. After that, I plan on paying my taxes, enjoying my health care, and buying my multiple, bisexual, atheist lovers buy-one/get-one abortion gift cards.

If you think he was too liberal before, you have no idea what kind of Jed Bartlet shit Barry's gonna pull now that he's got nothing to lose.

On Wearing Your Pink

5-Hour Energy: "You don't need to like us, just buy this and make us pay for breast cancer research. We know you like that better than us."




Listen, I'm going to buy one of your energy shots. Because I work eight hours and I'd still like the ability to go out and get drunk once in a while after a snack and a brief shower. Energy shots are good for this.

After, I'm going to find a cancer researcher, and I'm going to hand her $4.25. Because I want a cure for cancer. Or a fully-reversing treatment. Or therapy. Not just a stopgap, but a real, solid end to it as a concerning threat. Maybe she'll use it to buy lunch. Maybe she pays for parking. Maybe she leaves it on the counter and oesn't touch it out of confusion and moderate trepidation until she's 35¢ short of a Pop-Tart from the lab vending machine.

I have no illusions that my money would be less than a molecule in a drop in a bucket in an ocean, but maybe that $4.25 means the petty cash drawer lasts longer, and someone gets more money left in their budget at the end of the year. Maybe the excess gets blown on a party where someone has an epiphany and scrawls a formula on the wall still wearing their lampshade as a helmet.

Or maybe everyone just agrees to hand money to scientists and let them do their jobs because 13% of us are slated to die from it. In fact, if I can fund a cure for cancer, Alzheimer's, and Parkinson's, I'm going to be handsome, vivacious, and ornery until I'm 135.

I want to be 135.

And I don't need a pink magnet on my energy shot to guilt me into it.

Disney Princess Leia Pt 1

Last week, the day after a part of my soul gave up hope with the news that Disney had purchased Star Wars and all of LucasFilm, I read the joke apparently everyone but me had bee thinking nonstop:

Leia is now a Disney Princess.

This actually beefs up their street cred quite considerably, in my estimate. Few princesses have such high personal body counts, and borderline incest usually gets edited out of the stories some time between Hand Christen Anderson and box office.

So, here's the second joke I came up with about this. (The first will be twice as difficult to draw, as I am unfamiliar with drawing chibi anatomy.)

Tabloid Journalistic Integrity

"Kourtney stuns everyone by agreeing to marry out of control Scott. Choosing ratings over love, she makes the same mistake Kim made.

"DOES MARRIAGE MEAN NOTHING TO THIS FAMILY?"


That's got to be the only time InTouch magazine has ever been even remotely "in touch" with the thoughts of a sensible human being. Also, it's the closest any Kardashian has ever gotten to one as well.

Too bad it was probably just the layout girl using filler text instead of Lorem ipsum and someone's getting fired for not placing the intended "Private wedding photos here!" in that field.

On Saddling Your Children with Names That Control Their Future

Naming your child "Lucky" is going to ruin him. "Princess" and "Honey Boo-boo" are likewise fucked.

Today I add a new one: Never name a young black boy "Kenyan."

That's like naming a little Jewish boy "Israel." Like the guy running the Pakistani Deli down the block from your apartment telling you his name really is "John Paki."

You're essentially just guaranteeing that your kid is going to chased continuously throughout his life, first by bullies on the playground, then by about 40,000 white people trying to make it to the tape at the 2012 2013 New York City Marathon.

Well at least he'll have great cardio strength. That might just be enough to combat his genetic predisposition for heart disease, diabetes, and obesity.

New York Comic Con Summation

This is part of a fan survey I filled out this year, suggesting ways to improve New York Comic Con for next year, specifically the celebrity guest part. For the most, I really didn't have many criticisms. I was happy with the con, even if I was snubbed for a press pass and had to pay the blisteringly pocket-scorching $65 for a three-day pass.

However, I may have had one suggestion that I felt strongly about.

Of Those Who Can't Failing to Teach

A family asked me yesterday for a book that would teach their son–for homework that night I learned–the similarities between the branches of government. "Branches" being a word I supplied; they went with "sections" and "parts."

Keep in mind, they also did not understand when I explained thrice that there was nothing in the store and it would have to be ordered, taking longer than 20 minutes to arrive.

The branches are, for those who don't remember 7th grade history class, the Legislative branch (Congress), the Executive branch (the President), and the Judicial branch (the courts). When these two wunderelterns attempted to list them, mom got "Parliamentary" and "Prime Ministreal," which isn't even a word. Dad fared no better with "Communist" in place of Congress and "President," which is actually more horrifying, because in between his wife's attempt and his own, I said them all. To them. They were there. And still, neither one of them even remotely got "Judiciary." I would have taken any variation on "courts." Nothin'.

God help that poor child. If his parents teach him that "Communist" is a branch of American government, we're going to have a little Young Republican on our hands fairly quickly.