#trumpstupid | #WhatTheyVotedFor
There comes a point at which it seems the most straightforward explanation seems, quite simply, that Donald Trump does not understand how much trouble he cannot get out of.
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Image note: Detail of Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal by Zach Weiner, 12 June 2015.
The weather report for the next couple days is hardly catastrophic, but neither is it pleasant, and that in turn brings to mind talk of blustery, wet, generally unpleasant winter expected to be, overall, too mild to build significant snowpack in the Cascades, and while it is easy enough to hope such chatter is, well, merely chatter, it is also rather quite tempting to mutter something about, Damn it, Nature! stop wasting water like that!
Except, you know, we’re the human species, so the next thought to mind is also pretty obvious: Oh, right.
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Image note: I’m pretty sure I was playing around with the photocopy filter in GIMP. Never mind. It’s Bloom County, by the one and only Berke Breathed, and I’ve a date of 26 March 1982 for this particular episode.
A personal note: If someone feels they need technical assistance with their computer or network, then one of the things I will need in order to help is access.
Welcome to the password hole.
In the first place, I’m not much of a techie; perhaps help desk would appreciate me if they only understood how often I don’t call them. Still, though, as a user who knows how to start and operate a computer, and even do things like update my system without help, other people occasionally think I am some manner of expert.
Rule Number One: If it is a Windows system, I can’t help.
Rule Number Two: I can’t fix it if you can’t tell me what the problem is.
Rule Number Three: There is, by tradition, no Rule Three.
Rule Number Four: Remember your fucking passwords!
It ain’t easy being me.
I
can’t
get
no
cheese
for my pizza.
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Image credit: Detail of Adam Huber, “The Ghost Wonderer”. Bug Martini. 1 October 2014.
In the history of ideas … right. It is not so much that there are good ideas and bad ideas; rather, every once in a while the question arises, “What, this is an idea?”
No, no, no. That is not really about the artistic product. Playing with such ideas is part of cartooning, especially in the network century. Given that truth is stranger than fiction, we can expect the cartoonists will never actually catch up, even those who catch on.
There are some ideas that seem so removed from the realm of good ideas that we might wonder whence they rise. That is to say, given the content of the annals of life, the idea that one might try such an approach is, well, yes, it is possible. And, given that this is the twenty-first century, after all, why not? Think of politics. If you do not like the question, make something up. And if someone complains that you did not answer the question, argue that you did. So that if the question is the economics of family and you hear a Republican declare that intra-uterine devices are abortifacients, bear in mind that it is, after all, an answer. What would make anyone think it is a good or even relevant answer has nothing to do with anything.
Divorce humor is one thing. Humor in divorce is quite another. The saddest part is that we can rest assured that something like this has happened before. It has all happened before, and it will all happen again until humanity chooses extinction, which, in turn, is an idea, and with the benefit of being applicable to nearly any question.
Meanwhile, Zach Weiner tries his hand at something having to do with divorce and humor, and considering the history of ideas, the disheartening thing is the realization that while life is not so simple as to be adequately explained in eight frames, neither is it so routine that such a proposition should seem extraordinary.
To: Matt Tarpley
re: Facebook spoilers
Why do I feel like I’m betraying you if I link to one of your comics on Facebook?
I mean, this just isn’t conducive to fourth-frame humor, and it certainly doesn’t help this panel arrangement; there’s almost no reason to click the link. Out of curiosity, are the artists grumbling, muttering, murmuring, smoldering, fuming, spitting, whatnot and so-how?
Anyway, yeah. Sorry.
Sigh.
Do you really want to know? It’s just that seldom does one encounter such a new phrase. Quite honestly, I can’t say I ever heard this one before†. And then I looked it up and really wished I hadn’t, but only because it brought to mind an old line from Stephen King―Pet Sematary, I think―having to do with “Bozo the Clown on a pogo stick”.
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† What? It’s true, whenever I see an advert for a Vince Vaughn comedy, I know that’s a film I will only watch if I’m actually trapped in a room where it’s playing. And even then I’ll start looking for an electrical socket sufficient for a shocking rendezvous.
Image credit: Detail of Bug Martini, by Adam Huber, 18 June 2014.
To the one, we’re on cartoons at the moment. To the other, it’s been a while since we paused to sniff the rosebuds at Bug Martini. To the beeblebrox, it really is oddly timed; but then again, that’s not the kind of joke one sits on until November, lest it actually receive some rational thought, which in turn would discourage presentation. And, you know, hey, if I happened to be a dog, that I might count a fourth—and, incidentally, never leave the house for reasons best not discussed in polite company—it would be enough to say that I wish my brother George was here. Except I don’t have a brother named George.
And as to the brother I do have? Well, yeah. Raise a glass, dude.
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Image credit: Detail of Adam Huber, Bug Martini.
Truth told, my problem with phone alarms, quite simply, is the difference between snooze and reset. But, still, yes, it’s something akin to answering a phone in a dream, which really ought to be a line in a pop song, except those bands are all gone, now. Would probably have gone over better than answering machine songs.
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Image credit: Detail of Randall Munroe, xkcd #1359.
Round and round in circles; when do we get to breathe clean, fresh air? The carousel is vicious; each pass brings greater distress.
I don’t know, is that too dramatic?
The problem, of course, is simply that life is unpredictable. Heh. Simply. Unpredictable.
Yet, for all the things that are genuinely predictable, something about politics is problematic. Setting aside the cyclical examinations of what went wrong, both in the internal and public polling, the nature of politics seems to openly and proudly defy the punditry.
B.D.'s Last Refuge 