If religion is indeed the opiate of the masses, where does that leave TV? Or better yet, the Internet? Are they runners-up? Or are they competitors for the annual title Opiate of the Masses competition held yearly at the headquarters of Religion Inc., noted printers of religious materials for all the worlds’ religions, working out of a copy shop near the back alley in the east end of the city. They have such a shameful markup, especially on the DVDs they produce. It’s scandalous.
But I digress.
So in the grand competition of the title of the Opiate of the Masses, it seems religion is in deep competition with other forms of enslavement, such as the aforementioned Internet and TV, but also and equally pervasive fried foods, food deep fired with a batter, sugary confections that use a slightly adjusted version of heroin and petroleum as the basic ingredients. Let us not forget pornography, German sports cars, clothing, most Apple products, home decorating and renovation shows, cooking TV shows where people swear and compete for nothing really meaningful, slasher movies, cement glue, pain killers and stuffed animals.
It turns out that after extensive research with my eyes closed and subsequent navel-gazing just after a large pasta-based meal that religion is what you make of it. And in this particular instance of the comic that is being denounced by most religious leaders and even cult leaders for stealing valuable Internet bandwidth, it seems that our lead character is a man of religion, a religion not know to many, quite obscure and pretty bizarre. Who knew that Buddhists smoke cigarettes like that?
Then again they are Francylvanian Reform, so the fundamental elements of the religion (abstinence from fried potato products and trimming hedges into the shapes of rabbits) aren’t being followed. They are just holding on to the traditions so they can make sure his mother doesn’t give him even more guilt for corrupting the child.
So let this be a message unto you — eat your fried foods, they are good for you and they’ll keep you coming back for more.
Dear readers of the comic, and those who move their lips when they read the comic whilst avoiding work,
This episode of the comic that will one day be the cause of at least one domestic dispute or a police raid was written in my head in order to try and rive the back story of the characters. Sure, it’s a pretty threadbare idea, much like worn cheesecloth, but I often think everyone needs a back story. It makes life much more like a book or a movie, albeit in this case with poorly constructed dialog, drawings and plot line.
When I thought of where my characters come from — the deep, dark, troubled recesses of my mind notwithstanding — I knew they weren’t of North American descent, nor Asian (too fat for that), not African, possibly Australian given the father’s criminal intents, but a mysterious Eastern European country that never existed seemed like the right angle. And who can blame me for thinking of “Francylvania” seeing as it’s seems semi-plausible to someone who really doesn’t have any formal education or access to the Internet.
And this episode should serve as a lesson to all those who search for their roots. Know where you’re from, so you can know who you are. Or you can know where you don’t want to go back to. Especially if it was a dump with a shady history. Or what countries to avoid when traveling with a lot of cash or weed. Or stump someone in a trivia game with the name of a made-up country such as Francylvania.
As for the Taco Bell and petroleum food references, they were easy jokes that I had to throw in there to fill out the dialog.
Be well, know thine self as well as thine significant other, but not in public.
Upon watching the vitriol that is U.S. politics and the election campaign of bitter rivals in a country so divided, I realized that truth takes a second, or third place to what political pundits call “name calling.” And there is not darker, more cynical, more hate-inspired bastion of name calling than American politics.
And it teaches something about human nature that we should all learn from. Politicians and especially their handlers (cuz lord knows they have to be handled like thin-shelled Faberge eggs) have to be creative hurlers of insults, fantastic backhanded compliment givers, and plain old liars. Because where power is concerned, there are no rules, there are no holds barred, there is only the denigration of the other. And let me tell you, it employs a whole lot of people so don’t discount that as a force for employment in this economically savaged world we live in.
So maybe it’s we eligible voters who should allow this name calling and denigration, if only because it allows so many otherwise despicable, bitter and unemployable people to be tax-paying, productive members of society. That is, until one side is elected that claimed the other side was a pack of scum-sucking bottom-feeders and the elected become blood-sucking leeches on the society that elected them. Funny how that works, eh?
In short, we have to live hypocrisy of all manner (print, radio, online and TV), even revel in it — otherwise we’ll disengage and play with our Xbox or download “adult” content. And if this name calling is worth anything, it’s that it keeps politicos off the street every time there is an election otherwise they’d be stuck inhaling toner and the copy shop and then begging for money and insulting you while ignoring them
When we things start — and I mean things we intentionally start, like fires, rumors, and computer viruses — more often than not, we don’t really care where they will wind up. In fact, I dare say we consciously ignore them not caring what the resulting perils will be. Often we walk away to eat something sugary or fatty or greasy, like a huge pizza, or to catch a TV show on the Web or the 72-inch plasma screen that cost a fortune to buy, install and get all the channels for.
See? I just mentally walked away from my very first creation, that of Stanko & Tibor, the inaugural cartoon of what will hopefully be a dynasty unparalleled in the annals of illustrative history. And if it isn’t a dynasty, then as long as I leave my mark. A good mark, not a stain, which many would allege this comic is. Like grape juice on a white carpet, or like mud on a shag carpet that even the toxic cleaner with the “spring fresh” name you buy at the store from a multinational conglomerate with a record of polluting wading pools in poorer neighborhoods.
No, it shall be a chronicle of the history of humor, of my mind, its myriad turns, twists and potholes. It shall bear witness to the absurdity that is daily life, daily politics, daily mayhem that is a day job. It will be carved into some database’s silicon chip memory like digital stone, never to be erased! Well, unless the CIA gets a hold of it, or maybe a meteor crashes into the data center. Actually, I bet it’ll be a CIA meteor.
So enjoy the musings, stylings and ramblings of a man who needs more sleep.