Adventure at Ryan's Restaurant
(Long)
It was the funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me. A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night, which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining them. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.
We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening. I tell you-in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however.
I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas that could have been passed in batches right at the table without too much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food that spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...
I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good ****. In this case, however, the door lock was broken, and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a ****. I went to the normal stall.
In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions. I began "The Move."
For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position one's ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of **** at the exact same second that one's ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.
I was about halfway into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night. It was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall.
Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events is a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.
In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze-frame on the situation, I was half crouched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over **** no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since ****ting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted.
At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of **** with the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember I was only halfway down on the toilet at that moment. The **** wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat. After doing so, it slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occurred, I was already halfway to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the **** wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose. Even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of **** remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon. Now, back to the vomit...
While all the ****ting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Remember that this position placed my head directly above my pants, which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles? In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of big, fat yeast rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.
In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended. Yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit. My back was covered in **** that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid ****. All while thick **** was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat. And there was no ****ing toilet paper.
What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK, since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left.
At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign. About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankle thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.
The manager then came back in with half-a-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned.Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage of just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose. Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes. I was still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.
When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.
The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.
orignally posted by thesolider gauers...
Strangest Day ever
I posted this on a thread where a friend of mine posted about his Weirdest day ever, and this happened some time back in my senior year of highschool
Dan = me
The night before this day, I only got 2 hours of sleep, and the lack of sleep caused my perception of the world to become weak, and it was like being in a dream.
Forgive the cursing, but it helps the story go along.
6:00 AM: Mother comes in to wake me up
Mom: Wake up Dan
Me: Ughh... Go away....
Mom: Come on get up
Me: Go the hell away...... just leave me here to die
*Mom gets a cup of cold water, and throws it on Thesoldier
Me: For ****s Sake!!!! Im up goddamnit.
6:15 AM: Dad offers breakfast
Dad: Would you like some human flesh (I thought I heard him say Human flesh)
Dan: WHAT?!
Dad: Would you like some Canadian Bacon
Dan: No... just OJ and im off to school.
6:30-6:50 - Watch Playboy in my Room
6:55 - Drive towards school.
7:03 - Get cut off by an asshat on Route 70 and he almost crashes into me
*Dan sticks body out window and curses off other car*
Dan: "WHY THE **** DONT YOU WATCH WHERE THE **** YOUR GOING YOU ****ING BROKEN DICK ASS COMMUNIST PIECE OF **** DRIVER... GO BACK TO MARYLAND!"
7:08- Dan arrives at school, and fights for a parking spot... Dan gets lucky a parking spot near the school after stealing it from a chick he hates.
7:11- Dan goes to locker and opens it, only to find the books spill out, and after slamming the locker and cursing... Dan picks up books and goes to class
7:13- Dan gets to home room, sits down, and passes out
7:25- Dan gets awaken by friend Matt
Matt: Dude, wake up
Dan: **** you, lettme sleep
Matt: Wake the **** up.
Dan: No.. Me... Sleep....You...Shut the **** up and die
Matt: Wake up idiot.
Dan: Fine.
7:35- Plege of Allegance starts and TV Annoucements start
Suzie the annoucement girl: And the new president of our student body is Jenn (Name withheld)
*Dan thinks to himself*
Considering the girl is a complete dumbass who couldnt even get a 700 on the SATs, and also that she ran ****in-unopposed
Suize: And our new Student Body Treasurer is Brad (Name Withheld)
THE KID COULDNT EVEN PASS ALGEBRA II without cheating off me, and he failed PRE-CALC..... What the hell is this world coming to
7:45 - Home room ends, Dan goes to Spanish II
7:50 - Dan gets in Spanish II, and takesa siesta, during Reviso de verbos español
8:35 - Spanish ends, and Dan goes to Computer Programming II, to work on his mid term project which was a game of hangman in C++.
Dan goes insane in class while coding, when he cannot get the damned program to open the sports category. Dan goes nuts and writes an entire page of coding which says
cout << " ************************************************fu
ck********" << endl;
Teacher notices Dan's screen and just stares at Dan.
Dan finally figures out the problem and finishes the Sports Category.
9:15- Computer Programming Ends, and Dan goes to Creative Computing. Dan continues his project which is a 25 Silde Autobiography, Dan looses his mind due to lack of sleep, and writes a new slide. Teacher comes and checks
Mrs. Dutton - Hows it going Dan
Dan - Well Mrs. D, I just finished my life goals slide... Want to hear
Mrs. Dutton - Sure
Dan - My name is Dan Dalia, and I have currently ammounted to nothing in my miserable life like the pathetic wuss I am. My main goal in life is to Eat, ****, Get laid a bunch of times, and then become the age of 80 years old, and then die while trying to get to the bathroom.
John a guy behind me - Dude those are my goals too... freakin cheater.
Mrs. D- O' Brother
9:55 - Dan goes to AFJROTC for the Tuesday staff meeting, but hangs out with fellow Seniors before other staff members come
Dan F- So whatcha guys do last night
Kim- Hung out with Nick
Nick- Hung out with Kim
Jay - Burnt CD's
Dan - Slowly came to the conclusion that my life is wasted, and also still trying to prove that the law of gravity is a farce since it feels like im upside down when I try to sleep oh, and also that im going to die from lack of sleep.
*Everyone laughs*
Dan- What the hell, im not joking.
Kim - Thats why I like you Danny, your so funny at times
Dan - And I like for two reasons. One is that your nice, and you laugh at my jokes.
Kim - Oh thats nice sweety, whats the other reason
Dan - Oh two is that I really want to get inside your pants one of these days.
Kim - ........Erhm...Ok
*Staff comes and we have the meeting... Our Wing Commander and Vice Wing Commander (Who are juniors and I outrank) are boyfriend and girlfriend. The Wing Commander was a girl named Tiffany and we all called her Der Führer *
Tiffany: Also Im dissapointed with Captain Dalia, because he is the only senior without a staff posistion
Ok bitch, all the high ranking Staff Posistions for my current rank grade are taken, and Im not doing some stupid little **** TSgt Posistion just to make your nazi ass happy... promote me to Major, and then maybe I can become the Personal manager.
Dan: I told you a hundred times, All the jobs that call for the rank of Captain are taken up, and the only way to give me a posistion would be to promote me to Major, or Demote me to 1st LT, which cant be done since im graduating in a few months anyway...
Tiffany: I DONT CARE, just find one!
*Dan Snaps at attention and hails the commander*
Dan: JAWOHL MIEN Führer!!!! IT SHALL BE DONE!
Austin: Dont call my GF a nazi.
Dan: Dude you call her one all the time behind her back
*Tiffany flips off Dan, and Slaps Austin in the face*
10:35 - Dan goes to lunch, doesnt eat, and passes out at the table
11:10 - Dan goes to History, and passes out while teacher ****s up teaching the history of World War One
11:50 - Dan goes to English, and passes out while teacher reads Hamlet to the class
12:20 - Dan goes to Gym Class, passes out on the floor during attendance
Matt: Mr. M, I think Dans dead...
Mr. M: Let him sleep.
Matt: Dan.... Wake up
*Matt kicks Dan*
Dan: Erhmm...urg...gurgllle..
*class goes to play basket ball, Matt Drags Dan by his legs accross the gym floor, as he sleeps for the rest of the period
1:45 - Dan goes to car, and almost gets into 400 Accidents trying to get out of the parking lot
2:03 - Dan gets home, passes out on the couch and dies.
posted by someone long ago
(An actual letter sent by a fed up U.S employee)
Mr Baker
As an employee of an institution of higher education, I have a few very
basic expectations. Chief among these is that my direct superiors have an
intellect that ranges above the common ground squirrel. After your
consistent and annoying harassment of myself and my co-workers during the
commission of our duties, I can only surmise that you are one of the few
true genetic wastes of our time. Asking me, a network administrator, to
explain every little nuance of everything I do each time you happen to
stroll into my office is not only a waste of time, but also a waste of
precious oxygen. I was hired because I know about Unix, and you were
apparently hired to provide amusement to myself and other employees, who
watch you vainly attempt to understand the concept of "cut and paste" for
the hundredth time.
You will never understand computers. Something as incredibly simple as
binary still gives you too many options. You will also never understand why
people hate you, but I am going to try and explain it to you, even though I
am sure this will be just as effective as telling you what an IP is. Your
shiny new iMac has more personality than you ever will. You walk around the
building all day, shiftlessly looking for fault in others. You have a sharp
dressed useless look about you that may have worked for your interview, but
now that you actually have responsibility, you pawn it off on overworked
staff, hoping their talent will cover for your glaring ineptitude. In a
world of managerial evolution, you are the blue-green algae that everyone
else eats and laughs at. Managers like you are a sad proof of the Dilbert
principle.
Seeing as this situation is unlikely to change without you getting a full
frontal lobotomy reversal, I am forced to tender my resignation, however I
have a few parting thoughts.
1. When someone calls you in reference to employment, it is illegal to give
me a bad recommendation. The most you can say to hurt me is "I prefer not to
comment." I will have friends randomly call you over the next couple of
years to keep you honest, because I know you would be unable to do it on
your own.
2. I have all the passwords to every account on the system,and I know every
password you have used for the last five years. If you decide to get cute, I
am going to publish your "favourites list",which I conveniently saved when
you made me "back up" your useless files. I do believe that terms like
"Lolita" are not usually viewed favourably by the Administration.
3. When you borrowed the digital camera to "take pictures of your mothers
b-day", you neglected to mention that you were going to take pictures of
yourself in the mirror nude. Then you forgot to erase them like the
techno-moron you really are. Suffice it to say I have never seen such odd
acts with a ketchup bottle, but I assure you that those have been copied and
kept in safe places pending the authoring of a glowing letter of
recommendation. (Try to use a spell check please, I hate having to correct
your mistakes.)
Thank you for your time, and I expect the letter of recommendation on my
desk by 8:00 am tomorrow. One word of this to anybody, and all of your
little twisted repugnant obsessions will be open to the public. Never f***
with your systems administrators, because they know what you do with all
your free time.
Sincerely,
Ted Brewer
heres some gold from the Kufmiester, wish i had the pics to go along with it.
RN FUNNINES!
Why Is It So? Your Questions Answered Here!
Hello and Welcome to Why Is It So?, the show where we try to answer all those questions that have plagued mankind from the beginning of time itself! I'm your host, Samantha, and this week we're coming to you LIVE from a ditch on the side of a road someplace.
Our first question comes from Billy. Little Billy writes:
"Dear Samantha,
Sometimes when my Mommy is out, my sister Dolly takes her clothes off and burns me with the waffle iron. It hurts but it makes me feel good too. Am I bad? My Daddy loves your show even though he says he has to drink a whole bottle of bourbon before he can junk off to it, what does he mean? And this one time he stuck his weewee in the bottle and it got stuck, and then Dolly burned him with the waffle iron. Is that bad?
Love,
Billy"
Goodness Billy, what a conundrum! The formulation of a young man's sexuality happens from a very early age. It seems likely from your letter that you will grow up with masochistic tendencies and a desire for the woman to be in control. Dolly will probably become even more of a dominatrix than she is now, so it all works out in the end. Of course, Jesus hates that sort of behaviour and you're all going to burn in Hell forever, and nothing can change that now. So enjoy it while you can.
How sweet of Billy's Dad to say he likes our show! He should get a "kick" out of our next letter! Ah ha ha! This one comes from Robbie:
"Dear Sam,
My Mum was making eggs the other days and showed me how a boiled egg spins faster than a unboiled egg. Why does it do that?
Robbie Q."
Well Robbie, the answer is very simple and has to do with the yolk of the egg. You see, the yolk is actually a baby chicken before it is born! It starts off all runny, then gets bigger and softer and cuter and fluffier until it hatches into a gorgeous little chick! So when your Mummy asks you whether you want a "hard boiled" or "soft boiled" egg, she's really asking you how long you want to keep the helpless little baby chicken in boiling water agony.
Now, as you can imagine, the chickens don't like that very much! So they come out of the pot very unhappy and angry. If you ask your Mummy about the sixties and seventies, she will tell you it was all about punk music and drugs. She might even have some old drugs you can try! Anyway, punk druggie musicians were very rough and aggressive, and lived their lives to the fullest. People like that are called "hard boiled", like detectives. Hard Boiled chickens naturally like to live live on the edge, so when you spin their eggs, they go fast! As fast as they can. But a "Soft boiled" chick will only go slowly when you spin it. Some chicks are born so soft they don't even have an eggshell! They are called "Chicken ****" and are scared of everything. That is where the term "**** scared" comes from.
I hope that answers your question Robbie! And don't forget, when you bite into a boiled egg, you're causing untold pain and suffering for a little baby bird! And milk is really cow's blood, so think about that too.
Well! That's all we have time for today. Tune in next time for more answers to questions you didn't even know you had! Goodbye everyone!
Do you want to know Why Is It So?
Send your question in a stamped,
self-address email to
ineptninja@yahoo.com.au
and we'll answer it!
Maybe.
Idiot's Guide To Pimping.
Dear Mr Chaddy,
I have visited your site as advertised at the bottom of your email. Shopping on the internet, what a fantastic idea! I almost "ROLFed" when I saw it, or whatever the "cyber kids" do these days. Having perused the site, there are several items which I am interested in purchasing as Christmas gifts for my family and other miscellaneous loved ones. The gilded spatula set would be perfect for my Aunt Harry, who is new to cooking. She has always been excited by shiny objects, ever since taking a concussion grenade in Nam and having a metal plate put in her head. What a tough old bird eh? I also noticed a bouncy rubber ball which I'm sure would please my cousin Heath, who is currently under observation and not allowed to play with sharp objects. They warden tells me Nurse Betty is recovering quite nicely though and should regain almost full use of her hand, although they're not sure if she'll ever speak again. I think I will get her some nice stationary.
Now to a slightly embarrassing point - I have not been allowed to enter any legitimate place of business since The Accident and so I do not possess a credit card. Luckily I have some Pokemon pogs I was able to order over the phone; will these be sufficient payment? I hope we can come to some sort of arrangement. My family would be so disappointed in you if they don't get all the gifts on your website I have told them of and would probably want compensation. Grandpa is extra cranky today too because we have not had what he calls a "proper" lynching in almost a month, even though Mum took so much time decorating the platform for the gardener last week.
Hi folks, it's me again: David, your favourite former Spiffy****tm salesman! Unfortunately, my boss and I had some continuing issues about my "attitude" and my "pyromania", or some ****, and he put me on permanent stress leave until things "resolve." I say a can of lighter fluid and a box of matches ought to resolve things quite nicely, which is why I'm no longer allowed within 200 metres of the office.
Anyway, as part of my anger management counselling, they want me to write a short story about something I dislike to see how my psyche works, or feed to their kids, or something. I had to mind someone's kid for a week once. They weren't too happy for some reason, but I said look, if the kid can't get out of the box, he shouldn't make me put him in there. So here goes.
Hello consumers! Remember me? I'm David, your friendly Spiffy****tm representative. I've been away getting "counselling" for a while, on account of my idiot boss who thinks I have "anger management issues" and a "drinking problem" and "homicidal tendencies". What the **** would he know? He had to get Diane in marketing to open his tin of sardines for lunch because he couldn't find the key. It was a ****ing pull-top tin. I have dreams about what I'd like to do to him.
But now I'm back, and ready to sell! And boy are we selling the good stuff today! We've got something totally brand new, absolutely unheard of. It's the Super Productivity Comfort Chair 8000!tm.
This is the greatest chair ever made. Our scientists have worked long and hard, researching regular shmoes like yourself to find out the pathetic ways you losers spend your time, and then how to make a product that lets you do those things in exactly the same way, but at great profit to us. In addition, people who have used the chair have reported amazing increases in their measurable criteria. Some have reported increases in their increases! As you can see from this graph, the results are astounding.
But what is the Super Productivity Comfort Chair 8000!tm, I hear you ask, which means that ****-for-brains plumber Ted hasn't installed my soundproofing right. I'm going to pay that lazy **** a visit later tonight and let him know what I think of his work. I'm too soft, you know. I should've capped his ass after he messed up my antique Daihatsu Charade with his ham-fisted attemps to put in an antique CD player, but I gave him a second chance. I won't be making that mistake again. I'm going to write "You pathetic excuse for a human being, your wife gives **** head so you can both burn in hell" on a rag and hurl it through his window, after I stuff it in a bottle of petrol and light it. I hope he can read it; I tend to scrawl when I get excited.
The Super Productivity Comfort Chair 8000!tm is packed with features no sane person could live without! In constructing this magnificent piece of work, we started with an ordinary chair. Then we added a keyboard and monitor for all you computer nerds out there. Perfect for those long computing sessions late at night! To make sure you have all the privacy you need for watching that sicko Japanese cartoon porn all nerds like, the chair comes with a detatchable shower curtain. Fantastic!
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Suppose while you're relaxing in your footbath, enjoying your hardcore hentai lez action cartoon, something comes up and you need to take a trip to the dry cleaners. "Oh no!" you say (say it, bitch!), "there goes half the day." Well worry no more, because this little beauty's got 15"mag wheels and an LPG-fueled engine. Simply drive yourself downtown without even leaving the chair! Simple joystick interface for intuitive control.
We all know the pain of being stuck behind some senile old biddy with blue hair, doing just a quarter of the legal speed limit. It can drive you mad, right? Not with the Super Productivity Comfort Chair 8000!tm Each chair comes standard with a roof mounted plasma cannon, capable of reducing the sturdiest Toyota to ashes in a mere fraction of a second. And if that isn't enough, our Deluxe model includes something extra. Remove any obstacle with these state-of-the-art Sidewinder Missiles! Old women, roadworks, police blockades - all move aside for two laser-guided cylinders of high explosive!
Old people and battleships: No chance
It's so exciting, the weaker among you - Larry - will probably be ****ting your pants right about now. Never fear! The SPCC8000 had internal plumbing for just such an emergency! But what about safety? Another triumph for Spiffy****'s scientists. This Chair comes standard with air bags, roll cage and bullbar, GPS navigation, EPERB, night and thermal vision, radar, and espionage countermeasures. In addition to the items mentioned above it carries a tear gas launcher, shotgun, several cloves of garlic, and depth charges. It has its own satellite dish for communications and picking up 90000 television stations, as well as a coffee table to put magazines on, and a French maid.
Deluxe model shown
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That number again: 1800-RIPMEOFF.
Phone now!
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I really really really hate Family Circus
Look at this. Two comics, just over a month apart.
Don't they look remarkably similar? What we have here is an example of a mostly-ignored artists' technique: the Re-use. This technique was used to great effect in early Tom and Jerry cartoons where the characters had to run for a long time past unimportant backgrounds; to save money the artists would simply keep using the same images over and over again! It worked remarkably well in Tom and Jerry, because let's face it, kids aren't very bright and it was just so funny watching those guys try to kill each other all the time. The troubles with Bil Keane's efforts to do the same thing are:
a) The main characters are not funny enough to let the laziness of the technique be overlooked
b) The characters are not interesting enough to ever been seen in the same position twice, even if it is reversed, twisted, rippled, warped or changed in any other way such that they are still the same characters
c) Family Circus is crap
Take A Step Back
To fully understand my raging hatred for Fetid Crapfest, you have to understand the comic. Family Circus, if you are unfamiliar with the format, is basically a "Don't kids say the darndest things?" type of comic, except that the kids never say anything remotely interesting - such as revealing Daddy's indiscretion with the school crossing guard - and nothing hilarious ever results, such as Mommy murdering Daddy and the kids and driving to Mexico in a carjacked Ford Pinto with Mrs Dorris, her lesbian lover with the social skills of Rain Man and a chihauhau named Wrinkles. Now THAT would be funny. Instead, Bil Keane, the creator, has opted to pick slighty more mundane situations: for example when little PJ does something babyishly retarded like using Daddy's porno magazines to make a papier-mache frog, or Dolly makes an error with her english, like in this comic. "But Dolly!" we are supposed to gasp while laughing uproariously, "that's a gravy boat!" Now call me a humourless grinch, but I was not laughing, oh no... unless you count the evil chuckle emitted while I dreamed of massacring the whole family with a paddlepop stick.
Speaking of the family, let's take a look at them.
Bill, the father: The father is the stable rock of the family. He brings home the bacon like all good Dads in the 1960's and has probably not had sex more than 4 times. Bill doesn't say much. In an early strip he got a lobotomy to escape his kids' whining; that scrip was scrapped but the sentiment remains. He may be a former bum or recovering alcoholic, if this strip is anything to go by. Evidence suggests his prime concern over the past 5 years has been to keep his wife pregnant, which hints that they may be Mormons or something.
Thelma, the mother: Picker-upper of clothes, cleaner of the house, cooker of meals. Thel loves all her kids dearly, and keeps them well supplied with Prozac and Ritalin to dampen any little sparks of imagination that might make her life harder. She is also stuck in the 1960's, chained to the kitchen/bathroom/laundry and the outdated housewife stereotype that went out with shoulder pads and industrial strength lipstick. She is still pretty foxy, I think you'll agree, and probably gets a lot more action than Daddy.
Little Billy: Billy is the eldest child and probably the dumbest 46-year-old midget in history. He sometimes takes over for Bil Keane in drawing The Family Circus, although the difference is hardly noticeable. The more cynical among me have speculated that Mr Keane drops acid pretty regularly, and the "Billy drew it" idea was an excuse thought up after an extra-long LSD trip - more of a planned vacation - to meet a deadline. Billy is master of the blindingly obvious.
Dolly: Possibly the most retarded of the children. Dolly has been known to cover herself with stamps but unfortunately was not mailed to a country where young girls work in salt mines and are never allowed to speak. She can often be heard saying mean, misguided or outright insane things to PJ, no doubt trying to warp him into her personal slave, a sociopath, or a tax accountant. Dolly will probably grow up to be a slut. A stupid slut.
Jeffy: The brat of the family. No one knows or understands why Jeffy is still alive; rational thought concludes his parents should have pushed him off a bridge by now. The idea that he may survive, and in fact prove to be invincible, is obviously too terrifying for them to contemplate. Jeffy also says stupid things and will no doubt grow up with an unnatural interest in very young girls and horses.
PJ: PJ is the baby and something of a punching bag for his siblings. Barely a week goes by where he is not being made fun of for something, beaten up or mentally abused, especially by Dolly. He will either become a drug addict at 15 like his father did, or grow up seemingly normal and then murder his entire family at 35. Considering the anti-aging properties of the comic, both events are at least 500 years away, and in all likelyhood Bil K. himself will have "mysteriously disappeared" by then.
The extras
Related to the family are a bunch of characters that crop up too regularly to escape notice. They are as follows:
Grandma: A constant source of wisdom and diabetic snacks for the kids. She never says anything remotely funny - if Grandma shows up, you know the party's over. She used to be a detective on Murder She Wrote.
The Dog: I forget his name. He has not appeared in a comic for a while, so he may have been the victim of one of Jeffy's pranks or Grandma's senility-inspired cooking experiments. Or he may have simply escaped. Run, boy! Run for your life!
Not-Me: A freakish little ghost thing that gets blamed for all the kids' bad ****. Most ghosts are vengeful and scary; this one, like the rest of the comic, lacks balls. If it did, the sheer magnitude of its revenge would result in the house resembling the public toilet at a leper colony: Dark, smelly, and full of body parts. A leper colony with Ebola.
The Dead Grandparents: Either Bill's or Thelma's parents have already shuffled off this mortal coil, but that hasn't stopped Bil dragging them into the satanic circle of unfunny. They don't actually do anything: they can't be seen or heard and they can't interact with the world, so they are really only there to smile and fill up whitespace. Seeing them trapped in what must be their own personal Hell makes me want to be a much better person. In the unlikely event that Bil Keane is in fact God, I'm screwed either way, but I bet his Heaven is pretty crappy anyway and at least I'll be able to spy on Billy's Mom in the bedroom.
The Dotted Line: This peculiar gimmick is not a character as such, but shows up frequently none the less. Usually this occurs when Billy, Jeffy or Dolly have to get from one place to another and shows us, the hapless reader, the convoluted route they took. The only dotted line needed here is the one where the judge signs Billy's death warrant, but alas it never eventuates.
In Summation
Bil's biography states:
'Keane does not always try to make his cartoons especially funny. "I would rather have the readers react with a warm smile, a tug at the heart or a lump in the throat as they recall doing the same things in their own families," he says.'
On the first statement he is absolutely correct. Mostly I suspect he doesn't try at all, but rather throws darts at words written on the ceiling until they make a sentence or one comes back and takes his eye out. On the second, more often my reaction involves a plasticky homicidal baring of teeth and thoughts of tugging their hearts right out of their bodies. The lump in my throat is usually bile.
So. Now you've seen a part of why I hate the Family Circus so very, very much. You may post comments, which I will print out and stick in my scrapbook, or criticism, which I will not read as I will be outside burning copies of all the newspapers with Family Crapola in them that I can find.
A typical school scene:
Kettch is the white-haired Chemistry teacher with the big stick, patrolling the playground.
Capn Jobe is the nice guy who gets along with everyone and never causes trouble, but you just know he's got some weird fetish or something.
phen and Yellow Discharge are the "bad' kids who steal bottles of their parents' West Coast Cooler and sneak off for a smoke behind the bike shed at lunchtime.
Donner beats people up for lunch money.
Blink182Sucks is showing off his muscles and arranging his 3rd date for Saturday night.
aliencowboy is drawing pictures with crayons on brown paper. He has shifty eyes.
Half-Baked is off sick. He says it's VD but everyone knows it's just a cold.
Izy is trying to chat up a girl but is distracted by tenchi and slurm walking past in tight miniskirts.
Kufi is the one who fails all his exams because his study table is too close to the computer.
CIA: Denies existence of snake. Secretly attempts to recruit snake but fails. Launches top-secret counter-snake operation, shoots self in foot. Blames FBI.
FBI: Plants microphones in snake's lair to discover snake's plans. Techicians complain of faulty equipment: can only hear a "weird hissing noise".
Ross Perot: Launches voting campaign targeting limbless reptiles, still gets no votes. Apparently snakes vote Republican.
Greenies: Chain themselves to large anaconda outside Whitehouse demanding equal rights for snakes. They suffer a "crushing" defeat. Ah ha ha.
Richard Branson: Begins around the world in snake-shaped balloon. Balloon is attacked by ravenous mongoose herd before take-off, ripping it to shreds. Branson plans new restaurant with all-mongoose menu.
George Dubbya: "Did someone say Snacks?"
Steve Irwin: "Crikey that's a big snake! Probably really poisonous too! I'm going to give it a big kiss!"
Carrot Top: Attempts stand up comedy at Willie's Biker Bar. Head forcibly inserted into shot glass. Biker Shaun "Snake" Myers charged. Carrot Top sells "Shot Glass Head Man" idea to movie execs for $40 million.
Daler Mendhi: Mistakes snake for headwear in his rush to get to the studio one morning. Snake bites his nose halfway through first song, causing convulsions, screaming and loud choking sounds. Album hailed as "best work yet", sells millions.
Michael Jackson: Ignores snake as it is too old.
Izy: /humps snake.
It's those Current Affairs style shows that really piss me off. You know the ones that do three or four stories a night, like 60 Minutes but really really lame? (60 Minutes is lame too, but at least they look outside the country for stories.) These shows are so biased it's not even funny anymore, and it's usually biased the same way each time. Struggling family ("Aussie Battler") vs. bank/government/business larger than backyard tin shed/conman ("Big Meanie"). They have no news content whatsoever - it's like some producer read that human interest stories are good for ratings and thought, "Hey, let's do a show with nothing but human interest stories!" forgetting that people will happily watch a kitten being rescued from a tree when they've just seen 25 minutes of mostly tragic news, sport and weather.
Let's take a sample of stories from one particular show, titled, funnily enough, "A Current Affair." "ACA" for those people who have trouble with polysyllabic words.
Are you being served?
One Australian is so sick of bad service, he's set up a business to professionally complain about service standards.
Reductil — the new weight loss drug
A loss of nine kilos over 18 months might not seem like much ... but Perth mum Kristine McConnell feels like a new woman. And it's thanks to a new weight loss drug called Reductil.
SmartPhone means smart power
A phone that can find the best rate for phone calls and which now promises to lower electricity bills is about to become the name on the lips of just about every resident in Ballarat.
Bank busters: helping you save money
It sounds too good to be true — a computer program that's guaranteed to beat the banks at their own game. Even the sceptics are swearing by it.
Most of those are from this week (check out the website at
http://aca.ninemsn.com.au). There's also the usual reports on teenage runaways, diet miracles, quasi-political ranting, and revelations that - shock horror - your boss earns more than you do. Perhaps a better title for the show would be "Misconceptions: Justifying Your Uninformed Opinions."
Browsing through some of the "Kids" stories produced this gem which perfectly illustrates my grievance with programs of this ilk. The story is titled Video violence ... it's child's play, and was apparently sparked by the concern of one woman, Barbara Baggins from Young Media Australia (whatever that is) that "... video violence puts children of all ages at risk of learning aggression ..." and that "... it teaches children to develop a 'mean' view of the world."
In light of these groundbreaking thoughts by this random person with no qualifications to speak of - other than her employment by Young Media Australia, possibly as a large object to block breezes and keep the wobbly chair in the coffee room level - ACA joins their analytical might with child psychiatrist Dr Brent Waters to observe "seven children aged between 6 and 10 over a two-day period as they played video games, followed by 'free-play' with each other."
What follows is possibly the worst piece of investigative journalism I have ever seen. To quote:
The first day the children played G-rated games. Dr Waters observed the children
were quiet and somewhat disinterested. After the video games, the children played simulated "war games" with each other for a few minutes before heading outside to the trampoline.
Ok, so the kids played G-rated games, then made up their own war games, whatever the hell that means. We don't know what games were played; it could have been anything from Ecco the Dolphin to Paperboy to Putt Putt Saves The Zoo. If I had to play any of those games I'd go nuts too; not to mention the frustration a 6 year old would experience trying to come to terms with the ****ed up controls of Ecco.
The following day showed a markedly different tone as the kids played video games rated MA. Dr Waters observed a change in the children - what he called "getting ready for combat". He described their behaviour as "a bit uncivilised and feral". Even in their free play afterwards, the children were far more aggressive with each other.
Once again, no names are given. It could have been House of the Dead or Silent Hill or Phantasmagoria (which would give anyone nightmares, and not because it's supposedly scary). All we know for sure is that they gave MA-rated games (restricted to 15 years or over) to a bunch of 6-to-10 year olds. Now, that is just plain wrong to begin with. To top it off, the result is hardly worth mentioning. Dr Whatshisname first of all invents a phrase to describe the behaviour he saw - which means jack **** to the rest of us - but then clarifies by saying they were "a bit uncivilised and feral". A bit uncivilised and feral. How many 6 year olds do you know that are NOT a bit uncivilised and feral? The report then says the kids were more "aggressive" afterwards, but apparently they didn't have a trampoline anymore and had probably been supplied with knives, clubs and copies of "Atlas Shrugged" to read until their parents came back from whichever casino they were currently spending the family savings in.
And to add further to the sheer mountain - nay, continent - of technical proficiency in evidence here, the report itself is dated: 1st of January, 1900.
A force to be feared, for sure.
And that is just the start of why I do not like the media.
AlienCowboy once said something to this effect "America, the only place where a poor black boy can grow up to be a woman. *woman like creature"-refering to michael jackson
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Originally Posted by Cheeto
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