Tag Archives: goofiness

Have No Fear, Mickey is Here

Beauty and Beast

I have recently had more run-ins with my old nemesis… Fear.  He is a vicious animal that makes my heart race and muddles my thinking (which is ironically very hard to do considering the muddlesome nature of my brain to begin with.)

I posted a political post a couple of days ago suggesting you should shoot yourself in the foot.  Fear tells me he likes shooting.  He is a card-carrying member of the NRA.  Second Amendment rights are more important to him than the First Amendment, the Fourth, the Sixth, and definitely the 15th.  He agrees with Donald Trump about Mexicans.  We have to seal the border, and if they come across to commit crimes, steal our stuff, and mess up our lovely whitebread world, we oughtta be able to shoot them.  Fear likes conservatives in politics.  He knows they don’t really mean it when they ask us to give up stuff and give them more money in return for protecting us from all those scary “other people”, but he likes the notion of guns and military to “protect us”.  Those “other people”, they are scary. and icky, and awful.  We hate them.  Let’s kill them.  Fear really does say this to me, and I am fairly sure that he says it to other people too.  But I have decided I don’t really want to listen.

superchick2Superman 2In fact, I want to stand up to him.  I am tired of listening to people whom I care about repeat fear-fueled talking points from Fox News about why white cops who killed black youths without giving them their right to a trial… especially un-armed black youths… were probably justified and were rightfully afraid for their own gun-fortified life.  I was mortified when the white cop in McKinney, Texas threw the black girl in the bikini to the ground and put a knee on her back.  That was a girl like so many of the ones I have taught in Texas.  Sure, she may have said bad words to him… because she was afraid.  But she had more reason to be afraid than he did.  So, I need to use Mickian magical powers to punch Fear in the nose.  This monster will not beat me, even though I am naked and unarmed.  I am not afraid.

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And here’s the reason why…  I love people.  I don’t hate them.  I don’t fear them.  I particularly love some of the people that friends and relatives routinely tell me that they fear.  I have had black, Hispanic, and Muslim students that I would die to protect without hesitation.  When I stood between a Hispanic boy with a sharp metal throwing star with which he intended to commit a murder, and the boy inside my classroom he was threatening, I was ready to die.  He was not entering my classroom while I lived to block the doorway.  Fortunately for my stupid, brave self, an even braver History teacher prevented him from getting to me and got him to drop the weapon and run away.  Later that day I cried several gallons of tears and thanked God I did not wet my pants on the spot, but that is not the only time in my teaching career that I stepped between two combatants in order to protect them both and end the fight.  The secret to those victories was never having a gun or weapon to fight back with.  All I had to do to win the battle was overcome Fear… to beat him down and not let him be a factor.  You can always talk your way out of any terrible situation.  If the person you are talking to knows you are not showing fear, and you bother to tell him or her that you care about not letting them get hurt, even by their own actions… even the most wicked-hearted people are still people and still have a heart.  If they don’t, a gun isn’t going to save you anyway.  It would’ve helped Ninja-star-boy to have someone supply him with a gun.  So I say this without fear.  “Fear, you do not have a say in my life!  I do not give you any power over my faith, my politics, my daily life, or my loves.”

Now, I am not made of bricks or steel, and I am definitely not bullet-proof.  But I am not afraid to say, I am a liberal in my politics.  I believe in helping people, not hurting them in the name of Fear.  And so, if you Klansmen and white supremacists are offended by that fact and believe you need to punish me for my commie-liberal-sinner crimes, I am ready to tell you that I respect you as a human being, and disrespect every hurtful thing you stand for.  I will gladly give you your Fourth and Sixth Amendment rights, and do everything in my power to prevent you from exercising your Second Amendment rights on my poor little (Biblical-word-for-Donkey used as a euphemism).

Oh, and I am not about to tell you where I live.  I may be stupid and brave, but nobody is that stupid.

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Filed under humor, Paffooney, politics

The 40-Year Class Reunion

This Goodwill rescue Barbie is stamped 1966, but an irate collector once pointed out to me that is no indication of when this doll was actually made and sold.

This Goodwill rescue Barbie is stamped 1966, but an irate collector once pointed out to me that is no indication of when this doll was actually made and sold.

One of the main reasons that I went to Iowa this Summer at the time that I did was because the Belmond High School Class of 1975 was having a reunion dinner for the 40th anniversary of the high school getting rid of all of our dumb behinds all at once, an entire class full of mooks and monkey-heads and minions.  I desperately wanted to see them again… for possibly the last time in our lives.  It has been 40 years.  Seven of us are gone (more than 10% of a small, rural Iowegian high school class).  And now I want to tell stories about them and relentlessly make fun of them… though I will change the names to protect the innocent… and the ones I like… which is all of them.

We had the hootenanny at the Belmond Country-Club and Golf Course (and no, we were not eating golf balls… the most favorite of all Belmond restaurants had been destroyed by a tornado not long ago, and is now re-opened at the Country-Club grounds).  I was really hoping to see my best friend there, Dr. Bilbo Bonaduce… the mook in the lobster shirt in high school that always got my jokes in Mr. Salcomb’s English classes, but never laughed… because he always needed to top them.  (That goof-ball was willing to say out loud in front of everyone the kind of jokes I could only whisper to him behind my hand… needless to say, I only basked in the laughs second-hand.)   Unfortunately, he was not there.  He suffers from Multiple Sclerosis and may not even still be among the living.  It has been a decade since I last saw or heard from him.  Gee, this part of the story is not nearly as funny and uplifting as I had planned.  But, then, time and fortune are not universally kind.

I did get to see the boy I fell in love with in Junior High.  Now, that is not exactly what it sounds like.  Neither of us were ever gay, and both have children by the one and only wives that we each married.  I loved him because he was magical.  He relied on my big brain to help him in Math and History, and I relied on him as we played together, side by side, in football, basketball, and track.  As a teammate, he always made me better at what I was doing.  I tackled harder and shot the ball more accurately and ran faster because he was always there encouraging me.  I was actually the better athlete of the two of us (in my unbiased opinion), but he lettered in three sports when I did not letter in any.  He dated the girl I had the hugest crush of my life upon… for a while… and got all the glory.  But I shared in it because he was my friend and the “shiny” rubbed off on me.  He grew up to be the only farmer in our class who is still actually farming.  Still living the life we once knew.  God, Roger, I never envied you more, and I love you still.

This is a picture of Brent Clarke, not Roger Williams.  Character and inspiration?  Maybe.

This is a picture of Brent Clarke, not Roger Williams. Character and inspiration? Maybe.

I spent the most time talking to three people I had not talked to much in 40 years… Rachel McMichaels was one of the organizers of the dinner.  She was the brainiest girl in our class and the Valedictorian in high school.  The scuttlebutt was that if I courted and married Rachel, all our children would have frizzy white hair and mustaches like Albert Einstein.  She was as warm and caring as ever.  She asked all about my family and told me one or two things about hers.  There was never a flicker of romance between us in high school… probably because of all the teasing… but I do realize what a good thing was always there to be missed out on entirely.

Daniel Mastermill was there too.  We sat beside each other in the front row of the infamous Miss Rubelmacher’s seventh-grade Science class.  The terrifying Miss R sat us there together in her seating chart because of size.  Daniel, in seventh grade, was even shorter and scrawnier than I was.  At the reunion, he was telling me the story (which I had never heard before) of his family’s buried treasure.  It seems that his parents buried a treasure on their family farm, and told the children that it was there, but never gave them a treasure map, or told them what was in the treasure.  The old folks apparently died without telling where it was buried, and the children spent weeks digging up everything they dared to dig up looking for it before the farm was sold.  The treasure is apparently still there.

And I sat next to Reggie Simmery all during the meal.  Everybody talks to Reggie.  He was the class clown.  We were sitting across the table from Angela Oberkfell, the classmate who was also the Junior High School Principal’s  daughter, and listened to a recounting of several times Reg was subjected to paddlings, stern lectures, and even a couple of suspensions.  Reggie could never resist the temptation to say or do the most ridiculous, stupid, and pointless things his little peanut-butter-powered brain could think of.  And he always laughed about everything, even when Angela’s dad whacked him on the behind with a board of education.

The reunion was a disappointment because I didn’t see all the people I wanted to see.  Even the girl I had the greatest crush of my life upon was not there.  (Clever of her to avoid me.)  But I saw people I needed to see, and felt the things I needed to feel, about a time and place so long ago now, and my heart is full… re-filled to the brim.

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Monster Collecting

Okay, it has been a while since I bought a new doll and was going through a bit of hoarding-disorder withdrawal.  Plus a little windfall of cash finally came through.  So, I added to the Monster High collection.  Here is the new purchase still in the package;  (Mint in package- can I resist the urge to take it out and play with it?  Probably not.)

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This is Lorna McNessie, daughter of the Loch Ness Monster.  I am not sure how an aquatic plesiosaur who has managed to live from the Jurassic until the present by hiding in a lake and apparently only eating people no one would ever miss can father a daughter that looks like a scaly blue human girl with a big head, but apparently he did it.  Here is a picture of Dad so you can compare and figure it out for yourself.

http://www.dinosaurjungle.com/prehistoric_animals_plesiosaurs.php

http://www.dinosaurjungle.com/prehistoric_animals_plesiosaurs.php                                                                                                 

This purchase is within the rules of collecting.  At $19.95 she comes in at a nickel under the maximum allowable price.  She is also the first and only collectible purchased in July.  So now I am closer to my goal of collecting all the daughters of famous movie monsters who fill the bizarro surrealist realm know as Monster High cartoons.  Here is a look at where the collection now stands (or sits… displayed on the corner of my bedroom dresser next to the drawing table with all the Barbie parts and Goodwill reclamation dolls.);

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As you have probably noticed, I have added Frankie Stein as well in the recent past, the daughter of Frankenstein’s Monster.  She has surgical seams on arms and legs and neck, along with neck bolts, so one has to question why she is technically the daughter of the Frankenstein’s Monster if she is made of dead girl-parts, sewn together in a laboratory, and re-animated.  Wouldn’t that indicate she’s Frankenstein’s Monster’s Monster?  Oh, well.

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I still hope to acquire Dracula’s daughter, Draculaura, and possibly Venus McFlytrap, the daughter of the man-eating plant in Little Shop of Horrors.  I am also pretty sure there is a daughter of some ghost-guy or other and the daughter of an evil genii.  I don’t know what all is pertinent to this collection.  They are somewhat oddball in nature, and I have not watched the animated cartoon (nor am I sure I can stomach it… there is no guarantee it will be a pleasant surprise like My Little Pony).

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Here is what they look like naked.  This is not intended to prove I am a pervert when I play with my dolls, but this does show the problems I face if I buy Goodwill rescue dolls that need repair or clothing (as most Goodwill dolls do) because their limbs and torsos are unique.  You have to have character-specific replacement arms and legs, or be willing to paint the parts.  The bean-shaped torsos are a bugbear for making your own clothing.  Standard Barbie patterns don’t even come close to fitting, and you have to accommodate things like tails and fins and neck bolts.  I may have to buy cheap ones so I can take their dresses apart for patterns.  This is why I have never been tempted to collect Bratz dolls.  Oh, well, the troubles unique to doll collectors, you know…  And besides… I am well past 500 words for today.

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Winning Easy

20150628_124803Now that Captain Action finally liberated my X-Box from the evil Dr. Evil who was holding it for ransom and not letting me play EA Sports Baseball ’04, I have been able to play Baseball ’04 again.  (It happened in this blog; Dr. Evil’s Removable Brain)  I have been playing this video game now with a passion, as you can plainly see.  You are probably aware that the St. Louis Cardinals are my very favorite team in any and all sports.  Notice, please that I have just pitched Matt Morris’ 30th victory against no defeats over stinky old steroid-fueled Roger Clemens.  It was also his 9th shut out of the season.  This is the first 30-game-winning season since Denny McLain in Detroit, in the 1968 season.  I only had to replay the entire 2004 season 4 times to get there.  Oh, and Albert Pujols has hit 114 home runs and Scott Rolen hit his 70th and 71st in this game.   You are certainly smart enough to figure out by now that I have left the difficulty level of this game permanently set at the Rookie level.  Hey, I’m old.  I like easy wins.

A close-up of the Flower Wagon's first bloom.

A close-up of the Flower Wagon’s first bloom.

This is true in so many areas of my life.  The flower wagon that I posted about on Friday is another evidence of my dedication to the philosophy of the easy win.  It was a victory over many things… depression, tragedy, Texas gully-washers that keep on coming, the tragedy of an old toy that no longer gets played with… things where my decrepit old self with six incurable diseases needs desperately to win.

Flowers in our yard in general are a victory of sorts.  This is Texas.  A couple of summers back we were in a severe drought with like 99 days in a row of high temperatures of 100-plus.  Flowers in June in Texas are a bit of a miracle.  Good flower pictures recently taken are another miracle.  My cell phone camera takes so much better pictures with all its automatic settings than my digital camera which cost twice as much, that it makes me wonder why I ever bothered with it.

A Yellow Rose of Texas in our yard.

A Yellow Rose of Texas in our yard.

Another yellow perennial that came up due to funky wet weather.

Another yellow perennial that came up due to funky wet weather.

Of course, this is pictures the easy way because I am not trying to adjust the color balance (in spite of partial color-blindness), or the brightness compensation, all by my own little self with my modest-to-insignificant photography skills.  (I am just skilled enough at photography to recognize a great work of art photographed by someone else, not skilled enough to take one myself.)

I am retired now.  I have had a long hard career as a public school teacher, and I am working hard at being a good writer (professional or not) in retirement.  I figure I deserve the odd easy win.  Using my writing skills to tackle toxic ideas like prejudice and politics recently I was able to score some real points with some of my very conservative friends.  I discovered by concentrating on the things they believe which I agree are very good things, I was able to make them consider a more liberal point of view, and not cling to Fox-News-sort-of faux-Fox-facts.  I can even get them to laugh at things like saying “Fox-News-sort-of faux-Fox-facts” because it sounds funny even if you are only reading it silently in your head.  It is an example of arguing towards an Easy Win, and I have become an addict.

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Goofball Conspiracy and Nuthouse Nonsense

If you read my blog more than just taking the passing flyby notice of the odd Paffooney picture, you may have noticed the fact that I have many unfortunate mental quirks basted in a flavorful sauce of vivid imagination and fatally high intelligence.  I am too smart to live, most of the time, and so my mental quirk about constantly searching conspiracy information is probably a self-destructive attempt to get hold of seriously secret information that will probably get me killed.  But conspiracy theories are dangerous in more than just the paranoid delusional way that somebody like Alex Jones always perceives it.

b780bda0f5dba4d43d764bc35a5bed4c9618662a1fd433ffd9ca3526cd072530Since I already mentioned the Infowars  rage-clown, let me talk a little bit about how Alex Jones is a truly dangerous force crying about sinister suppositories of conspiracy constantly…  I do not follow the man.  His website takes all kinds of conspiracy-type information and puts it through the grinder of his manic-orangutan persona and turns it all into a giant salad of poop and nuts covered in puree of mystery meat.  The truth is sometimes in there, but all mangled and bunged-up.  For instance, he claims that the Sandy Hook shooting of all those innocent children and heroic teachers was a false-flag operation by the government.  He claims that no children were actually killed… the event was staged…  The government is simply trying to turn public opinion against gun owners and wants to threaten Second Amendment rights.  Gene Rosen, one of the people who heroically helped students fleeing from the Newtown shooting, was harassed by phone calls calling him a “government stooge”.  Jones’ true believers are not smart enough to leave things like this alone.  They take it upon themselves to press the matter and rub salt in the wounds.  In fact, some Alex-Jones-true-believer criminal types stole the memorial for Grace McDonnell and Chase Kowalski, two seven-year-olds who died at Sandy Hook Elementary, because they didn’t actually exist… they weren’t actual children… and then they phoned those children’s parents to taunt them… all in the name of Infowars’ version of the truth.

Here is the article I used as the source for my information;  Why Conspiracy Theories Aren’t Harmless Fun

These facts about conspiracy theories and the people involved in them make me physically ill over the fact that I am also a believer in some very prominent conspiracy theories.  But unlike Alex Jones, I don’t pull things out of a Pandora’s box of paranoia and mental cesspools.  I try very hard to site my sources and choose them critically.   I believe that John F. Kennedy was assassinated, not by a lone gunman, and probably not by Lee Harvey Oswald at all.  There was a massive conspiracy.  I have dug into the roots of Oliver Stone’s movie JFK.  I know who Jim Garrison is… who Guy Bannister and Cord Meyer are… I know about the mysterious history of questionable deaths of witnesses to the shooting and where the efforts at cover-up become apparent enough to know that somebody powerful was behind the whole thing.  But, although I think I know who and why… there is not enough evidence to name names and try to prosecute anyone.  Kennedy’s death was an important blow to the architecture of my childhood.  It combined with other terrible things to take away any chance I may have had to grow up innocent and happy.  Pursuing the truth will haunt me for the rest of my days.

And there are other places where I want to believe.  How about aliens?  I wrote a comic novel or two about that.  There is a source of endless comedy and clowns.

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But I am a believer here also.  The thing about Roswell and the numerous flying saucer incidents that have grown into an entire conspiracy subculture is that so much of it can be traced back to ingenuous and credible witnesses.  Many of them not only had nothing to gain from lying, many of them lost their reputations, their careers, and sometimes even their lives because they tried to tell us truthfully what they witnessed.

I promised to back that sort of assertion up, so one of the sources of my belief is the astronaut Dr. Edgar Mitchell, the sixth man to walk on the moon.  Here is a video readily available on YouTube to let you hear it in his own words.

I apologize for dumping my strange obsessions on you simply to feed monsters lurking in my silly, questioning head.  I have to make sense of the world for myself, and I do it here in writing.  I pulled you in with the promise of humor, and while I may have salted this essay with a bit of that, I have basically tried to convince you of my pet conspiracies.  Forgive me.  For as long as I keep blogging (especially when I am trying to do it every day and need things to talk about) I will continue to try these same tricks.  Watch me carefully.  Hold me to a standard of truth that makes me better than Alex Jones.

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Dr. Evil’s Removable Brain

Last time, after months of me waiting to play with my X-Box Baseball ’04, Captain Carl Action and the Action Super-hero-guy Team had actually found where in the Library Dr. Evil and his minions had been hiding.

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It took an unbelievably long time for my Library to be liberated, but finally liberation was just around the corner…

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So Dr. Evil threw a monkey wrench into the liberation plans with a carefully timed real-identity mix-up ploy.

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Captain Carl had to stop and think for a moment… something that he only did when forced to do it,,, because, well, thinking is something that hurts quit a bit when you have a hollow plastic head with only a plastic armature for a brain.

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Max Steele, the most practical member of the Hero-Guy Action Team, put Dr. Evil/Ming the Merciless down on the Dr. Evil mint-in-box box and began to saw with his Captain Action Lightning Blade.

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Max sawed and whacked and hacked and smacked, and nothing seemed to even put a dent in the non-removable brain of Dr. Evil/Ming the Merciless.

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Soon the Action Hero-Guy Team had to give up.  The dumb plastic brain was all one piece with the rest of the plastic head and was not coming out.  Dr. Evil/Ming the Merciless was simply NOT the answer.

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Captain Carl was fed up.  He couldn’t take any more of this thinking… There was only one thing left to do.

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So Dr. Evil removed his removable brain and handed it to Carl, allowing me to repeat enough silly phrases and stupid words to get to the 500 mark for today.

CABx46

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Writing in My Head

Okay, I am justifying and vilifying today because yesterday I didn’t write 500 words… the first time in 2015… not in my blog, not in my novels, not even counting text messages.   I had extenuating circumstances.  I went to a movie, Disney’s Inside Out which made me laugh and made me cry like any good Disney/Pixar movie always does.  Then I got a message that one of my children went into the hospital in Florida.  And I have been down and out with a bad back, so I missed the Florida trip all together… (the child is fine, by the way, thanks for asking that in your head while reading this).  But all of that stuff and nonsense is really just an excuse for a dastardly act of cowardice.  I didn’t write a full 500 words.  How dare I?   This writing thing has now become my sacred mission from God.  After all, I retired from the first sacred mission because poor health was God’s way of telling me, “MICKEY, IT IS TIME TO BE A WRITER.”  Really!  He talks to me in all capital letters just like that.

girl n bird

And you have probably noticed already that I am doing stream-of-consciousness writing for today’s post, a useful form of pre-writing that is known for producing lots of garbage to go along with the gemstones-in-the-rough.  My mind is still boiling with emotional turmoil and upset and less-than-critical thinking…  The reasons for that are understandable… I am guessing. …  But I think the point is (if points are possible in this no-win game I am playing, and losing, called Old Age) that I am never really not writing.  I have two novels in rough drafting at the same time.  Both When the Captain Came Calling and Stardusters and Space Lizards are both on my task bar at this very moment.  I add new inspirations for the next canto every time a new light bulb clicks on over my little furry head.

20150216_152544 Happy Doodle
swallowtail

So the ideas are already there for several pieces of writing that I simply have to sit down and knock out on the keyboard.  Potentially I have way more than a mere 500 words waiting to blossom and unfold like flowers into paragraphs of purple paisley prose.  (Since this is as close as a writer can come to showing how he actually thinks, I guess I have also answered a question that many who try to read my writing have been wondering about… I really do think in loopty-loops with streamers attached and a knot in the tail.)  Writing is not something I can ever be accused of not doing because writing and thinking are the same thing… the only difference between the 500 per day and the leventie-leven trillion in my head is your access to it in a form that is written down and edited (well, at least re-read for typos… I kinda like leaving the stuff and nonsense… and moldy bananas… in the final product because I can pass that particular form of goofiness off as humor).  (And, yes, it just helped me pass 500 for today.)

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Filed under humor, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney

Another Dadgum Post About Pirates

This one isn’t about Bank of America or Aetna… specifically.  It is just me adding to my cartoon vault and the story of the pirates in Fantastica.20141211_153054

This is the second panel of the story that can be found at The Pirate Vault

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And panels three and four are all I have gotten done on this comic so far.

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This nonsense will all be continued in upcoming days, and the whole thing is in my cartoon vault.

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Googling for Paffoonies

Now that I have alienated so many of my conservative friends by doing the horrible political act of posting a post yesterday in which I took the terrifyingly earth-shaking step of coming out against racism, I must take it back down a notch and just be silly again.  I discovered yesterday that most of my family members whose opinions I take seriously, agree with me.  In fact, some of them are more radically liberal than I am.  (Of course that goes without saying… I did, after all, defend Richard Nixon as being a good president in 1973… just before he resigned in Watergate disgrace.  My political insights are always so keen.)  There are also people whose intelligence I respect who don’t quite want to condemn what happened in South Carolina as racial terrorism  They want to call it a failure of mental health care, the way Jeb Bush did on the campaign trail.  Or they want to think of it as an “accident” that is being seized on by lib-tards to take away people’s God-given second amendment rights the way Rick Perry did (the only candidate for President on record for declaring that he is running while under an indictment for abuse of power as a governor of Texas).  And I suppose it is their right to have their own opinions and feel the way they want to feel about it.  Maybe they really don’t know any racist people anywhere… because they don’t read minds… not because they’re afraid to admit that racism exists.  But I argued yesterday that everyone should love everyone else no matter what language they spoke or what color their skin was.  Apparently that idea is too liberal for some of the people I know.

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But that was yesterday.  Today I am in recovery from political thinking and the philosophical brain-bruising I always seem to take whenever I make any of my disgustingly liberal lunatic statements.  Today I just want to celebrate the fact that I have published a lot of artwork on the internet where a lot of people seem to like it.

If you try “Googling Paffooney” you want to do the thing suggested in my Paffooney ad for all Paffoonies (pictured above) and specify that you are looking for “Beyer Paffooney”.  Google-tastic algorithms help Google figure out what the heck you actually mean by googling a silly, made-up word like “Paffooney” when you add my last name to it.  Somehow that clarifies that you don’t want the pictures from Facebook posts belonging to women named Valerie, teacher websites that may be only vaguely connected to the fact that I am a former school teacher, and foolish enough to be honest about it in my posts, and artwork by any and all painters and cartoonists on the web.  Adding my name somehow clears up for Google the fact that the artwork that I continually label and categorize as “Paffooney” is not that weird variety of other things.  I am, after all, the only idiot on the web using that silly magic made-up word… at least that I know of.  So I hope you give a look and try to like my Paffoonies, even though they are probably just as goofy and mixed-up as my politics.  Here is a link to make it entirely too easy for you to do this weird thing;

Google Paffooney Now

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More Nuts n’ Bolts… This Time Mostly Bolts

Okay, this is another filler piece to allow me to post every day of 2015.  But it does give me a chance to write down a few things I have been thinking about…  And I do realize allowing me to think nowadays is a completely risky proposition.  But when you talk about Nuts and Bolts, you are talking about how things are put together.  The nut keeps the attachment from sliding apart and failing to do its job, but the real work of bonding things together is done by the bolt.  So, to keep mangling the metaphor until it is either as tightly bolted as it will go, or it bursts from the torque and stress, let me talk about some bolts in my cartooning endeavors.

pie-ricks

This most recent pen and ink Paffooney is a cartoon panel about Pirates from the imaginary dream world of Fantastica.  In the cartoon environment I am working on now, Pirates take your gold and valuables basically by being bankers and compounding your interest…  mostly by compounding really, really hard… like with hammers and heavy swords.   So here is one of the bolts holding my posts together.   I am financially troubled right now (right now meaning the last twenty years) by trouble with credit card debt and banks.  I fight that kind of trouble with swords of satire.  You find me complaining a lot about this particular topic by mostly metaphorical means.

And that leads to another bolt that is a common rivet in the girders of my purple paisley prose.  I use metaphors and drawings in a way that can be characterized by the artistic term (or is that autistic term?) surrealism.  Yes, I am an out-of-the-closet surrealist like Salvador Dali, Juan Miro, and Rene Magritte.  I would like to argue that I am also a surrealist in the manner of Bill Watterson, creator of Calvin and Hobbes, Charles Schultz, creator of Peanuts, and Dan Piraro, creator of Bizzaro, but cartoonists in general don’t tend to be out of the closet, willing to admit that they juxtapose disjointed images with realist elements in them to make a comic point or raise an emotional response.  That is something most cartoonists are unwilling to let their parents understand about them… that, or they simply don’t know what big words like juxtapose mean… because cartoonist are generally unwilling to look things up in the dictionary.  I hope this paragraph doesn’t make your brain hurt.  But if it does… well, that’s why most of us surrealists try really hard to keep it secret and end up living a double life.

I think you can also tell by today’s post that I need to revisit this idea of examining bolts.  I am swiftly coming to the end of today’s 500 words, and I have only covered two working bolts.  What kind of structure can stand up to high winds with only two bolts in the entire thing?  But hopefully it won’t all suddenly collapse before I have a chance to come back and place a few more bolts.  And on that note, I am at 514.

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Filed under humor, Paffooney, surrealism