Monday, August 18, 2008

What the fuck happened to WtFF?

One word: Fay.

From all the latest computer predictions, it looks mi casa is out of harm's way from Tropical Storm (soon to be Hurricane) Fay. Even that crazy purple, Jesus fish looking one shifts it safely north.

So, in a kind-of-related-but-not-really way, I ask the following question:

Why the fuck do meteorologists all want us to die?

If you, like me, live in an area with reoccurring natural disasters, you understand this statement. For those who don't, let me share the experience with you.

Maybe it's the chance in barometric pressure that does it, but anytime anything with an "eye" starts swirling around in the water, men and weather-women get a sudden gleam in their eye I don't like. They go from calm, usually subdued professionals to gleeful, Renfield-like characters who practically start foaming, once a storm has turned "deadly." (Which basically means it beat the shit out of some unsuspecting country somewhere.) They writhe and cavort in front of the camera, performing complex heathen rituals with pointing, sweeping hand gestures, complex geometric patterns, clips of the beat down suffered by the aforementioned country, and sacrifices the Doppler, patron god of radar.

Think I'm exaggerating for comedic value? Well, you're right. But, not by much. When I was in college, I had to evacuate because of a Hurricane Floyd, a category 5 storm that was wider than the whole state. For those that don't know, category 5 is the "kiss your ass good bye, because you're fucked" category. It's as strong as hurricanes come, and can level a city like an atomic bomb. Only wetter. After a while, we got sick of the "Make peace with your God, because we're all gonna DIE" coverage of the local station, and flipped over to the weather channel. "Don't worry," I reassured my panicking non-Floridian friends, "the weather channel won't be so hysterical. We should get unbiased info there."

There, a balding, middle-aged meteorologist gleefully informed us that this was a "perfect" hurricane. He skipped, skipped, off camera with a merry, "Let me get out of the way, so you can get a good look at this monster."

Well, fuck you too.

I get that if you're a meteorologist, weather makes you pop one, and I get that hurricanes are like the Olympics of weather systems; they're big, dramatic, unpredictable, and --most importantly-- traceable by radar. It's your soap opera, your favorite sports team, and sex all rolled into one. I understand that. But please, remember, most of us aren't all that excited about the possibility of getting our homes razed to the ground, or spending 2 and 1/2 weeks without power. Yeah, I know. We're crazy like that.

Friday, August 8, 2008

WtFF: An Open Letter to the Woman Who Won't Flush the Toilet

I work in an office building with shared bathrooms, and common logic (as well as child labor laws) guarantee that all those who share the "women's restroom" with yours truly are, physically, of legal age here in the Sunshine State. For my international readers, that age is 18. When you consider that most people learn the intricacies of the water closet at 2, you wonder what the hell is wrong with people who are old enough to elect the next leader of one of the most powerful countries in the world, but can't seem to figure out how to flush a fucking toilet.

It's a frightening time we live in, isn't it?

Please consider this open letter a Public Service Announcement. Feel free to print it and leave conspicuous copies around any offending lavatories you happen to come across.

Dear mysterious woman of not-so-mysterious bodily functions,

I'm assuming, of course, that wolves raised you. Or, if you're a native Floridian like myself, then perhaps it was a family of raccoons that found your prone, naked baby body alone in the swamp. How nice that the striped and banded little critters reared and fostered you through your formative years. I can understand then why the bathroom would be a mystery to you, and I guess I should give thanks that at least the items left floating in your wake are in the toilet rather than left to fester in a corner which, no doubt, is where your foster folks would have left their droppings.

What? You're not a Horrible Raccoon Woman? Well, then perhaps you're recovering from a catastrophic scooter vs. tractor trailer collision, and thanks to years and years of therapy you are an almost fully functioning person again. If that's the case, I'm impressed. You've made a lot of progress. However, you might want to discuss your "recovery" with your physical and mental therapists; the rules of restroom etiquette haven't quite been re-imprinted on your malfunctioning brain.

Hell, maybe it's a fetish, and I'm missing the hastily scrawled post-it notes reading, "Like what you see?" that accompany every presentation of voided bowel and bladder.

Personally, when I wreck my brain trying to come up with an explanation for the "why, why, why won't she flush the fucking toilet" that keeps screaming through my mind, I keep hoping it's the raccoons that raised you. At least that way I know you're washing your hands.

Hugs and Kisses,


Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Anyone want a slice of Latin Cheesecake?

I drew the quick sketch above in response to what was essentially a dare from a friend who told me I was too big a prude to ever draw the Strange Fiction characters naked. (Yes, there's an un-cropped version.)

As a comic fan, I always felt alienated and vaguely offended most by cheesecake art featuring female characters. It wasn't "for" me, and it was usually done in such a way that the subject's powers/personality/identity was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was that she had a skimpy outfit and a smashing pair of tits. I always felt that if it wasn't a cheap marketing ploy, it was certainly a cheapening the characters.

I'm a little older now, and not as uptight and easily insulted as I once was, but I've still resisted putting together any cheesecake type stuff of the SF gang (despite the growing Cult of Eep), because of that belief it's "cheapening" the characters. So, I'm posting the question to you, readers? What do y'all think? Am I:

1. Over thinking it
2. Correct, cheesecake art is cheap
3. Fuck you and your cheapness, Nicole! Show us the un-cropped version of that sketch already!

As a side note, the concept of "naked Eep" was a lot funnier BEFORE I actually drew the nudie pic. Once it was done, it was like, "Oh. Male nude. Eh." (And yes, it is supposed to be right before he appears in the infamous "movie.")

Friday, August 1, 2008

WtFF: "Dr." Phil Wants To Cure What Ails Ya'

Originally, I wasn't going to post a rant about Dr. Pathetic so close to the first Oprah-tastic WtFF. But goodgoddamn, is this fucker annoying:

Let's just throw it out there. Anyone who has to go on the Dr. Phil Show to get a "personal revelation" from that balding proprietor of bullshit is an idiot. I understand and appreciate that sometimes you get desperate, or confused, or just really want to appear on TV, but do you really need a cube of Texas man beef rehashing every embarrassing, humiliating portion of your psyche on a national level to figure out that you're "not happy?" Do you really?

Did you know he helped craft a series of successful seminars with his father and a business partner only to sell his stock behind their backs eight years later? He also got in deep dog shit with his beloved state of Texas for screwing and employing one of his 19 year-old patients. Do you know badly you have to have fucked up to get in trouble for boning the barely legal in red-blooded, meat-eating Texas? Currently, he isn't licensed to practice psychology in Texas, California, or anywhere else. And this is the guy you want telling you how to make ammends with your baby daddy. Come on!

He's got about as much right to pass moral judgement as Ron Jeremy. You could get better advice by flipping to a random page in the Greek printing of the Women's Devotional New Testament With Psalms & Proverbs.

Seriously. When did stating the obvious with horrible, deep-fried metaphors start counting as serious psychology?

I hate to say it, because there are so many who suffer for so long with undiagnosed mental disease either through ignorance, fear, or a lack of access to proper mental health care, but the vast majority of folks who start popping pills after being deeply effected by a commercial about a Really Sad Circle (designed to be deeply effecting, I might point out), probably just need a good smack to the back of the head from Mistress Reality. I'm sorry to have to be the one to break this to you sunshine, but nothing is going to make you happy 24/7. Nothing. Life is cruel, confusing and often unfair and short. It involves pain, suffering and the oppressive knowledge of your own mortality. It's called the human condition, and without a lobotomy and an obscene amount of laudanum, there's no escaping it.

And this attitude, ladies and gents, is why I started listening to dirge-like tunes with driving bass lines and wearing too much black. Excuse me while I step away to staple my hand to my forehead. d-:

As an aside, thanks to everyone who commented on my last entry. It feels good to be loved. I am suspicious of your motives, of course, but the sentiment is still appreciated.