Garfield: The Morbidly Obese Cat

As anyone who has ever seen a morbidly obese cat knows, it's very depressing.  Much more so than the comic strip Garfield would imply.  So, every now and then, I'll edit Garfield comics to reflect that.

Jon Arbuckle should not be allowed to own pets.

The Disastrous Adventures of Carl - Chapter 1

            Thirty thousand feet above Oregon, the U.S.S. Pinto entered into a nose-dive.  While the greatest in 47^th century technology made the airship virtually invincible to enemy fire, it couldn’t do anything to stop gross incompetence from within the Pinto itself.  Gross incompetence named Carl. 

            This particular bit of unspeakably catastrophic foolishness was particularly catastrophic, unspeakable, and foolish because it ended up causing the United States of North America and Associated Islands to lose World War LXXIV.  It is worth noting that mankind had solved all its problems, including war, somewhere in the mid-39^th century.  With nothing much else to do, they started holding a world war every ten years.  It’s all fun and games though, as only the robots fight.  The first to hold control of Australia (which had been uninhabited since The Great Kangaroo Uprising of 2944) for two weeks wins.  And the USNA&AI was just one strategic deployment away from winning the whole thing.  Then Carl happened.

            Robotic Cannons are pretty low tech.  Basically, they’re just standard plasma cannons on wheels.  The lack of any AI software makes them difficult for opposing forces to notice, making them a valuable tool for surprise attacks.  There were twenty such cannons on the U.S.S. Pinto, and someone made the mistake of asking Carl to run a quick diagnostic scan on all of them.  He succeeded in scanning four cannons before dooming the Pinto to crash by not only activating a cannon, but setting it to “Berserk” mode, which was particularly impressive because robotic cannons don’t have a berserk mode.  The cannon raced out of the transport dock and into the body of the ship, firing indiscriminately.  Carl chased after it, hoping to catch it before anyone noticed the gaping holes in the side of the ship. 

            Sirens began to blare as the captain announced over the PA system, “Code Indigo.  Critical weaponry malfunction.  I repeat Code Indigo.  This is not a drill.”

            Carl chased after the cannon.  “I’m on it!” he shouted to the people ducking and lunging for safety, “Tell the captain I’m on it!”  Someone did tell the captain, who immediately made another announcement on the PA system.  “Code Kind of Blue but Really More of a Green.  Please evacuate the ship immediately. I repeat, Code Kind of Blue but Really More of a Green.”  The crew rushed to the escape pods as the cannon careened aftward down the corridors with Carl hot on its trail.  Only one other person hadn’t fled yet.

            A few hundred yards further down the ship, Professor Larry Romulus the Incomprehensible was trying to save as much of his research as possible.  His research was so complex that he was literally the only person on Earth that could understand it, hence his title.  He managed to shove several hard drives into a bag before grabbing the only working prototype and dashing into the corridor.  He was just feet from the starboard escape pod bay when the cannon skidded around a corner and fired a massive ball of glowing blue-white plasma at the professor.  He dodged at the last second, mercifully avoiding the deadly glob of energy only to be particularly unmercifully impaled by a large shred of shrapnel from what used to be the escape pod.  

            In a stroke of luck, the ship tilted starboard and the cannon rolled out of the hole it just made and plummeted into the middle of a Renaissance Faire.  This was not so lucky for Hagar the Blacksmith, but was incredibly lucky for Carl.  Professor Romulus was dying anyway, so we’ll call it a wash. 

            With all the escape pods gone or destroyed, the ship tried to stabilize itself.  At its current rate, it would crash into the Pacific Ocean in two minutes and six seconds.  Carl approached the professor.  “Are you okay?” he asked.

            The professor coughed shallowly.  Then, in raspy rushed breath, he said, “What kind of stupid question is that?  I have a giant piece of metal sticking out of my chest.”  He coughed some more.  “Before I die, I need you to do something for me.”

            “What do you need me to do?”

            The professor handed him the prototype.  It was a sleek gray cube, about six inches on each side.  There was a green button on one side and a screen on the front, but it was cracked.  “Take this.  Use it to escape.  Keep it safe.”

            “How?  What is it?”

            “It’s a transdimensional shift facilitator. “

            “I don’t know what that is.”

            “No one does.”

            “What does it do?”

            “You wouldn’t understand.”

            “Probably.”

            “Just press the green button and get out of here.”

            “Okay.  I’m sorry about all this, professor.”

            “Just get out of here!” The professor shouted.

            Carl pressed the green button and disappeared in a flash, leaving behind only a whiff of green smoke.

A new series!

In addition to A Series of Increasingly Improbable Events, I'm going to start another, simpler (but weirder) project.  It's called The Disastrous Adventures of Carl.  All I can tell you is that Carl is a space/time traveler, that each chapter will be 500-1000 words, and that the plot of each chapter will be decided by The Brainstormer.  So, lets see what the first chapter will be about:

Obtaining/Robotic/Cannon it is!

Germany, Japan, and Italy: A study in music videos, linguistics, and insanity

Some nations do things better than others.  The Swiss make the best watches and army knives, the Belgians make the best chocolate, the Japanese make the best robotics, and the Colombians grow the best coffee.  But when it comes to culture things get weird.  Take Germany for instance.  While they have their own celebrities, one of ours is more popular there than here.  His name is David Hasselhoff and in Germany he's a famous singer.  Here's an official music video that makes full use of mid-90's shopping mall technology and the "Mad-Lib" style story-boarding:

This is, in a word, batshit insane.

But for true, mind-numbing insanity, we have to go to Japan.  It is with great reluctance that I subject you to: Pon Pon -

That video somehow managed to hit a point of diminishing returns on craziness.  

And this final video isn't crazy in the traditional sense.  It asks the question, "What does English sound like to someone who doesn't speak English?"  The answer is apparently quite catchy.  Here's Prisencolinensinainciusol.

Glory to the Blue Öyster.

A little while ago, I did a Google Image search for "religious symbols of the world."  On the first row, I got this result:

As I was looking through it, I realized that one of these things was not like the others.  While you'd see a lot of those symbols on a bumper sticker like this:

There's only one you'd see on an album cover like this:

That's because whoever made this sheet either thought that Blue Öyster Cult was an actual religion, or has a fantastic and subtle sense of humor.  In either case, kudos and thanks for the laugh.

A Series of Increasingly Improbable Events - Part 3: Knock Out

            It was almost midnight, and the four of us were sitting at the kitchenette in my apartment.  We had been arguing for over two hours by then, trying to come to a consensus on the age old question of what to do with our new superpowers.  Tara started by suggesting that we talk to a scientist or someone in the press.  No one agreed.  I suggested we lay low until we knew more about our situation.  Only Barry agreed.  George thought we should fight crime.  We continuously ignored that suggestion.  Barry didn’t come up with any new ideas.

            “I keep telling you,” I said, “We should keep our heads down.”

            “So just do nothing?” Tara scoffed, “Sit here and twiddle our thumbs and hope the answers drop out of the sky?”

            “Or we could fight crime?” George chimed in. 

            I ignored him and continued talking to Tara.  “It’s better than telling everyone.  For all we know that king coconor-”

            “Konakor,” Barry said.

            “Whatever.  King Konakor is trying to find us.  If we have a bunch of scientists blabbing about superpowers, the government could be the least of our problems.”

            “We should do something!”

            “We could always fight -”

            “Shut up, George.” Tara, Barry, and I said in unison. George pouted and everyone was silent.  In the newfound calm, we managed to reel in our tempers. 

            “Look,” I said to Tara, “I agree that we should find out more about our abilities, but I don’t know who we can trust.”  Tara nodded.

            “I know, but we’re not going to find out anything by sitting around and hoping.”

            “Well,” said George, “If we were to use our powers-”

            “We’re not fighting crime, George,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time.  It was actually the hundred and eighty-seventh time.

            “Actually,” Tara said, “I think he might have a point.”

            “What?” Barry exclaimed.  George beamed.

            “Not about the crime fighting,” Tara added, George’s smile disappearing, “But about using our powers.  I’m going to have a lot of free time, so I might as well be productive.”  We looked at her, puzzled.  She said nothing for a moment then admitted, “I got fired today for being late.  Again.”

            Barry put a hand on her shoulder.  We were uttering reassurances to her when I had an idea.  “George,” I said, “You know that bar a couple blocks from here.” 

            “You have to be way more specific.”

            “The British one with the Irish name.”

            “McManus’s?  What about it?”

            “Don’t the people there love to bet?”

            “Yeah, but I-” George’s eyes widened with understanding.  Tara nodded. 

            Barry appeared deep in thought, then gave up.  “What are you talking about?”

            “They have darts contests, like, every night.  I could win a bundle from that.”

            “And they have drunks at that bar.” George said, “I could win some bar bets.”

            “What could I do?” Tara asked.

            George shrugged.  “See if they need a bartender?”  Tara shot him an angry glare, and I kicked at George’s leg under the table.

            “Ow!” Barry shouted, drawing his leg up to his chest and cussing under his breath.

            “Sorry,” I said, “that was meant for George.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

            From the outside, McManus’s seemed like a quaint little building.  The type of place your grandmother would go to for brunch.  But once you get near the door and the sound of British punk rock permeates your skull you realize that only the most badass grannies would step foot in here.  In addition to the bar itself, a wide assortment of tables were splayed around the room.  Patrons were playing pool on four of the tables, which wouldn’t have been interesting if there hadn’t been only three pool tables.  All in all, this was a stereotypical British pub.

            There was a group of people playing darts by the back of the joint.  “I’ll see you guys in a bit,” I said, pointing to the darts.  I walked the thirty or so feet to where the game was being played, avoiding several drunks who almost crashed into me on their way to or from the bar.  There were two people playing and a small crowd watching and cheering.  The man currently throwing was in his early thirties.  He was lanky but had an air of craziness about him that instantly put me on edge.  He had shaggy black hair and a cockney accent straight out of Mary Poppins.  He through his final dart and hit the bullseye dead center.  The crowd cheered and the other player handed him several large bills.

            The other player looked like a sad Pierce Brosnan.  Probably because he was Pierce Brosnan, and he just lost.  He disappeared out the back door of the pub before I could get an autograph. 

            “Good show, Wesley!” a man who had been watching the game shouted.  “That’s all of them ‘cept Moore and Lazenby, innit?”

            “Just Moore,” Wesley said. “Beat Lazenby last week.  Then we played darts.”  Everyone laughed, myself included.  This got Wesley’s attention.  “What do you want?”

            “Oh, I want to play darts with Wesley.”  The people laughed.

            “Aye!” one of them shouted, “This Yank’s off his chump!”

            “I’ll assume that’s an insult.” I said.

            “It is,” Wesley nodded, and turned to the crowd, “What say I show him how it’s done?”  The crowd cheered.  “And you know what,” he turned back to me, “I’ll give you odds.    Five hundred bucks, three to one.” 

            “Sounds good,” I said.  Wesley nodded to one of the spectators, of which the number was now growing. The man he nodded to retrieved the darts from the board and brought them to Wesley.  He handed me three darts.

            “Three sets, with three legs apiece.  Play from 501 and double-in.  Sound good to you?”  He raised his eyebrows. 
            “Um,” I stuttered, “Do you mind if I get a drink before we start?”

            “Sure,” he smiled, “Just don’t bugger off.” 

            “I won’t,” I promised as I headed to the bar. 

            George was there, arm wrestling with an obscenely muscular man.  The tattoo on the man’s bulbous bicep clearly predated the biceps themselves, as what had once been a slender mermaid now looked like someone shoved Roseanne Barr down a trout’s throat.  Or maybe he was just into that kind of thing.

            Tara was sitting a couple stools down, several crumpled bills in her hand.  I sat down next to her.  Without looking at her I said, “We’ve got a problem.”

            “Why?  What’s wrong.”  She looked at me concernedly. 

            “I don’t know how to play darts.”

            Tara rolled her eyes.  “Really?”  She turned to George.  “Hurry this up, I gotta help Matt play darts.”  There was a loud thud and a grunt as George slammed the man’s forearm to the table.  Tara handed him the money and we walked to the dartboard. 

            “So,” Wesley said as we approached, “You brought some of your mates to watch you lose?” 

            “ ‘Ow many akkers for the bird?” one of the spectators asked. 

            “Be nice, Keith.” Wesley said, shooting Keith a reproachful look.  “Let’s get this started, shall we?” 

            “Sounds good.”  I said, “You start.”

            “Fair enough,” Wesley said and turned to stare intensely at the dartboard.  He threw the dart right in the middle of the 20.  The second hit the double 20 and the third the 20 again, just above the triple.  “Four-forty-one” he said and stepped aside.

            I took his place and pretended to aim.  “Hit the double 20,” Tara whispered.

            “Umm…” I replied, moving the dart forward and back in the air. 

            “The thing he hit on his second throw.”

            “Oh, okay.” I said, and launched the dart to the suggested spot.  The spectators muttered their approval. 

            “Now the triple 20,” Tara whispered. 

            “Umm…”  I repeated.

            “The little band above the double twenty.”

            I nodded and hit the triple 20.  Then I hit the triple 20 again. 

            “That’s…umm…”

            “Three-forty-one,” Tara whispered. 
            “Three-forty-one” I repeated and stepped aside for Wesley, who was now looking rather shaken. 

            Tara gave me instructions for the rest of the game (which they call “legs” for some reason) and I won the game in nine throws.  In nine more, I won the set.  I won the next set and the match soon after.  Then all I remember is asking Wesley for my money, which he held out in his left hand.  Unfortunately, his right hand was hurtling towards my nose.  I’m not proud to admit that I passed out, but I have a distinct recollection of George shouting, “It’s clobberin’ time.”

"The Room" Explained

While most people like the room because of the horrible acting, stupid story, and overall horribleness, it actually tells a very subtle story that you can only find by reading between the lines:

Claudette is the head of a drug syndicate.  Everyone except for Johnny and Denny are aware and/or  involved in this.  Lisa is in a relationship with Johnny so that she can use his connections at the bank to launder money.  She was forced into the relationship by Claudette, who values the success of her business over her daughter’s well-being, which is why Lisa doesn’t just leave Johnny nor does Claudette get upset when she’s told that Johnny hit her.

            The phrase “breast cancer” is actually code for an informant close to the heart of the operation and Claudette is worried that the house is bugged.  This fear is later given weight by the tape recorder Johnny uses to spy on Lisa.  The informant is, in fact, Peter. The syndicate members start to suspect him, as evidenced by Mark holding him over the edge of a building.  In Peter’s final scene, they all change into tuxedos.  This is because Mark wants to make sure he is not wearing a wire.  When Peter is driven off by the taunting, Mark follows and kills him.

            The scene with the drug dealer on the roof is especially important because this isn’t one of Claudette’s dealers.  Claudette and Lisa are worried that someone is trying to make a move on their turf by coming after someone close to them.  Despite Johnny’s wishes, Mark convinces him not to call the police and takes care of it himself. 

            Mike and Michelle (the couple that have the chocolate and blowjob scene early on) are near the top of the organization.  They are responsible for collecting the money from everyone beneath them, and pop in to Lisa’s house sporadically to drop it off.    Mark is the enforcer, and Lisa is heir to the top position. This is why Mark is able to meet Lisa and Johnny at any time of the day.  It is also why they never have to pay at the café, which is just a front for their illicit business.

            The photograph of the spoon and overall lack of personal effects in Johnny and Lisa’s house is due to Lisa’s inability to settle down in one spot.  She was raised in a volatile and violent environment in which she would have to move at a moment’s notice and leave everything behind.  Her inability to maintain a sense of normalcy includes her relationship with Johnny, whom she doesn’t love and is being forced by her mother to stay with.  She starts sleeping with Mark to take control of her own life and hopes that Johnny will find out and leave her.

            Mark’s feelings towards Lisa are more complex.  He has legitimately come to like Johnny, but he doesn’t want to upset Lisa because he is afraid of Claudette.  He does eventually develop feelings for Lisa, if only because of her position of power within the syndicate. 

            At the party, the character Steven is introduced.  After Peter was killed, Johnny’s tape recorder was discovered, leading Claudette to believe that there was another traitor.  Steven’s job was to find out who in the syndicate could be trusted. 

            When Lisa sees that Johnny was the one tapping the phone and he was just trying to see if she was cheating on him, she realizes that she can use this to make Claudette get rid of him.  She calls Mark, partly because she wants to see him, partly to spite Johnny.  This sends Johnny into a rage, ending with his suicide.  At finding his body, Mark flees before the police arrive.  While Lisa will always be bent to her mother’s will, she is at least free of the relationship she was forced into.