Toons - the corruption of youth

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Remember all those cartoons in the 60's,70's, and 80's when we were growing up?  Remember how all the psycho-analysts were telling our parents that our society was being affected by all the violence and horrid role-models those cartoons were giving the children?  Were they correct?  Were they onto something we didn't see at the time?  I've been sitting here and examining some of the cartoon characters we grew up with on Saturday mornings, and here are some of the seedy characters I remember. You'll know these. These are the ones our parents warned us about, the ones that would curve our spines, darken our souls, and cause us to grow up in a violent and drug-induced haze.

Barbie dolls for modern times

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Corey, my oldest daughter, is now 29.  Even when she was younger, Corey has always had the same sort of bizarre sense of humor that I do.  One day, we sat down and our warped imaginations began running amuck in trying to create the newest Barbie that would make us rich. Some of the creations we came up with are listed below.


But the years went by and that cash cow never materialized. So what you see below is the result of a few wasted hours of my time trying to create the Barbie that accurately reflects our age and culture. Some I even managed to find images on the Internet that would befit the idea.

Call now. Operators are standing by, ready to take your orders for a limited time.

And then there's the also-ran Barbies for which I could not find suitable images:

Vasectomy Unplugged (so to speak)

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Who would have thought a vasectomy would be so humorous????


So there I was, lying on the doc's table with the doc pulling out a hypodermic needle, a perverse smile on his face. I'm looking at the ceiling, the garbage can (is that a blood stain I see on the side?), some brochures over in the corner . . . ANYTHING but what is going on below.  I mean, I've seen the brochure.  I know exactly what is going to happen and how.  Call me a wuss, call me a wimp, call me a girly-man, but I'd really rather not watch my insides pulled out through my scrotum. But the doc doesn't seem to mind.

And then the pain hits me. Women can talk about labor pains all they want. Try having a needle stuck in your cajones to "deaden" the pain.  Finally the pain subsides, and I relax some while realizing the worst part is probably over.  But that relief is only temporary as another needle is stuck in me.

WTF???? "HEY, DOC . . . I thought I only needed one shot of anesthesia???"
"Too much real estate down here for one shot, I guess," he says.

Great. I got stuck with the smartass doctor.  Eventually that pain subsides also.  Still looking at anything but my lower extremities, a few minutes pass by before I hear a "sssssssssssss" sound.

"Uh, would that be the sound of cauterization?" I ask.
"Yeah . . . and I'm also putting my initials on the inside."

I start laughing so hard at his comment that he tells me I have to cease my laughing or he'll have to stop the operation - not being able to hit a moving target and all that.  Not difficult for me to do because I start seeing white smoke coming up from my nether regions and I’m thinking, “Did they just elect a new Pope?”

I throw in my own comment - "Hey, can you do me a favor while you're in there? Can you stuff a ping-pong ball inside so I can be the topic of conversation in the ladies restroom?"  Now I'm the one who has to tell him to stop laughing.

Well, a few minutes later, it's all done. Or so I thought.  That's when I'm informed that I have to come in once every 3 weeks for 9 weeks to drop off a "specimen" to make sure the operation was a total success. 

"And make sure it's FRESH," he adds.

Fresh???  Fresh is not a word I normally associate with my ejaculation.  "Whadaya mean by 'fresh', doc? You want me to gather a 'specimen' for you while I'm in your parking lot? Do you have an ongoing agreement with the local police so I don't get picked up for lewd behavior?"

Well, 3 weeks pass by. I'm at the grocery store, and I've just passed the baby aisle.  I'm staring at a baby food jar, having just decided that it would probably be the perfect container (which is rather ironic if you think about it).  I chose a baby food jar because empty 35mm film cannisters are hard to come by these days, and I probably would have looked like an egotistical idiot dropping off my "specimen" in a pickle or mayonnaise jar. 

And it takes a helluva long time to GET that "specimen."  I mean, I can't stop laughing at myself.  How is one supposed to get turned on for a baby food jar?

"Ohhhhh, baby . . . you're so smooth and clear. Mmmmmmm . . . really, I promise I won't cum inside you."

The "specimen" is finally collected.  I'm sure you don't need the details.  I screw the lid on, but then I get an evil grin on my face as I'm looking at my pantry's contents.  There's a half-empty jar of corn syrup on one of the shelves, but I don't see corn syrup. I see REVENGE for having to be put through this embarrassment every 3 weeks.  Imagine the nurse's reaction of horror as I hand her the baby food jar and she holds it . . . not knowing that prior to bringing it into the doctor's office, I spread a thin layer of corn syrup on the outside. Think she'll know the difference when she feels the stickiness on the outside of the jar?

Jack and Jill Revisited

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I remember one college instructor I had who liked to hand out a particular assignment. I think he did it partially because he knew it was a good writing exercise, but also partially because he usually got a chuckle from the results.


So here's how his assignment was usually explained. Take a very short story, a nursery rhyme, or a proverb . . . and rewrite it in the style of several famous authors. More than trying to get you to write material that was original, the idea was to make you really learn how to be observant of how certain authors write and what makes their styles unique.

So I decided recently to revisit that little exercise.  I tried to think of a nursery rhyme that wouldn't be too complicated (or long) to write in another's author's style. What I decided to go with is "Jack and Jill." You know . . .

Jack and Jill,
Went up the hill,
To fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down,
And broke his crown,
And Jill came running after.

Once the material is chosen, you then have to choose several "famous" authors whose style is usually easy to recognize. Being a sci-fi nut, my first thought was to do Isaac Asimov, Larry Niven, or Phillip Jose Farmer . . . but I realized that most of my friends probably wouldn't even know who those authors are.  And it's also nice to throw in someone who's not really an "author", but who has a certain style that is easy to recognize.

The "authors" I decided to go with are Dr. Seuss, Stephen King, Erma Bombeck, and Andrew Dice Clay. After about 60-90 minutes of pecking away, the following is the result.


Dr. Seuss

A bright sun rose across the meadow.
It was bright and yellow.
Bright! Bright! Bright!
Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!
And on that meadow came two kids,
Knowing why they came, only they did.
In their hands an empty bucket.
On their shoes some hairy schlunkets.
To make those schlunkets from their shoes go,
Jack and Jill must find some H2O.
So merrily they climbed the hill,
Jack skipping and followed by Jill.
Jack laughed and pointed and said,
"Come, Jill. There's water up there on top,
But Jill could not answer or smile,
Because Jack fell down and went kerplop.
One must always pay attention
When walking on shoes with schlunkets
For if you don't, your feet will slip,
And falling onto your head, you'll thunk it.



Stephen King

An ominous hill rose before them, seemingly mocking their quest and the pursuit of the sweet elixir they sought. Jack was a former auto mechanic whose love of sleek and sexy Ford Mustangs and disdain for foreign automobiles somehow always got in his way. Here he was now . . . traversing through the ravaged countryside in search of water for the broken down Volkswagen Bug that lie two miles in the distance, steam spewing from its hood as if a dragon wheezing through its last breath. Jill, a former supermodel, tagged along despite his objections, but there was no way she would have remained alone in the car with the fingers of dusk crawling toward them.

"Fuckin' figures", Jack mused to no one in particular. "The only time the bitch doesn't have a couple bottles of that Evian shit with her." The only item of use was a yellowing popcorn pail. Jumbo-sized. He silently thanked his luck for having bought the largest size of popcorn bucket he could have when he last took her to the film festival in Bangor. A sitting (or rather, suffering) through another showing of "Titanic" had demanded the sort of distraction required when faced with having to sit through yet another movie starring that pud-fucker, Leonardo DiCaprio.

Jack stopped suddenly, his head tilted slightly to the side. You could almost see his ears twitching to pick up the slightest sound.

"What's wrong, honey?" Jill asked.

"Shhhhhh!!!!" Jack hissed. "Jesus-jumped-up-Christ-on-a-popsicle-stick, shut the FUCK UP!!!!"

Jack stood frozen for a few moments. Moments that went by. Ever. Too. Slowly. He could have sworn he heard something. A slithering sound, something almost primeval. The kind of sound that the reptiles must have heard when man's distant ancestor crawled out of the ocean for the first time.

Jack regained his composure and straightened his posture from one of readiness to relaxed. The sun had nearly set, and the shadows were simply releasing childhood fears and memories. Yeah, that's what it was, he said convincingly to himself. He eased his grip on the bucket's handle and resumed the journey toward the top of the hill where he had seen an old-style well complete with hand pump.

As he neared the crest of the hill, he heard a muffled gasp behind him. He began to turn around, fully expecting the object of his lust to be cowering from some flittering mosquito, when something whipped around his ankles and yanked his feet out from under him. His feet whipped out in front of him while his torso was still in mid-air, making him appear to have the sleek moves of a young Jackie Chan. Before gravity took hold and brought his ass back home to the ground, he was violently yanked sideways. His skull slammed with a sickening, squishy sound into a large granite stone that jutted out from the ground. Jack now lay motionless. Ironically, the amount of brains he had bragged about possessing to Jill now seeped slowly onto the ground, creating a small creek of glistening, red gore. The last sounds he heard were of another whipping sound followed by the slap of soft flesh and the scream of a very terrified woman.



Erma Bombeck

And then there was the time when newly-wed Jack and Jill Schroeder (can't help but thinking of the "Peanuts" character) were in dire need of refreshement. Of course, you would think that Jack, being the hunter/gatherer type, would be more than happy to ask his lovely, new bride to take a load off of her dogs while he sought out water to quench her thirst. But these are NEWLYWEDS, people! It could be that their young love was so strong that neither wanted to be apart for more than a moment. More than likely, Jack, being internally torn between that of yuppie and Cro-Magnon man, was afraid that a Prince Charming would happen to pass by in his absence and woe Jill from him before he'd even had a chance to lug her across the proverbial threshold.

So merrily our young couple begin their trek up the hill to the water fountain nestled so romantically next to the park's gazebo. All that's missing is the dreamy theme music as they walk up the hill. You'd think that one of them ought to be able to at least hum a nice tune. I mean, their last name is Schroeder! Sorry. Digressing again to childhood cartoon memories.

Nearly halfway up the hill, Jack pulls out his Burger King crown, knowing full well (ha! Well. Water. Get it?) that Jill has a deep, secret fear of the Burger King character that litters the television airways these days. He stops and stares at Jill with that patented dead-pan stare. She stops, looks at him, and raises an eyebrow unapprovingly. He begins to hum the Burger King theme. (Say, I guess one of them does have some small talent in the musical arenea!) I won't even tell you what he says next. Let's just say that it's sufficient to mention that Burger King serves "Whoppers."

Whatever it was that Jack said . . . Jill's reaction made it obvious that the honeymoon was now over . . . already. With a few choice words and phrases uttered under her breath, Jill hastened her pace. With the joke that had gone over badly now over, Jack made a last-second rush toward his bride that would have made Walter Payton envious. The only problem . . . he didn't notice a nice pile of doggie doo that his left foot stepped into. He slipped and performed a cheerleader-style split that sent his crown flying. The jewels on the makeshift paper crown were safely flung from Fido's droppings. The other jewels possessed by Jack were not quite so fortunate.



Andrew Dice Clay

So I'm walkin' in the park and I see this couple walking hand in hand up this hill. And I'm thinkin' to myself, what a faggoty pansy this ass-pumper must be. I mean . . . if the bitch has got a spare hand, I'd have somethin' a little more meaty to put in her hand if I was him, so what's this asshat's problem? Then I notice, oh fuck, it's not a fuckin' couple. It's my poker-buddy Jack and his hot cunt of a 16 year-old daughter, Jill. Upon further examination, I see Jilly-baby has got a cut or some kind of shit on her forehead, and the bitch is bleedin' from her noggin' as if her skull is having a fucking period of its own. Yeah, I'm fuckin' observant like that, ya know.

So I'm wondering if ol' Jack has hauled off and smacked the bitch because she's scoping out the hung studs in the park or if the uncoordinated cunt has just tripped over her goddamn tampon's string and fucked up her head because of it. Well, they're getting closer to me and I see the little bitch is crying like Mother Teresa holding some starving, 3rd-world newborn. Now, Jack is a good poker buddy. And I don't mean it as in "poke her, Buddy!" I mean as in the stupid fuck is too clueless to know he can't play poker for shit, so he's always good to fleece for a ten or twenty spot every Friday night. But the motherfucker owes me $35 from last Friday because I let him play on credit. Like I'm the fucking Bank of America, right? So I figure I'm gettin' me a little poontang from his sweet-cheeks daughter, Jilly, or he's givin' me my $35.

I'm friendly and all. I say, "Howdy fuckin' doo" and all that shit, but he's blowing me off like a $200 hooker, telling me he's in one fuck of a hurry because he wants to get his little girl to the park's medical station to get some water and a damp, fuckin' rag to put on her boo-boo or some shit like that. I'm the fucking Dice-man, right? So I don't take that shit from nobody. I haul off and bitch-slap the fuckstick all the way down that fuckin' hill. He falls down and covers up like George Foreman when Evander Holyfield knocked the shit out of him, so I literally kick and roll his fat, fuckin' ass all the way down the hill. I mean, $35 is $35, after all.

New fast food opening in Maine

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And you thought the Burger King dude was creepy already . . .
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Die, Snuggle Bear . . . DIE!!!

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As I may have mentioned earlier, I have a deep hatred for the Snuggle Bear.  You know this pathetic excuse for a corporate mascot, don't you?  DON'T YOU????  Designed by Kermit Love (the same guy who designed "Big Bird" for Sesame Street), this syrupy-sweet, sickening character became the spokesperson (or spokesbear) for Snuggle fabric softener in 1983.  The whiney voice was based on Spridle, a character from the 1967 "Speed Racer" cartoon.

My own personal hatred of ol' Snuggles began back when I was in college.  There was this cheerleader-type gal in several of my Computer Science classes who had no business being in the same curriculum.  She had absolutely no dignity and did not mind everyone seeing that she was attempting to get special grade considerations by flirting with the male teachers and making sure her skirts were hiked up when she sat on the desks of the instructors, playfully bantering with them the entire time.  Well, this pathetic siren always had a miniature Snuggle Bear attached to her purse and said sweet things to it often.  Yes, she actually talked to the damn bear on her purse!  I guess I decided to take out my frustration and hatred on Snuggle Bear because of that, and forever more associated Snuggle Bear with her.

I am not alone, however. There are MANY who are entirely creeped-out by this corporate roadkill.  He probably runs a close 2nd in the creep-out factor behind that Burger King guy (that's a whole 'nother blog).  I'm sure there are 12-step support groups out there also for fellow Snuggle Bear haters. But on the flip side, there also seems to be renewed interest brewing for this wanna-be road kill.  And propaganda glorifying his cuteness is even sprouting on the web now.  The freaking bear even has his own damn website now (www.snuggle.com/home.aspx)!  Satanic?  Duh!!!  Need you ask????  My fears are not irrational in spite of your eye-rolling or laughter.  Few know of the 1978 mauled camper incident, but one can afford to have justice turn a blind eye when you have a corporation fearing for its image.

You can't help but wonder what the actual gender of Snuggle Bear is.  The cartoon equivalent of Michael Jackson, his squeaky, androgynous voice does not help settle the matter either.  Personally, I believe it is male.  Probably due to his beverage of choice being fabric softener, he has guzzled the blue stuff and destroyed his larynx, forever effeminizing his voice.  It also could be that having been exposed to "softener" since 1983, his body has sustained permanent damage and he is no longer able to function as a male, losing both primary and secondary sex characteristics. 

Commercials where the characters jump out of things for shock value are difficult to handle, but not horrifying.  I can handle Mrs. Butterworth talking about all the sweet syrup that lies inside of her and how all of us should spend our days fantasizing about licking her sweetness.  I can handle the Rice Krispies elves jumping out of my cereal in spite of wondering why 3 males are splashing around with glee in my milk.  I can even handle Tony the Tiger's self-absorption about how his shit is Grrrrrrr-eat!!!  What I cannot handle is this little pissant bear popping out of bottles of fabric softeners and telling moms and little children to smell his towels.  I put it to you to decide - don't you think if our children are sniffing glue for maximum highage, it's probably because of that drug-pusher, Snuggle Bear?  I can just hear him now . . .

"Here . . . tee-hee . . . sniff this!"

I am tired of having nightmares where I'm being smothered with a lemony-fresh pair of underwear.  ENOUGH, I say!!! Our children are exposed to enough mindless drivel day-in, day-out!!!  Please join me.  Let's create a Snuggle Bear Awareness week and help rid our planet of this demon disguised as a bear.  Let's set a real trap for him in the lint trap and hope the little bastard has to gnaw off his own gangrenous leg before Grandpa's sweat-stained t-shirts are thrown in the dryer.  Let's train our cats to attack him in the laundry basket and use him as their new chew toy.  Let's bring capital punishment to television and broadcast his demise in an industrial dryer turned on full speed.  Can't you just hear his high-pitched scream?  Now, that's entertainment!

Sports headlines . . . unplugged

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If you read an earlier post, you probably already know that I was a part-time sportswriter for the Peoria Journal Star (in Peoria, Illinois . . . duh) when I was 19 years old and going to college back in the late 70's.  The PJS employed quite a few college students as part-time sportswriters, especially during high school football and basketball seasons since there were so many games to cover and only so many full-time sportswriters.

There was a group of us who would pull pranks on our editor.  He was a nice guy, and better still, had a great sense of humor.  We would create suggestive and sometimes even lewd headlines for our stories.  He was well aware of our little game, and it was really an exercise in seeing just how closely he'd read our work - to see if he'd be able to spot things that were incorporated tongue-in-cheek. Ya know, kinda like the old "And Sammy Sosa is on base with four balls" kind of thing.

Well, that little game stopped abruptly one weekend when one of the pseudo-headlines got by him and actually went into print.  It was not my headline, but a fellow sportswriter's.  Keep in mind this transpired during the winter when hundreds of high school basketball teams were competing.  Lots of stories.  Lots of smaller headlines.

The school was Monmouth High School.  Their "mascot" or "team name" was (and still is, I think) the ZIPPERS.  Yeah, the Monmouth Zippers.  If you don't believe me, look at the photo of their basketball team I've attached above.  They had a very good record at that point in the season because of their senior star forward, Eric Dicks. During the game in question, Eric was hurt in the 3rd quarter of the game, and Monmouth ended up losing a close game because their star was sidelined for the end of the game.  He'd torn the ACL or some sort of ligament/tendon in his right knee and would be out of action for the rest of the season.

Before reading further, care to guess the headline that got by our editor, was put into print for the Sunday edition, and resulted in all of us getting a stern lecture by the associate publisher?

Come on, take a guess.


Okay, are you ready for it? Wait for it . . . wait for it.

 "Zippers Fall, Dicks Out For Season"


Classic!
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