Tag Archives: absurdity

It’s Getting A Little Absurd Out There

Absurdity - It's The New Normal


Absurdity, Thy Wellspring Is POTUS

You know what he highlight of my day is? Is it being thankful that I didn’t pass away in my sleep? A fresh cup of coffee perking me up as the day starts ? A tranquil ride to work where no one has thrown themselves in front of the metro car yet again? Seeing the shining faces of my family and friends? Wrong.

It’s going to bathroom at work and knowing that I’m the first person to use the toilet. No one else has been near the seat since it was last cleaned. (I know you’re wondering “but how does he know?” Perhaps best if you don’t ask.) Absurd, isn’t it, that an unmolested toilet seat is the highlight of my day. No doubt about it.

But since the election of Emperor Trump, and the installment of Steve “Goebbels” Bannon, absurdity is the New Normal. That someone made a fish tribute to President Trump is just the start of the immense weirdness about to befall the globe.

[Note to reader: This particular blog rant is not absurd in and of itself. It merely serves to point out that absurd is now par for the course. Or this blog rant is proof, and is perhaps yet another reason to have me committed to an institution with darkened windows, staffed by thick-fingered, lightly moustachioed, hulking Eastern European nurses who chiefly rely on ECT as a method to “socially readjust undesirable behaviour”. But I digress.]

It will be four years of mind-bending, constitution-challenging, Dali-eque representations of alternative facts, all emanating from the uncontrolled, unmuzzled mouth of the POTUS, and the mind of the of his righthand man.

Almost makes you wish you Bush-Cheney was back in the Whitehouse, doesn’t it?

Unsettlingly imbalanced,

Enzo di Tutti Capi Druker

Truthfully Lying Inaccurately

Bin LAden Diaries II

 

Fractious and Foolish, Not Factual

Upon cleaning the house and removing debris, junk, garbage, refuse, detritus, jetsam AND flotsam, not to mention papers from the kids’ school year that could serve as proof they are intelligent if we were ever to sell them on the black market, I decided to do something foolish, childish, immature even. I asked my wife why she’s keeping empty, massed produced canisters that once held tea. Painful, disdainful and solitary confinement-treatment silence reigned for intolerable minutes, with no discernible peep from the significant other, who, for reasons still inexplicable some 15 years later after agreeing to sign the contract that bound us in unholy matrimony, decided to fulfill her end of the bargain and marry me, I can only assume, on a dare from I’m guessing someone she once called a friend and now sticks needles into via a voodoo doll.

Why foolish, you ask? What stupid spouse of the male variety would ever do such a thing as to question his significant other on matters of emotional nature when he knows pursuing this to a logical (read: NOT an emotional) end would/could/should, nay, will with absolute death-and-taxes certainty lead to elevated blood pressures, voices and no doubt to a withholding tax on acts of a sexual nature for an indeterminate period of time? (Think in terms if business quarters — like “Q2 and Q3 were barren with transactions evaporating south of the Mason Dixon line, and principal shareholders sorely disappointed ready to revolt and appoint a new board” — and you’ll get the idea.)

This marked difference is not so much the Mariana Trench depth of division between the male and the female. I am sure gay couples are this stupidly, erratically emotional too. I’d say rather it’s the difference between being single and married, or at least single and shacked up with another inmate under the auspices of “for better, for worse, in sickness and in health.”

Rampant Single Stupidity

You see when I was single I would do stupid things galore from keeping pre-historic underwear and old beer bottles to ancient car magazines and punk rock albums I no longer listened to just because I couldn’t bare the thought of cleaning up, let alone tidying anything, as that would have detracted from my  cartoon-watching time. But now the wheel has turned and the shoe is on the other glove (I told you, logic has nothing to do with this rant). I am cleaning up after my kids and need help logically keeping things in order, including it would seem, empty tea canisters with no monetary value, but high clutter value. When I was single, logic and order played no role in anything I did. No one questioned me except my parents who were legally forced to admit they loved me and provide shelter, clothing and food once the court order became effective. In fact, the word logic wasn’t even in my vocabulary (I was a very poor student).

Yet somehow, the lessons of life stuck, and my university major in “space optimization so I don’t trip going down the bloody stairs” is paying dividends but is upsetting those who I require help from when asking why we should even keep a freaking tea canister when we have enough crap lying around the house. I could try and apply abductive reasoning to gain that moment of clarity, but that will piss off someone who just sighs in misery and thinks of melting down her wedding band to fund a trip back to the old country.

The World Goes Around, But How?

Speaking of scientific theory and fact-based decision-making, I may have discovered what makes the world spin around, and I don’t think Sir Issac Newton’s theory of gravity or the sun’s magnetic pull are correct. You see, applying logic to places where I am allowed (note: NOT to cleaning up the house to rid it of excess tea canisters) I realized that when half the world is awake, standing up and moving around, the other half is lying down, sometimes sleeping, sometimes doing bad things on their iPads, mostly horizontal, and without the help of Viagra or Cialis, not terribly erect. So the theory goes, those that are lying down, or at least having sex in boring positions, have lowered their center of gravity sufficiently to allow those on the other side of the globe to sway the earth with their higher centre of gravity, kind of like a ball filled with liquid, as it rolls around.

The sleepers and the “having boring sex lying downers” aren’t putting any momentum into the earth, while those moving about vigorously, particularly proctologists on call, truckers high on caffeine pills, lecherous politicians, sweaty plumbers and strippers dancing at clubs (not all mutually exclusive groups by the way) are making the earth swing about on its wobbly axis. Hence I have solved what makes the earth go around, in perfect imbalance, if you discount years of science and sex and money as other explanations.

Sure, I know what you’re thinking — he’s totally lost the plot this time, but let’s be honest. If I am prevented from throwing out legitimate crap from the house and left to think about these things because of the aforementioned withholding tax, I can’t be held accountable for these scientifically steadfast theories that will be borne out after I am dead or when I bribe the Nobel counsel with strippers and chocolate.

Lastly, what does any of this have to do with the latest and greatest posting of the Stanko & Tibor comic, frequently cited in criminal testimony as a decisive factor that led to mass fruit fondling incidents at supermarkets across the globe? Well, like the outlandish plot line and dialog you no doubt read in the comic and then forwarded it to publishers all over the globe in the hopes of helping me get discovered (or incarcerated), we humans are interested in the lives of others, no matter how ridiculously untrue or bizarre those stories may be, because our daily lives of tea canister shifting and arranging have robbed us the will to think for ourselves.

Wishing you many sleepless nights
Sir Issac Einstein von dem Hinterland Druker

Move Along Now Mr. Artisanal

Mr. Artisanal

If the literate among you are reading this, it means the therapy hasn’t worked properly. But read on in any case.

The great Greek philosopher Heraclides, a student of Plato and a man known to like his ouzo cold and his lamb kabobs hot, gave us the insightful quote “The only constant is change.” Some say he was a great thinker, others say he was a genius.

He was an idiot.

Heavy Research Into Gender Reassignment

After much clinical research in an unlicensed basement apartment below a tattoo parlor, which itself was below street level, as well as heavy number-crunching from numbers I randomly came up with when I fell asleep on my key board, the ultimate, dare I say Platonic truth is that change really isn’t the only constant. Stupidity is. Let’s examine the evidence.

While I was in the hospital today with my father, as he recovered from being sliced open and butterflied like a 77-year old package of recently boiled Coorsh or Schwartz’s smoked meat so they could restore his porous, crooked spine to a state that could support his Dilaudid-filled body again, we talked about what would be his next operation. I suggested instead of his knee or his personality, maybe a gender reassignment operation. Then it dawned on me — why the heck do we call it “gender reassignment” when “sex change” was a perfectly apt description?

The words “gender reassignment” sound like a kind of operation where the doctors would reassign his sexual bits to different parts of his body. Maybe they’d put his penis on forehead? His testicles could go underneath his armpits? That would be quite the reassignment. But had I used the now passé “sex change operation” I would have been calling it what is it. I fell prey to being stupid and using something abstract to describe something concrete.

Ugly Women

So why does this qualify as stupidity? First of all, my father would make a very ugly woman if he would have a sex change operation. He doesn’t have the legs for it, he gets 5 o’clock shadow, and he can barely walk in flat shoes let alone anything with a heel. But I digress.

Stupidity rears its ugly head not just in medical descriptions, and more prevalent of late, idiots on the Internet trying to commit stunts of bravery and stupidity in the name of fame (or infamy). Through a form of vocabulary abuse and trickery, us North Americans let ourselves be abused by the various marketing departments into buying crap because of how we name it. The biggest idiocy perpetrated is the word “artisanal” being attached to any product to make it seem more unique, more handcrafted. And to be able to charge 20% more for nothing.

Abuse of Art

Artisanal bread? Well, it could be hand-crafted by some bread fetishist who failed out of fine arts. Artisanal jams, jellies, fruit, cheeses, meats – maybe, but it’s a stretch. How much artistic handcrafting goes into meat, I ask you? Is the salami you bought beveled and shellacked in such a way as to elicit the word “craftsmanship” or are you looking for something salty, fatty and garlicky that goes well on rye bread with some mustard when you’re at the meat counter of the deli?

Lately I have seen “artisanal” attached to items that I don’t think genuinely qualify as being passionately created by a skilled craftsman (or craftswoman). For example, they attached artisanal to the following: men’s undershirts, power tools, condoms, paper, tampons, hand towels, aluminum foil, and I think I saw “artisanal iPhone” somewhere recently, although I could be mistaken.

I think this could all be summed up by examining the word artisanal itself If you look at its constituent components, it reads “Art Is Anal” which I think we could all agree upon after at least five or six shots of ouzo is pretty ass-backwards and yet tellingly creative of me. Furthermore, if we return to our original statement from Heraclides, an ancient Greek guy, who most likely hung around the boys locker room rubbing his hands in glee like a perverted Benny Hill character, we can see where the “anal” part of “artisanal” comes from. On a tangentially related note, my therapist cousin pointed out to me some time ago that this word is made of “the” and “rapist.” She aid it, not me.

That, my dear readers, and those who pretend to read to avoid discussing banal subjects with their significant other over breakfast, was a truly artisanal use of language. I think I will burn in hell for this post.

Smitten like a sex kitten,
Bartelby T. Scrivener-Druker upon Tyne, Just South of the River Thames Near Yon Burning Garbage Fire

Efficient Evasion

Given the rapid approach of the American elections and Halloween (I think the two are interrelated) I present you, the above-average reader, with a bit of wisdom, philosophy and down-home cooking to get the rabble roused.

Things don’t always go as planned. Many, many of you have asked me why the last episode of Stanko & Tibor, with its deft and delicate introduction of the Mother of All Mothers, is being followed up by a non-sequitur dealing with politics, reality and the denial thereof. Actually no one has asked me that but I’m sure if any of you were to actually read this delicately drawn artistic tour de farce you would have wondered aloud and scratched your head your over your breakfast (thus shedding dandruff flakes into your corn flakes) “what the hell is this guy on? Can’t he complete one dang story line without going off on a tangent? Is he unwell in the cranium ?”

First of all, my cranial imbalances are strictly related to high fat foods I eat a lot of and having been choked as a child for excessive procrastinating on writing thank you cards.
Secondly, tell me which one of you has not left a room in your house thinking “I have to get X” only to arrive a few short seconds later asking yourself “why am I here again?” (And I don’t mean the existential “why am I here?” You’re here because your parents didn’t use birth control when they were at the night club.)

My point is that life is a series of random events and non-sequiturs and this cartoon is proof of such. As is the impending US election where facts are scarce, fiction is rampant, vitriol is viral, and non-sequiturs and absurd statements seem to be the norm, not to mention Mitt Romney’s son saying he wanted to punch President Obama after their debate. Nice Republican thug thinking.

So if you ever wander in your thoughts like I do, particularly when I am the wheel, then you may find yourself at the crossroads of absurdity and hilarity, or in other words at Stanko & Tibor.

Be well, lose some weight for me as I can’t seem to rid myself of the avoirdupois on my belly, and spend quality time with your loved ones. I did, and now her urge to drown me has abated mostly.

Forever yours until I stop taking my heart pills,
Monsignor Druker

Lies and Replies

Before I get into who’s fault it is that I can’t seem to lose weight by wishing it away, I’d like to dedicate the inspiration for this episode to my dear uncle Mel, may he rest in peace. No wait, I just had supper with him, so that might be a bit premature. Whatever, ’twas his idea that he generously donated to me for this episode, and I merely provided the dialog, the artwork, the editing and the man power.

Often we hear the question asked “what would I do if I could do it all over again?” Or the more acute “if today was your last day on earth, what would you do?” Usually the answers involve more premarital sex, drinking and debauchery, and probably something unholy with the boss you always hated and an electric cattle prod.

What does that previous paragraph of depravity have to do with this latest installment of the digitally delivered diatribe cited by many prominent publications, such The Guardian, Time Magazine, Der Spiegel, the Asahi Shimbu, The Wall Street Journal, the Jerusalem Post and The Mississippi Mudslinger as being “Reason No.3 Why Free Speech Should Be Revoked and Replaced With Hot Needles to the Eyes”?

Simple, actually. It presents us with the thoughtful question of “if I were to shuffle off this mortal coil, would I have left a legacy rich in love and generosity, or would I be merely a comma in a footnote in Appendix F at the back of the book of life?”

I really can’t answer that question because as I write this, I am eating icy cold chocolate ice cream to beat the sub-tropical heat in my non-tropical city and it’s giving me a total brain freeze, so rational thought is at a premium right now. However, it could be because of the 2 Pop Tarts I ate last night while editing the dialog for this particular episode. (Hey, don’t judge me! They were on sale and I had a moment of weakness. You would have done the same.) It’s possible that the petroleum-sugar combo that is used to forge one of these tasty saccharin death treats made in the fires of corporate hell finally broke one of my sets of chromosomes. Thus explaining the wordy nature of this episode of Stanko & Tibor.

One more thing – the last 2 episodes have revolved right around my family, and this last one with the appendix reference is based in reality. The same guy who managed to escape 4-wheeled death a few weeks ago also managed to have an emergency appendectomy, purely in an effort to get attention. He is so childish sometimes.

However, I promise this comic will return to it’s highly factual and timely humor in the next installment. Provided I am not called to the hospital again or eat another Pop Tart.

Always faithful, always yours, always overtired,

Dr. Giovanni Drukerini

I Win, I lose

It has been so long since my last comic, many of you have become oblivious to just how happy you were not having to massage my delicate ego by clicking on the Stanko & Tibor link just so I’d stop harassing you via Facebook, Twitter, email and anonymous phone calls from bus stations.

Well, your favorite reason to swear out loud that your junk filter is not working as it should is back – I have posted another comic, closing out the political topic for a little while — while I work on the bios of the characters, and the new ones who will shortly be introduced to a comic near you.  Think family, think plant life, think more wildlife. Many a story line to come, all as brilliant and skewed as you could imagine. So I am pumped!

On a cold October night, just before Halloween and my kids’ upcoming sugar-high, we have seen our first flakes of snow. And to think my daughters were playing in a pile of leaves, close to 3 feet high, just a few hours before that. Time for snow tires. My friends in southern climes, you may mock me, but the cold kills the bugs, and the politically right of wing.

Oh, and please give me some comments on the new header I created for the comic. I liked it, but Kirsten savagely criticized it. I was wounded. But I will make a t-shirt out of it.

Much love, happy Halloween, be well.

Ugly Man Upsets Politics
Ugly Man, Ugly Situation

On the Campaign Trail

It rained like the end of time here yesterday. It was amazing how much water fell from the sky. It was absurd. Which is a good lead-in to this latest post, which is inspired by politics in all its absurdity. You think I am weird? Watch what comes out of politicians’ mouths. And mine, too.

This post marks the 50th comic I have posted in my short but not terribly illustrious career trying to make me laugh as well as other people who haven’t put me on the junk filter yet. So now I shall begin a project that may take me quite some time, but I will try and put together a book of my first 50 comics, which you can then buy and send to friends and enemies alike, or it could make really good toilet reading at your local mental health institution.

Because this is number 50, I gave you a full 8 frames to enjoy this time around and I will wrap up this series with a couple more comics before going off to introduce a new character or two. Think plants and animals.

One last thing – I will be publishing a bio of each of the characters so you can learn more than you really want to about the world of Stanko & Tibor.

And please check out my latest car blog article, it’s one of my better writing pieces. It’s here.

Be well and eat well.