Start every day off with a smile and get it over with.

-W. C. Fields

[As I turn the television to the Discovery Channel]

“I don’t want to learn.  God damnit, I’m gonna close my eyes.  Change it!”

 

“I don’t know what that means and I’m not going to learn it now!”

[Covers ears with her hands and yells "La La La La La"]

 

[Testing to see if she knows which presidents are on US currency]

A: “Who’s on the ten dollar bill?”

B: “Jack Daniels?”

 

[The Christmas song by Alvin & the Chipmunks starts to play on the radio with "Dave" saying "Alright, chipmunks!"]

B: [Outraged] “What?!?  What did he just say?”

A: “He’s talking to his chipmunk children.”

B: “Oh.  I thought he was insulting us.”

 

What’s a Turkism? Find out here.

“If I were a lawyer, I’d sue the English language.” -Burcu

Dinosaur. Ballet. Dinosaur Ballet.

 

Click it. And be awed.

 

Dinosaur Ballet

 

For the consistently hilarious write-up by the genius at Geekologie that accompanied this video, click here.

 

Oh, and…you’re welcome.

Your lips taste like tumors,
and cancer perfumes your hair.
I guess you could say,
you’re really growing on me.
But, I’m not entirely prepared
to resign myself to platitudes quite yet.
Not while the focaccia
still corners the market on staleness.
Lord! I can be so trite.

When it comes to self-aggrandizement, I am the BEST.

-Avery Edison

You don’t have to say it.  I’ve already come to that realization.

 

Hi, my name is Andy and I’m one of those parents.  Yes, those.

 

The ones that think their child is the greatest thing in the universe.  Better than ninjas!  Better than dinosaurs!  Even better than bacon!  Hell, I’m willing to go way out on that limb (you know, the one they keep putting that baby in cradle from the song on) and say that my child is better than ninja dinosaurs made of bacon!  There.  I said it.  I have no regrets.

 

So as one of those parents, I am obliviously immune to any journalistic, scholarly, or literary standards I had previously set for myself with this site.  As such…

 

Who wants to see more adorable baby pictures?!?!  Well, Gentle Reader, excitedly flailing your arms about and shrieking “Me!  Me!  Me!” it’s your lucky day.  And for those who aren’t flailing or shrieking: 1) You’re a big dummy head who smells like antelope farts, and 2) Need I mention it again?  BETTER THAN NINJA DINOSAURS MADE OF BACON!  BACON, for God’s sake.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you perchance happen to have the time, guv’nr?  [If you don't understand why she's British in this caption, you clearly have no understanding of anything ever.  You're sad.  And pathetic.]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Insert favorite Bill Clinton quote here:_____________________.  Just don’t insert anything else of Bill Clinton’s.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is Spaaaarta!  No, wait.  This is Phoeeeeeeeeenix!  It’s in Arizona.  The place with the giant Earth-gina, or Big Canyon or whatever you want to call it. 

[Cut her some slack, she's only two months old.  Clearly, she's not the best at distinguising ancient Greek warrior states from modern U.S. retirement states]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ZIM ZIM ZALA BIM!  Suck on it, Robin Williams.  And, uh, Jeannie, who gets dreamed about often.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Glamour Shots: Now Available at the Mall.

 

 

 

 

 

And, as a fitting photo to round out this post.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DISAPPROVING BABY:

DISAPPROVES

Gentle Readers,

 

After a lengthy hiatus, I’ve returned to the McSweeney’s front page.  Enjoy.  Or, pretend to enjoy.  I’m very sensitive, you know.

 

EXCERPTS FROM A LIFE AT C:

THE BIOGRAPHY OF CAPTAIN HORATIO MAGELLAN CRUNCH BY JEAN LaFOOTE, THE BAREFOOT PIRATE

BY ANDY BRYAN

- – - -

Chapter 5:
Personality Overboard: Strained Relations on The Good Ship Guppy

 

Just a few years into his captaincy, it became apparent to everyone that Cap’n Crunch was a veritable powerhouse on the seas—a seemingly untouchable icon. Many found inspiration in Crunch’s humble beginnings directing a meager crew comprised only of a bespectacled young boy and a dog. As the years progressed, the crew grew steadily larger, though not older. Rumors began to surface that the crews were always children only because there wasn’t an adult in the world naïve enough to tolerate Crunch’s overbearing ego. Unnamed sources in the military all corroborated that despite four decades of experience commanding a ship, it was Crunch’s abrasive pompousness that prevented him from ever realizing that elusive promotion to Admiral.

 

Former crew members (that is, those who hadn’t lost their lives to alcoholism and drug abuse in adulthood) filed a joint lawsuit in 2002, citing severe mental anguish from the Cap’n’s relentless boasting at having his own cereal and his oftentimes-violent insistence that anything could be achieved with it. Whether it was save the day, cure onboard illnesses, or treat wounds, Cap’n Crunch incessantly praised and employed his cereal. As the cereal grew in popularity, Crunch’s delusions became more frequent and far more pronounced. He was often found bathing in his cereal, sleeping with his cereal, and court records indicate he officially married it in 1977.

 

Chapter 9:
The Soggies

 

Though no one could have predicted it at the time, it was Crunch’s campaign against the Soggies that would eventually result in his dramatic fall from grace. True, the Royal Oats Navy had given the orders to Cap’n Crunch to contain and eliminate the “Soggie Threat,” but no one could have foreseen the extreme lengths the Cap’n would go to in order to succeed. The gruesome spree of decapitations that Crunch engineered in his drive to eradicate the Soggies would come back to haunt him.

 

Later, when the world discovered that crunchberries originated on a remote archipelago the Soggies were indigenous to, the truth was revealed—the Cap’n had been illegally harvesting crunchberries and ruthlessly exploiting the natives for years. The news came as a shock. People’s perspectives changed. No longer were the Soggies the evil aggressors we’d all made them out to be. It became apparent that the only thing the Soggies were guilty of was trying to defend their way of life.

 

Public opinion slowly began to turn on Crunch. The papers were ruthless.

 

Accusations of the military manufacturing the “Soggie Threat” on Crunch’s behalf were everywhere. The word “genocide” was bandied about. And all this before the illegal crunchberry-beast market the Cap’n was allegedly orchestrating came to light.

 

Chapter 11:
Crunch’s Milk Goes Sour

 

In the years after the Soggie story leaked in the Post, several other allegations began to surface that would lead to Cap’n Crunch’s eventual court martial and Dishonorable Discharge. There were the millions of dollars in property damage from the countless instances Crunch grounded his ship in overzealous “Crunch-a-tizing” operations. Plaintiffs recounted with horror the same haunting whistle moments before The Good Ship Guppy came crashing through private and public property alike. The payouts to cover the skyrocketing rate of nervous breakdowns and post-traumatic stress disorder were enough to financially and emotionally bankrupt the Cap’n.

 

Environmental groups had a heyday when it was revealed that the Royal Oats Navy had been covering up the staggering casualties to sea organisms from Cap’n Crunch constantly lavishing his cereal on various ocean animals. Then there were the protests holding Crunch accountable for the myriad international child labor laws he ignored over four decades. The most damaging allegations personally to Crunch—the metaphorical sea salt in the wound—were the charges brought up by the medical community, citing two generations of grotesque palate disabilities from the severe lacerations that often accompanied the consumption of his cereal.

 

Afterword:
Sailing Into the Sunset

 

While researching this book, I was invariably met with the same question everywhere I went. “Why would you, Jean LaFoote the Barefoot Pirate and long-term adversary of Cap’n Crunch, want to pen a biography about your arch-nemesis?

 

Well, let me to answer this by saying that I’ve grown considerably as a person since my pirating days began. I wear shoes now. I own a condo. Sure, my mother had to co-sign, but it’s pretty much mine. And looking back on it, I have difficulty determining why I devoted so much of my life to stealing Horatio’s cereal recipe. So I suppose I penned this biography to gain some new perspective about myself.

 

I’m not ashamed of my past. When you spend your life at sea, you discover things about yourself. And the Cap’n… well, I’ve come to recognize that the Cap’n is a very charming man. The precise details of our current relationship are not ones I wish to delve into here, but let’s just say that the Cap’n is a very considerate shipmate. He makes me feel safe. And his moustache is surprisingly soft and silky. As for whether or not there is any truth to the rumors that we plan to use the profits from this book to retire to a secluded tropical island together… I have no comment.

I haven’t been this riled up since the whole Team Edward / Team Jakob battle.  Except this time, everyone is wearing a shirt and nothing is sparkling.

Except the lofty, copper  locks of Coco.

I would be remiss if I didn’t take a moment to acknowledge the travesty that is befalling the towering, pasty-skinned, red-haired comedian we all know and love at the hands of the scrambling, delusional National Broadcasting Company.

 

So, uh, yeah.  I acknowledged it.  I don’t know that I have anything particularly insightful to say about the situation that anyone with a robust and respectable sense of humor doesn’t already know.  And by robust and respectable sense of humor, I mean humans that recognize the hopeless banality and blatant laziness of Jay Leno’s jokes on television.  (Hold on, I feel a snotty, critical tangent coming on…wait, no, no, yep, there it is.)

 

In the unfortunate moments I’m caught watching Leno, I’m overcome with the sense that his jokes aren’t written so much as generated by a poorly designed computer program implemented by a programmer who learned the mechanics of comedy in a poorly written manual by an author who learned comedy in a second language.  Yeah, that’s right.  My metaphors are Meta-META.  Leno’s monologue jokes are painfully obvious, weak in delivery, void of insight, and cater to everything that is mediocre in America.  And the sketches or gimmicks that even remotely approach entertainment (”Jaywalking” and Headlines) are completely unrelated to Jay Leno’s talent or sensibilities as a comic.  They are simply ”found” comedy – they rely entirely on someone else doing all the work and providing all the laughter.

 

That’s why it’s such a ridiculous shame to see a talented, hard-working comedian asked to grab his ankles and grin by a clueless group of corporate executives who misguidedly believe they can turn back time and restore everything to some past utopic ratings level with sad, sorry mediocrity.  I hope Conan finds his rightful place (with Andy!) with people who value his comedic contributions.  And would it be too much to ask of karma that his show totally kick Leno’s ass across the equally misguided Nielsen ratings board.

 

Long live Conan!

 

Down with NBC!

 

Now let’s form a group and do something about it!  These pitchforks and torches aren’t going to mob themselves.

On a recent somersaulting trip down Memory Lane (an actual dead-end street near my house in Phoenix), I began flipping through old photo albums of myself to see how my infant appearance compares to that of my darling progeny.

 

What I discovered was that I was a fat, hungry-looking baby.  The kind that I avoid eye contact with at the pediatrician’s office.  Then, as I stared disconnectedly at myself through three decades, I was tangentially sucker-punched and left pondering the nature of continuity and the self.

 

But then I found this gem, and snapped right out of it.  Notice anything…special?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you see it?  Of course, you see it.

 

Impressive, huh?  Even as a toddler I apparently couldn’t control my excitement in public.  But clearly, I could handle it, if you know what I mean.  And I know you do.

 

Maybe a color portrait will give you a better idea of what you’re looking at.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Still left wondering what it is that’s protruding from my waist and being proudly hefted in my youthful hands?

 

Or, maybe wondering why my toddler (pee-pee / willie / wang / scallywagger / Official Flagpole of Sausagetown – whichever term of endearment you prefer) appears to be orange in hue?

 

Perhaps wondering if your prolonged gaze at questionable portraits from my toddlerhood constitutes pedophilia?  (I checked and it does, you filthy, filthy pervert!)

 

Here’s the other photo from the shoot for purposes of illumination.

 

 

Enlightenment feels good, doesn’t it?  Like one of those annoying pictures you stare at for hours and hours and everyone sees some damn dolphins jumping over a waterfall but all you see is a bunch of stupid pink and purple and black spots and then you finally see it and think: “Wow!  I just wasted two hours of my life, but I see the truth now!”  It’s kind of like that feeling, isn’t it?  Except, if you were staring at my portrait for two hours, you’re probably under house arrest and restricted from going within a hundred yards of schools and playgrounds.

 

But you should have been able to guess Big Bird from the beginning.  Big Bird.  Ya get it?  Do you get it?  Big.  Bird.  Big is, well, big.  And then bird.  A cock is a bird. 

 

Do you get it now?  Huh? 

 

Why do you never get it?  You clearly have some kind of humor-detecting deficiency and should probably be in therapy.  Just saying.

 

I can’t decide whether the photographer who took the picture, developed it, and handed it to my mother with a straight face was either the most oblivious person in the universe or a visionary, evil genius that knew he’d just provided the boy in that priceless photograph, many years down the road, one of the best Facebook profile pics of all time.

 

 

PS – You’re still a pervert.  A filthy one.