I don’t mind at all if a song has elements of country music, or country influences. My biggest problem with “country music” is that, at the time when I was exposed to lots of it, it seemed to me that most of the songs were about “the country,” or about how the singer was “from the country,” and played music from or in “the country.” It was like it didn’t qualify as country music unless the word “country” or “music” was in the chorus of the song.
I’m not a big fan of rock songs about “rocking” either.
Them- “I wanna rock and roll all night!”
Me – “Get to it, then. I’m not stopping you.”
The Super Big Gulp is about as big as most people are willing to go, but there is (or at least was, at one time) a Double Gulp: 64 ounces of ice-cold liquid freedom. Eventually they made the Double Gulp cups from plastic, but at first they were waxed cardboard, and had a top that folded over like a milk carton for extra structural rigidity.
I was unable to find a picture of the old milk-carton style Double Gulp cup online. Luckily, I did find a few other people mentioning that they remembered them, or else I’d have to chalk the whole thing up to some sort of fever dream.
Clearly the open-faced sandwich thing was really bugging me.
Someone wrote complaining that by my definition Subway sandwiches aren’t sandwiches, because instead of slicing the bread in half, the “Sandwich Artists” scoop the loaf out like a dugout canoe. That person was, of course, 100% WRONG. The “Sandwich Artists” finish the sandwich by taking the part of the bread they scooped out and placing it back on top of the filling, thus satisfying my requirement that a sandwich consists on at least one thing held between at least two pieces of another thing.
I know that by my own rules, calling a chowder-filled bread bowl a sandwich is pushing it, but I’ve seen places where they take the top of the loaf of bread and place it on top like a lid, so it totally counts. Yes, it’s difficult to pick up and eat, but not impossible, if you’re careful, and don’t care about making a mess, because you will.
Joop the talking orangutan was a real idea the creators of Lost threw around. They were joking at the time, but I think some shows should seriously consider using him.
The idea was that if the show had been cancelled after one season they would have been leaving the viewers with a ton of unanswered questions. They figured, since they were canceled anyway, why not end the final episode with an explanation. The last scene of the last episode would have been a nice desk with a map of the island on the wall behind it, and sitting at the desk there would have been a talking orangutan who would say, “Hello. My name is Joop,” then explain all of the mysteries of the island.
If I were the producer of . . . oh, let’s say House of Cards, I would seriously consider releasing a video starring Joop, explaining what would have happened in the final season of the show if the character Frank Underwood had been involved, which it appears, at this point, he will not be.
Or, here’s another idea. They could recast the part of Frank Underwood with George Clooney, then have people keep going on and on about how good Frank’s looking lately.
Being able to pick the item up is not the only criteria of whether or not something is a sandwich. If it were, a corn dog would be a sandwich. If the dish in question is not made up of at least one piece of something positioned between at least two pieces of another thing, sandwiched between them, if you will, it is not a sandwich.
A Taco is not a sandwich.
A burrito is not a sandwich.
A wrap is not a sandwich. It is a bad burrito eaten by someone who is fooling themselves.
A hot dog is not a sandwich . . . unless the little flap of bread that acts as the bun’s hinge splits, transforming the singular bun into two pieces of bread. In that case, it becomes a sandwich with very poor structural integrity.
A “Pizza boat” is not a sandwich. It is also not a pizza either. It is an edible cop-out.
Note from Missy: This goes side-by-side with another ongoing beef a friend has, on whether Cheetos count as “chips.”
I wrote this comic many years ago. Just saying.
On a certain level, I find it reassuring that things have always been screwed up. On the other hand, the fact that I’ve reached the point that I find that reassuring is one of the most depressing thoughts I’ve ever had.
In the first three panels of this comic I make fun of fictional me for stubbornly antagonizing someone whose good will he depends on for his livelihood. Ironic, since that’s exactly what I did by writing this comic, deliberately riddled with spelling errors.
I actually like a good romantic comedy. Nora Ephron in particular did excellent work. I’m always happy when I catch part of You’ve Got Mail on TV. There’s a lot of good stuff in that movie.
“Never marry a man who lies!”
“He was too proud, or was he too prejudiced. I can never remember.”
“That nut from the observer who’s in love with his typewriter.”
I have it on DVD. If memory serves, I bought it at the huge, fabulous Barnes and Noble store at University Village in Seattle. It was an early prototype for the immense bookstores that Fox Books in You’ve Got Mail was based on. It’s long since gone out of business.
Something to think about next time the movie comes on.
I think I’ve shared this opinion before, but I feel strongly enough about it that I’m fine with repeating myself.
In the Star Wars prequels, there was prophecy that “the one” would “bring balance to the force.” Then Liam Neeson brought in a kid he thought was “the one.” At that point, there was a small army of Jedi using the Force for good, and, like, one guy using it for evil, and they weren’t even sure he existed. How does nobody look at that situation and not realize that if the kid’s going to “bring balance,” he will have to be the most evil bastard in the galaxy?
Yoda should have diced Anakin like an onion while shouting, “Sorry, I am. Safe, we must play it.”
Note from Missy: Ooh, I remember this comic because of the spelling. If you ever needed an example of how the English language is kind of a dick, look at how “prophecy” is a noun, and “prophesy” is a verb. Because that isn’t going to trip anyone up, right?
If you say you receive a paycheck for doing your job, it sounds mundane and kind of depressing. If you tweak your perspective and say that you’re being bribed to perform certain services, suddenly it sounds much more exciting, doesn’t it? You can even up the ante by saying, “There’s a certain highly placed individual I for whom I do occasional favors, and as a thank you they let me wet my beak.” Tell someone that, and they won’t ask any more questions.
Unless they’re a cop. If they are a cop, they will have many questions.
One might ask who Omnipresent Man’s powers are more unpleasant for: him, or everyone else. I would argue that they are most unpleasant for me, the guy who thought them up, and as such is has to explain them in a way that makes sense.
If you buy a quality item, it will last. I wrote this comic seven years ago, and I still have that steel ruler. I can see it right now, sticking out of the organizer on Missy’s desk.
Okay, I don’t have it, but I have access to it, and that’s just as good. That’s what Missy tells me, at least. I’m not going to argue. She might hit me with the steel ruler.
I do enjoy the game Risk. Having an app on my phone that I can play against has been a boon, as no human is willing to play with me anymore. Also, the app does all of the dice rolling and the math. All I have to do is decide where to attack, and look smug or close the app and declare, “This game doesn’t count” when things don’t go well.
I am from the Yakima valley of Washington state. Apple country. Specifically, Red Delicious apple country. I hate Red Delicious apples, and it’s not just because many of my memories of them involve having them thrown at me (They’re so plentiful in Yakima that they are what you throw at someone when you don’t want to waste a good rock).
They’re the apples you get when you say, “Give me an apple,” but you don’t specify what kind. They’re the fruit equivalent of generic beer, or scotch that comes in a big plastic jug.
Note from Missy: Scott has written something SO TOTALLY WRONG in this comic.
He used the sound effect “CRUNCH” for a Red Delicious apple; for an apple that mushy and lifeless, it should have been more like “SMUSH.”
It’s ironic that I hate shaving, yet I’ve ended up with a shaved head and a Van Dyke, which requires me to continue shaving despite the fact that I have a beard.
The alternatives (a ring of hair around the back of my head with a wispy poof of fuzz on top and a full neck-beard, or remaining clean shaven) don’t look good on me. All of the cuts and spots of razor burn don’t either, but at least they make me look tough.
I might add that the chocolate bunny is hollow, because often the things that bring momentary pleasure, like chocolate, are unfulfilling in the end. Of course, sometimes the bunny is full of nougat, to symbolize the mysterious ways in which the Lord works, because nobody knows what nougat is.
I could do this all day.
Note from Missy: I feel like this was a grand experiment at the time: a comic with no narration, only dialog. Was this the only time you did it, Scott?
Note from Scott: I think I did two one-panel comics for Thanksgiving this way. Every other comic was done in my usual wall-of-text style.
When the Trololo thing hit, I was working with a woman just a bit older than me who grew up in the Soviet Union.
Anyway, she remembered that guy, and his work, and assured us that his work was representative of the kind of thing that was on Soviet TV at the time.
Some of our coworkers felt superior. I, on the other hand, remembered Hee Haw, The Mike Douglas Show, and . . . (ugh) Shields and Yarnell. We are not as different as we sometimes like to think.
In the process of commenting on a dumb conversation, Missy ends up participating in the dumb conversation, and looking just as dumb as the other two participants.
Something to think about next time two of your friends are having a political argument on Facebook.
So the moon minion is asking the emperor to kiss his burnt finger, and the emperor refuses. Fair enough. But we established that the moon emperor somehow applied his own “high-viscosity-moon-saliva” to the minion’s finger.
A better artist might have shown you the saliva application, but given my methods, I would have needed to pose a photograph of Ric sucking on or spitting on someone’s finger. No comic strip is worth that.