Shower Power

Whenever I get out of the shower, I feel compelled to do my Super Candi stance. It makes me feel accomplished. Like I defeated an army of germs.

I cleaned my room. 

It took ten hours. Ten. Hours.

Hello My Ragtime Gal

This morning I made an unfortunate discovery.

Unfortunately the only clean underwear I could find were of the no-rise variety. So I've resigned myself to spending the day wearing basically the equivalent of a garter belt. 

Things were going good though, I'd woken up early, felt refreshed, everything was peachy. Until I tried to leave the house. To my right, against the wall, was an ant so big I swear I saw it blink. It gnashed it's mandibles at me and I dove for the door. That is, until I noticed that waiting for me on the door was a big, hairy spider. Just staring at me. What to do? I needed to lean against either the wall or the door in order to leave (our door opens inward; it's stupid that way). 

So which was it to be? Giant, mutant ant or the hairy incarnation of all that is wrong with the world?

I made the obvious choice and went with the mutant ant. At least that way there was a chance of me garnering some freaky super-power as opposed to just flailing helplessly around my driveway with my underpants around my ankles while the spider tap-danced across my head. 

True story.

Annoying People: THE REVENGE!

I may have a lot of free time at work but that's mainly because I work quickly and efficiently and thus finish things far too early. I like that. It gives me time to do my own thing. What I hate is when I spend four straight hours with my eyes glued to my monitor, not even pausing to pee until I've finished a pile of work, only to sit back and relax when I'm done and have one of my coworkers assume that I'm not doing anything. The following scene took place right after I'd finished a solid 4 hour block of mind-numbing transcription. I was still technically working by watching an outgoing DVD for quality control. It was another sermon. Apparently, this part of my job is unsatisfying to one of my managers.

Happy Baskets

I realized something today. Something shocking. Something... about grapes.

Grapes make me sad. They should be more cool. Other fruits are cool. Just look at cherries. Cherries are badass mother fuckers. They don't take flak from nobody! Try to diss a cherry and it will turn around and SHANK YOU!

Oranges are cool and they know it. They live in sunny places and get awesome commercial spots from Tropicana and Simply Orange.

But not grapes. Grapes are lame. Grapes are filler fruit. Like cantaloupe. Except cantaloupe makes me think of watermelon and watermelon makes me think of summer. And summer is cool. So by association, cantaloupe is also cool. Grapes are just sad. Don't get me wrong, I like grapes. I just don't feel as though they're pulling their weight. They're not contributing anything useful to the fruit community.

Just look at these smug little douchebags.

Stop ringing, stop ringing, STOP RINGING!

The phone. It's boring a hole through my cerebellum and causing horrific, unintended consequences. I cite the following evidence as proof that an incessantly ringing phone should be deemed psychological torture:

11am - I find myself rocking from side to side at my desk to the rhythm of the ringing. My broken office chair trembles under the weight of my growing insanity.

12pm - I've started hallucinating. There's a man walking back and forth past the window. Every so often he stops and giggles at a passing chipmunk. His ears take up approximately two thirds of the mass of his head.

1pm - I feel a wetness on my neck. My brain is leaking out of my ears.

2pm - loSt major3ity o  f motttor funczions. bRai n in p0ol on floooore...

3pm - The ringing has stopped. Could it be?!

3:04pm - Nope. All hope is lost.

Here, let me simulate the experience for you:

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING. RING.

Come here phone, I'd like to give you a message on behalf of me and the internets:

In conclusion: Stfu, gtfo.

You Wouldn't Like Me When I'm Angry

In a psychotic fit of boredom, I downloaded the Angry Birds app on my iPhone today. Yes, late to the game as usual. I wouldn't exactly classify a bunch of small creatures catapulting themselves head-first into solid objects a particularly efficient use of the term angry. Sad, pathetic, disturbed, masochistic, those all seem like more appropriate descriptions. But then I realized why Angry is truly appropriate.

Because you begin to hate those birds. And those pigs. And their smug, condescending faces. And the hatred grows until your whole world becomes a swirling vortex of pixelated rage.

The only reward for your increasingly feeble attempts at launching tiny masses of feathers at impregnable fortresses of stone and ice is the glowering image of a red, feathered, tennis ball. The red bird is a douchebag. I imagine him wearing glasses ironically and hanging out of the window of his Trans Am with a giant can of Red Bull in his hands.

PACHOOW!

It's rainy and grey and miserable and weather like this always makes me sleepy. Which is a bad thing when your office is staffed by BATHROOM NINJAS!

Seriously. Who does that?

Torchwood Thursdays: Creativity Abounds!

Larissa and I watch Torchwood once a week, typically on a day that begins with T because we're fans of alliteration. I always feel compelled to bullshit on my laptop while watching tv and yesterday I was struck by the urge to draw characters from the Torchwood/Dr. Who universe. It all began when we paused the show to make sandwiches. The screen was frozen on Gwen Cooper's face as she was lying on a bed of potatoes. Yes, potatoes.

She actually says that. Really. *sigh*

And of course, there's Captain Jack. He doesn't actually say this, but I'm allowed a creative license. 

He's a bit of a manwhore. 

Oh, Toshiko. How sad...

And finally, just for funsies:

I'm so clever. Hurhurhur.

Unraveled

I've begun to notice a disturbing pattern in my emails. A good portion of anyone's inbox will naturally be comprised of advertisements. Some are of the SPAM variety, others may be from mailing lists one's joined. This morning I discovered an email from a mailing list I'd joined a number of months ago, a mailing list which, until recently, had rarely sent me anything of note. The subject line read: Love yarn? YOU'LL LOVE THIS!

Which inevitably started a chain reaction in my brain that began like this:

*Inner monologue*
Love yarn? Are you a cat?

Very funny, I know. My amusement soon turned to terror when I realized that my online proclivities probably had something to do with receiving those ads... and that my internet self (or iSelf for short ((fuck you, Steve Jobs, it's mine!))) did not reflect the kind of person I wanted to be!

All my tortured brain could imagine was how the other citizens of the interwebs viewed me, and it was not good.

This is unacceptable.

I needed an internet fetish I could take pride in! But where to turn? Was I a closeted furry, just waiting for the right fox/man to pass me by?

Oh baby.

Perhaps I was just in search of my double-rainbow? Or maybe, just maybe, I was secretly yearning (not yarning) for some good, old fashion baby-stomping?

It's definitely this one.

Time Warp

Creativity is a funny thing. It's sort of got a mind of its own with a personality to match... And it's kind of a dick.

Consider, for instance, Billy:

I drew him a while back as emergency filler for when my brain inevitably stopped cooperating with me. Speaking of which, here's some more filler:

Yes, I've reinvented Lawrence the Star. Some of you may remember him from 9th grade speech class. He kills people. 

Anyway, back to creativity. I realized today that I haven't been updating regularly anymore and this realization made me sad. So I determined to write an epic post. But then I glanced at the clock and the time read 4:15 which left me with only 45 minutes to formulate an idea and create the appropriate illustrations to fully embody my comedic brilliance.

OH HORRORS! What to do? Surely I could think of something. Is my brain really so dependent on whimsical happenstance for inspiration?!

Yes, yes it is. 

Rainbow Connection

We received an email today from the Pastel Society. What image does that invoke for you?

"No trees were harmed or destroyed in the creation or delivery of this message. However, a significant number of electrons may have been temporarily inconvenienced."

Sexy

Every morning I sift through a few dozen emails, most of which are your run-of-the-mill male enhancement ads with clever catch phrases like "biG dOnG maKe ladY hapPY NOW!" But occasionally I'll come across a somewhat well disguised one that uses an email address nearly identical to that of my boss or a coworker. These tend to be the most amusing especially when you take into account that they're meant to look as though they've come from someone you know. For instance, my middle-aged Asian male boss supposedly sent me the following message: "I am a atractive blonde, who looks for a male pen friend, or just a man to talk with on Skype or in real life!"

Up until this point he'd made nothing but bad life choices. 

Poop Jokes

I don't like blue toilet water. Whenever I see it, I'm reminded of that disgusting blue water that every mini-golf course in the world uses. It smells ranks and it looks like the spittle that dribbles from the gaping maw of hell. I imagine that's where the toilet water comes from. And so I'm always wary of a stray golf ball popping up while I'm in the bathroom.