In panel one of this comic, I give people the creeps.
In panel two, I’m rude to a customer.
In panel three, I’m a terrible employee.
In panel four, I brag about all of it to my wife.
This comic is either indicative of a self-esteem issue, or it shows how well I hide my awful impulses. Neither of those is a good thing.
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I should probably talk to a lawyer to see if I can squeeze a few bucks out of PBS for my new show idea, Tales from the Royal Bedchamber.
Nah. It’s PBS. I’ll just consider my idea to be a pledge. They don’t even have to mail me a tote bag.
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Once, long, long ago when I was in high school, I was riding in my older brother’s car when it broke down miles from the nearest town. He didn’t seem surprised, as he knew the water pump was going bad.
I asked him why he hadn’t replaced it before he drove us out, miles from the nearest town. A reasonable question, I think.
He explained that he tried to, but that the replacement water pump he bought didn’t fit because it had an extra water filter built in that interfered with part of the suspension. This was a fine example of a reply that answered the question without addressing the underlying issue.
Anyway, he took the new water pump, which still didn’t fit but which he had not yet returned to the auto parts store, and pounded on it with a hammer until it did fit. Of course, it also leaked like a lawn sprinkler. So, he coated the pump with a thick layer of shoe goo.
We laugh, but it got us home and didn’t leak a drop!
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In the time since I made this comic, shark week has expanded. One can now find shark-related programming on other channels during Shark Week, including episodes of Shark Tank.
I wouldn’t mind seeing what would happen if the producers released a live sea lion into the Shark Tank. I’m betting O’Leary would offer it a royalty deal.
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This won’t seem related, but the comic reminded me of it.
I have a friend who I met when we both worked in the theme park industry. I have accompanied him while walking in dark, spooky locations. I’ve stood next to him on catwalks looking down over great heights. I’ve sat next to him on multiple thrill rides, under various unusual conditions (lights on when it’s supposed to be a dark ride, lights out when there’s supposed to be light, that sort of thing) on many occasions. The most scared I have ever seen him look was the chair-lift-dance at his Jewish wedding ceremony.
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A work friend of mine who had met Missy once, very briefly, wanted to know why she hadn’t accepted his friend request. When I said it was because they weren’t friends, he seemed hurt.
I do own a Santo mask, and I’ll tell you why. When you buy a Luke Skywalker lightsaber, you’re buying a non-functional toy replica. You buy a Starfleet communicator, you’re buying a non-functional toy replica. You buy a Santo mask, you’re buying a genuine, working mask that might just be better made than his original was.
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See, because James Brown kinda owned the phrase “Sex Machine.” Even if the company that makes the device in question doesn’t call it “The Sex Machine,” they’ll probably want the song for their commercials.
The song in question is titled “Get Up (I Feel Like Being a) Sex Machine.” I enjoy it not just because it’s a great song, but because I’m fascinated by the intro, in which James Brown declares to his band and the audience that he feels “like doing (his) thing,” “like a, like a sex machine, man!” The first time he tried that intro out on an unsuspecting audience, I suspect the reaction was a bit muted.
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