P.U.L.S.E.M.O.R.N.I.N.G.-5000

Ladies and Gentlemen of this esteemed Congressional panel:

On May 28, 2014, the world lost one of the greatest minds of the last century. A writer, thinker, activist, and inspiration to millions across all races and nationalities, we were blessed as a people by the presence of Dr. Maya Angelou.

Angelou was a legend, with a career spanning more than fifty years as a writer, poet, singer, actress, dancer, public speaker, professor, lecturer, and filmmaker. Her biography required seven separate books to fully expound. She was a respected colleague of Malcolm X, James Baldwin, and Dr. Martin Luther King. Upon the news of her death, President Barack Obama said of Angelou, “the voice she found helped generations of Americans find their rainbow amidst the clouds, and inspired the rest of us to be our best selves.”

Dr. Angelou’s work made one of the most significant impacts on the way we thought and felt about life in the 20th century, and there will truly never be anything like her again. With the exception, of course, of our department’s fully-operational Maya Angelou combat robot.

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Smart Dogs

Fellow members of the academic community: thank you for attending. I’d just like to start by saying there are fire extinguishers located at both sides of the room.

graphic_talkingdogsArt, they say, is subjective. But that does not shield it from scientific analysis. I have brought you here tonight so I may discuss a great crisis in science. Arts and entertainment have violated the prior respect of accuracy and logic in a basic tenet of sciences: biology. We face a crisis, ladies and gentlemen. One that has built up over the last few decades and unless we address it I feel it will only get worse.

My report, “Comparative Mental and Cognitive Assessments In Relation To Documented Biological Anomalies in Canine Species,” means to address this very crisis. For guests of the doctoral community here tonight: I am referring, of course, to how talking dogs make no sense.

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Confound these Teabaggers; they drive me to blog

A little voice in the back of my head is screaming oh Jesus Christ, August, no, you’re blogging about politics.  This is the abyss.  You brought this on yourself; just remember that.  The next sentence of this post is supposed to be the usual “…but I was just as shocked as everyone last night to hear that Eric Cantor lost his primary against, well, some dude who reads Ayn Rand a lot and promised to do even less in government than the guy he just defeated, who I will remind you, was actually the person in charge of orchestrating the House’s agenda of not doing anything.”

Except a reader reminded me of a cartoon I drew seven (yes, seven, good god) years ago, alerting me that I had sort of been predicting this all along:

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Scenes From an Egalitarian Restaurant

Bonjour.

In all my time, I hear ze rabble from ze customers- they say “ah, ze French—’zey are so cruel to les animals.” It is mainly, you see, le fois gras—the delicious stomach rich with fat ‘zat we force feed to ze goose. “Ahhhh” ‘zey all say. “How can you do such a thing? Zat poor, poor innocent creature.”

You were under orders to be delicious.Innocent. Feh. See ‘zat; I just spit right ‘zere.

You Americans—always so quick to rush to ze side of zee furry little animals- ze duck, ze baby geese, ze dolphins dancing in ze water with ze tuna, le petit… how you say… veal cow.

As a child I was raised on a love for fine food and ze art of cooking. And also, on justice—ze most delicious dish to serve of all. It is for zis reason that I am proud to have become ze head chef of ze most just and honorable restaurant in all of France. One that exclusively serves to its customers ze flesh of animals that truly deserved to die.

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The End of the Line on the Oregon Trail

What do you mean I “can only bring a hundred pounds of this back to the wagon?”

graphic_oregontrailLook at this thing. It’s dead. And if you think hauling it all back is a chore, let me tell you about finding it.  I had thirty seconds to shoot it, I can only fire a single bullet in one of eight directions and the first three times a rabbit got in the way.  Or a cactus. I literally can’t tell.

I’m not wasting this.  I don’t think if I only shave a few steaks off the flank it’s going to grow back.  What happened to “use every part of the buffalo?” Didn’t that Indian at the Snake River crossing tell us that? The one you traded with to get thirteen more wagon wheels because, and I quote, “why do we need three sets of clothing each, anyway?

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My Final Words to the Lead Singer of A-Ha Before Murdering Him with a Pipe Wrench

Do you know why I’m telling you this, Morten?  Because I care.  Because I need to tell SOMEONE and frankly, you’re my only friend.  Possibly the only person I really know.  Possibly the only other person that really exists in this place.  Seriously, look around; it’s just you, and me, and wherever you hid your band but I promise I’m killing them if they pop up in any goddamned magic window things too.

No, I don’t think this seems a bit extreme.  Have you actually taken a moment to reflect on the bleakness of our existence?  Have you given any thought about the future, Morten?  Because I have.

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I Got Drunk With a Time-Traveling Pirate on Valentine’s Day

Originally published in 2012; reprinted due to popular demand, in honor of Valentine’s Day, and because I’m lazy.

“No! You never fucking get them!” the Pirate screamed, almost throwing the empty whiskey glass directly at the bartender. He held back, as if some unseen force softly touched his arm and coaxed him to lower it.

The force in question, he would later explain, was actually just a moment of clarity, having dealt with the frustration of reaching this point with the bartender no less than seven times in the last hour. At exactly 11:34 he would reach the point of the argument with the bartender, scream and hurl his glass at the bartender’s face, break the glass and two of the bartender’s teeth and immediately be kicked out of the bar, where he would then activate his personal chrono-manipulator and go back ten minutes to when he was in the bathroom, merge with the version of himself sitting on the toilet and try again.

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Regarding the Use of Jimmy Buffett’s “Margaritaville” as the Hypnotic Trigger for Our Sleeper Assassins

Internal Company–Wide Memo

To: All Agents, Confederates and Associated Operatives of GRIFFON – the Global Reconnaissance and Intelligence Foundation For One Neodemocracy

Re: The Use of Jimmy Buffet’s “Margaritaville” as the Hypnotic Trigger for Our Sleeper Assassins

Effective immediately, all representatives are to cease the use of the song “Margaritaville” by Jimmy Buffett as a means of triggering hypnotic suggestion in placed targets to compel them to commit pre-programmed acts of assassination, sabotage, arson or any other activity.  This policy change comes direct from the High Overlord.  All hail the High Overlord.

As you know, GRIFFON has taken great effort to maintain its reputation as the casual and employee-friendly member of a broad family of global domination conspiracies.  Placing boundaries on the creative talent of our most valuable resource—you—is not a step we take lightly. However, these policies are done with the whole of the company in mind as well as the recognition that the decisions of the High Overlord, all hail him, are both infallible and required under penalty of the death of everyone you love or have ever loved.

Above all else, GRIFFON is committed to quality in its black bag operations and to maintain that commitment, an occasional review of employee performance is necessary.  In our most recent company-wide assessment, a wide range of performance-hindering issues were uncovered, all of which center around a single issue: the use of the song “Margaritaville” by Jimmy Buffett.

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Duck, Duck, Jesus

Hi everyone.  Did you all have a good Christmas?  I had a great Christmas.  I spent a lot of time thinking about Jesus and I’d like to share what I’ve learned with all of you.

Oh no. I just thought about this too.

Oh no. I just thought about this too.

I was watching Mickey’s Christmas Carol.  I love Mickey’s Christmas Carol.  If you forgot it or haven’t seen it, it’s Mickey as Bob Cratchit and Uncle Scrooge McDuck as, well, you know… as Scrooge.  Pretty basic- Christmas Carol in the Donald Duck universe.

But here’s the thing- there’s a LOT of stuff that’s “Christmas set in the so and so universe.” And this is where I uncovered something that threatens our very moral fiber.

See, even if Christmas is just a cultural or family event to you—and that’s what it is to me—you still have to acknowledge that Christmas is related to, well, to Jesus.  And that’s where I have a serious issue-not a religious one, but an honest, logical crisis of theology.  Basically, Christmas specials are all your favorite cartoon characters suddenly knowing who Jesus is.  And this makes no sense whatsoever.

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