Marmaduke is a comic that is as old as my parents. It’s been drawn by the same fellow, one Brad Anderson, since 1954, and since the fateful day of its creation Marmaduke has served as a daily reminder that you don’t have to be funny or talented to be syndicated in newspapers nationwide.
I once read the entire Marmaduke comic described succinctly as “The big dog is on something you want.” I think there’s an even simpler explanation: the cartoonist is not funny at all.
The Potty Pyramid of Djoser, where the extant copies were found. At the time of its construction, it was the tallest building in the world.
In Ancient Greece, few dramas were more tense than this exchange of sharp words and swords between a pair of rival playwrights. Their story remained lost to history until the relevant documents were plumbed out of the depths of an Egyptian portopotty. It is supposed that they were deposited there after being discarded when an Achaemenid used them as first reading material, and then toilet paper.
My apartment building came with pretty thick walls—thick enough that I never heard any noises from any other apartment for months. But recently, my upstairs neighbors decided to start playing “throw the U-bend into the corner”, and I can hear them quite clearly.
On my visit to the Obama Oakland office today, I thought of several things which, taken together, would surely cripple McCain’s operations once and for all.
-Late in the day, go into his campaign offices, pretend to volunteer, writing fake names on things. This is just a pretense to get inside. Then, when nobody is paying attention, turn their thermostat all the way up and leave. Do this late enough in the day that nobody will notice. On top of making the office unlivable for a few hours the next day, you’ll drive up his utility bills. Yay!
-Get a McCain sticker on your car. Put it next to a Confederate Flag sticker. Cut people off on the highway and throw beer cans at pedestrians.
This is the rallying cry being echoed by filmmakers all over the globe, who have all banded together to stem the tide of “Movie with the word ‘movie’ in the title” movies. Thought to have ended when only three people in the entire world actually saw “Meet The Spartans” (two of whom meant to see “Cloverfield” but accidentally walked into the wrong theater), the franchise has suddenly sprung back to life with the upcoming release of the aptly titled “Disaster Movie.”
“How far the mighty have fallen,” said Nom de Pomme, his face obscured from my view by two smoking barrels. His dark glasses glinted in the moonlight as he tipped ashes from his cigar carelessly onto my bloodstained clothes.
Today on Clunkline we will address a common myth and proceed to debunk it. The myth is that somehow stuff that was previously on the path to being swallowed is no longer acceptable for swallowing upon being returned more or less unaltered to the mouth. In short, we will prove indisputably to you that there is no such thing as “backwash”.
Barnes and Noble sends me promotional emails, because they know that a) I buy all kinds of crap online and b) I love books. So when a buy two get one free offer came up, I decided to check out the books included in the offer. Unfortunately, it was mostly a blinding array of “chick lit” books, which, if you are unfamiliar with the genre, are targeted at women and contain no plot, vapid characters, poor writing, and open brand-name advertising for things like Coach bags and Maybelline makeup. They are also visibly recognizable by some consistent patterns.
Anyway, I personally believe the editorial staff should find it within themselves to endorse a true man of our time, and every other time that happened to be around an election for the last many, many years, Ralph Nader.
Oh, I know what you’re all thinking: Ralph Nader is a joke and should have stopped wasting his time at least eight years ago, and you’re absolutely right, but hear me out.
I’m wearing my cookies now… It’s not uncommon. Y’see, they told me I was out of pigeons. Yeah. Pigeons. Goddamn it! YARRRRGH! Okay, so I went down to the park to feed the pigeons. Well, first thing’s first, right? Okay, so I was looking for a good park, so I heard about Menlo Park, right? Yeah. I get there, fucking thing’s a town. Menlo Park isn’t a park at all. It’s a goddamned town. So eventually by driving around I find myself a park. A nice, big, tree-filled park. I get out all of the cookies I brought to feed the pigeons. A big bag of them, from A&P. Oatmeal Raisin. They always seem to do well. So I open up a package and start throwing chunks of them out onto the pavement, in front of my bench. It relaxes me, feeding the pigeons. I sat there for an hour. No, an hour and a half. No pigeons. Not a single one. What the hell?