This one was inspired by a trip to McDonald’s, where I saw little plastic pouches marked “Fancy Ketchup.” Good to know they weren’t putting any ol’ low-quality tomato pulp in plastic packets and serving it to their patrons, like Burger King would.
On a semi-related note: a long, long time ago I worked at a Skippers (a chain of fried seafood restaurants that used to be everywhere in the western United States, but now seems to be down to 14 locations). The manager would occasionally bus tables himself when it was busy (which was good). If, on the table, he found paper sugar or salt packets that were soaked with water, coffee, pop, or any other unidentified fluid, he would lay them out on a table in the back room to dry out so he could put them out for other customers to use (which was bad).
I did once have a job where one of my duties was to monitor everyone in the office (an office where everyone outranked me, and was paid substantially more than me) to make sure they filed a certain report. If they didn’t complete the report, I was supposed to “get on them” about it.
Several of these people had the power to fire me.
Needless to say, they often failed to respect my authority. More than one of them responded with the helpful suggestion that I fill it out for them. When I pointed out that I didn’t have the information I would need, they tended to offer to email me the information.
One time, when I pointed out that writing the information into an email would take as much time as just filling out the form themselves, I was accused of “getting smart.”
Ever since I was in school, it has continually amazed me that teachers, parents, and employers think of being “smart” as a bad thing.
Missy and I have a sort of unofficial ritual of briefing each other on how our day was if we didn’t spend said day together. In a way, it’s like the day isn’t officially over until I’ve told her about it.
I know. That sounds nice.
Unfortunately, in practice, it means that if I have a bad day it’s not officially over until I’ve bummed her out too.
Note from Missy: Fortunately, we work in the same office space now. So those kind of days are far fewer. :)
I have worked places where the employees would have worn evidence of their rebellion as a badge of honor. I remember a conversation with a coworker who told me with pride about how he was so awful to one supervisor that they put in for a transfer just to get away from him.
I’m pretty sure he still has that job. He certainly never got promoted.
My brother came for a visit, saw the computer I was using to create the comic, and was so disgusted with it that he assembled a computer 10 times more powerful literally out of junk he had laying around his bedroom. It was the most elegant combination of a very nice gesture and a tremendous personal insult I can possibly imagine.
They say that every time the blues man John Lee Hooker performed, he would insist on getting paid before the show, in cash. Then, during the show, the whole time he was performing, he would keep his pay for the gig and a loaded pistol in his hat.
I’ve always chosen to believe that Abe Lincoln followed the same policy.
For the record, I only needed one computer program to make it look like I had some artistic talent. Of course, it was a highly sophisticated surprisingly expensive program, and I had to use a great many of its more advanced and abstruse functions, but still it was just the one program.
Actually, now that I think about it, it was two.
Note from Missy: I feel like Windows operating systems followed the same quality peaks and valleys as the original Star Trek movies: every bad one followed by a good one, every good one followed by a bad one. By now, though, we may be in to the TNG years of Windows releases.
I said it in kindergarten, and have repeated it every year since. TURKEYS DON’T LOOK LIKE THAT! If you saw any living creature that looked remotely like that abomination, you’d run screaming into the night. You certainly wouldn’t want to eat it.
Imagine how disturbing Thanksgiving would be if turkeys looked like that. Kids shouting, “I get one of the giant fingerlike growths on its back!”
Ric and I have discussed what we would be if the Mad Max future came to pass. The most realistic option seems to be, “Victim who perished in the first few hours of the ’poxyclypse.”
If we survived beyond that, we’d probably be either, “Pith helmet-wearing gyrocopter captain,” or “Guy in torn tuxedo who MCs Thunderdome.”
That said, I’d totally watch a movie about those two guys striking up an unlikely partnership and roaming the wasteland looking for food.
Missy is, for the most part, better at video games than I am. Especially open world games. That’s not because I’m not good in a video game fire fight. It’s just that open world games require you to find your way around, and I can barely do that in real life.
I had a boxed set of The Prisoner on DVD. It came with a documentary, made while the creator (head writer and star of the show, Patrick McGoohan) was still alive. Everyone they interviewed said he was a gentleman, that it was an honor to work with him, and that people didn’t understand the last few episodes of the show because he was misunderstood and ahead of his time.
Now I have a boxed set of The Prisoner on Blu-ray. That set came with a documentary made after Patrick McGoohan’s death. Many of the people interviewed say that he was a nightmare to work with, and that the last few episodes made no sense because he was making it up as he went, had written himself into a corner, and ended up having to turn in whatever ideas he had whether they made sense or not.
In this case the Blu-ray set makes more than just the picture and sound clearer.
TRUE STORY! This idiot comes up to me, asks me this trivia question (can I name all ten Disney movies that have one-word titles). I puzzle over it for a while, then give up and ask him what the answer is, and he admits that he doesn’t know.
That should be illegal, or at the very least, physically assaulting him shouldn’t be.
Yes, I know that Belloq was a Nazi collaborator, and no, I do not in any way condone that. I needed a joke, and I didn’t think it would have been funny to have any of the positive characters be my role model, so I made the choice I made.
In retrospect, I should have picked Marcus Brody. I could plausibly get lost in my own museum.
Panel three of this comic contains one of my rare attempts at actual cartooning. It’s not too bad, overall, but Duke’s hands on the steering wheel need work.
Another idea I had for a children’s book based on a completely inappropriate book for adults was a version of Fight Club called Friend Club. The plot of that move mapped pretty naturally onto the concept of a lonely boy with an imaginary friend—some might say more naturally than it did to the actual concept.
I’ve scrapped the entire idea, because in the end nothing I come up with would ever be funnier than the actual, not made as a joke, series of DUNE coloring books.
Everything I say about my mother and the plaster jaw in this comic is true, right down to the little flowers she painted on it.
She also had a pair of earrings that were made of artificial molars.
One of my more prized possessions is an old tooth chart she gave me. It’s this nice hinged case full of individual fake teeth all laid out in neat rows. Back in the day, dentists would use it to compare the person’s real teeth to the samples on the chart, so they would order a good match. I think it’s cool.
When I first got it, I took it to a friend’s house, thinking it was the right mixture of gross and cool for kids to enjoy. My friend’s wife took one look at it and told me to get it out of her house. Later, when we discussed it, she explained that she’d thought it was some kind of Nazi memorabilia. I completely understand her kicking me out, in that case, but’s not a good feeling to have to explain to someone that one of your possessions isn’t evil, just disgusting.