Category Archives: Day-to-Day

Day-to-Day, Frustration & Complaint, Meaning of Life

The Burkini Conundrum & Other Garbage

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Stanko & Tibor - The Burkini Conundrum

Dateline: Late, late, late summer, in a dimly lit basement -  and a stinky, humid one at that. Reason enough to go to bed early.

The Burkini Conundrum (Not Really)

Very recently, there was a local Pokemon Go gathering and barely sentient people were milling around a public spot, blindly moving about like a school of geeky loser fish, in order to grab imaginary, virtual objects using a smart phone. No one was speaking, people were just staring at their screens. I am told there was fair bit of drool too.

What’s the message here? It would seem that reality sucks so bad, only some kind of virtual reality game with ZERO meaning for the greater good is the next best replacement for reality. And when you think about it, creating distractions that have nothing to do with reality is deeply embedded in human nature. It’s why we built the Coliseum, casinos, brothels, movie theatres, the Internet or why heroin and cannabis are still such popular drugs, and why the Mayans used cocaine. Day-to-day drudgery.

Unintelligent Design

So now we focus on The Burkini as a distraction, because the Olympics were too boring. Not enough Zika? Way too much Ryan Lochte? Have our collective mood-altering prescriptions run out? We need to argue over something that really isn’t worth it?

I’m starting to think the human brain is a miracle of Unintelligent Design. Let’s explore the following suppository. Not wait. That’s gross. Supposition, yeah that’s it. Shut up and read on.

I dare you to explain (intelligently) how any of the following could exist if there was actually intelligent design:

  • I have a spine like a melted accordion
  • I get pimples from eating ONE onion ring, which is highly unjust
  • When it’s warm outside my privates stick to my skin and I’m therefore uncomfortable for 3 months a year
  • IKEA gets away with selling crap furniture at exorbitant prices
  • People are STILL opposed to vaccinations
  • Why hasn’t Gwyneth Paltrow been imprisoned for criminally excessive stupidity
  • We humans commit genocide semi-regularly
  • Donald Drumpf
  • The burkini, and the banning thereof

None. None Blacker

And why are there black burkinis? Like it isn’t hot enough at the beach as it is that you need to suffocate the woman not just emotionally but physically, too? Why doesn’t it come with a built-in head shade? Or a heat expulsion flap? That is not intelligent design.

And if intelligent design actually existed, then why did a bunch of French bureaucrats decide to take time to draft legislation to ban it when maybe they could have spent the time, I don’t know, giving food to the poor? Or making cheese and wine free for a month? I think unintelligent design is the accurate descriptor.

Wisdom of the Masses

It’s like everyone is being guided by this invisible force of collective stupidity. Like a Simpsons episode. There could be a more complex, biological reason too, although the Royal Society for Semi-Legitimate Science and Bellybutton Gazing refuses to hear me out.

Maybe when humans are in close proximity to each other, like at an election rally, a night club, a public swimming pool, a sporting event, or in bed, our chromosomes cancel each other out if there’s an even number and we’re reduced to blubbering idiots. Or if there’s an odd number of chromosomes, the dominant chromosome with the lowest IQ wins and guides the pack. Like at an Australian Rules football match. Or a gathering of religious snake-handlers.

So where does this leave us? With no resolution for the burkini conundrum, nor anything of merit worth reading. But if you did take the time to read this, you have wasted a full 2 minutes of your time that won’t ever be returned, and I have fished through your wallets while you weren’t looking. Lots of unused condoms in there.

Cogitatively coagulated,

Isosceles of Sucrose

Day-to-Day, Meaning of Life

Monsters Are Everywhere

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Stanko & Tibor - Monsters

Dateline: A basement, in a metropolis, middle of summer, hot humid, sticky, smelly, and that's just my underwear. I am kidding, of course. About the metropolis part.

Monsters Come In Different Forms

If you actually managed to drag yourself from your booze-soaked, carbohydrate-laced stupor and read the 8 magically drawn and skilfully penned panels containing not a single reference to Brexit, Donald Trump, acts of terrorism, the US election farce, chances are you noticed the dialog was a little weak and in no way related to the most recent events.

Then you probably thought: What an irresponsible monster of a comic-drawing human he is! He cares not a whit (nor does he have a wit) for the burning issues flooding our media, nor does he enlighten us with his commentary or grossly questionable wisdom. Monster!

Well, you’re right that I can be a monster, but not the way you think. I am more of a morning monster, when I haven’t had coffee.

Monsters Everywhere

There are monsters all around us. In the media (do we really need more coverage of the Republican and Democratic national conventions? It’s painful watching hoards of sycophantic, rabid, mental patients — with hats. A convention hall full of monsters filled with ego, piss and vinegar. And no doubt beer and hookers and the Republican convention. I am sure it was light beer,  hummus with crudités and cocaine at the Democrat shindig. Come on, there were Hollywood types there.

Monsters in government? Well of course. You see what’s happening in Turkey? A coup that was relatively bloodless? What a sham. Why else does anyone watch military coups if not for the blood and terror? No wait, I am confusing that with Game Of Thrones.

But there are monsters even in places you wouldn’t think: The bathroom!

Leggy Monsters

So, the other morning, pre-coffee, I was standing in the shower when all of a sudden, some kind of monster, a filthy, creepy-crawly  with more hairy legs than a two Southern European soccer teams combined, ran across the base of the shower — mere centimeters (or inches if you prefer, you troglodytic Imperial monsters) from my toes.

It was the stuff of nightmares. You couldn’t tell what the head or the tail was, it swivelled and dashed across the floor of what is supposed to be a clean surface meant to wash away the physical sins I engage in (if wiping my filth and Oreo-covered fingers on my pants counts).

How something so tiny yet horrifying could affect me more deeply and traumatically than the Democrats, the Republicans, a military coup combined is something to behold. What does it all mean? What kind of lessons can I derive from this? Here are some:

  1. I’m a colossal coward
  2. I’m easily disassociating from reality and network news — without meds
  3. I should cut down on the Oreos
  4. I am really reaching for material to write about

Having said that, and given that something animated and totally unrelated to today’s events is about to start on TV, it’s time I bid you fans adieu!

I am off to battle the sleep monsters. They will win.

Drowsily dull,

Brutus son of Gordus the Impatient

Day-to-Day, Meaning of Life

Mr. President, Meet Mr. Crazy

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Stank & Tibor - Mr. President

Dateline: May on a nice evening. Some place where the warden can't get me.

President Secret Agent

I would make a terrible secret agent, let a lone a president of a country. Let me explain. I spend too much time online and using social media, so I am easily traced, not a good spy quality to have. Furthermore, I hate sea food. It hates me too. If you’ve ever seen a spy thriller, there is often something happening down at the docks where it smells like fish — disgusting. I’d gag and complain. Or it takes place at some sunny seaside resort where the macho protagonist is eating a shrimp cocktail. The excludes me as my gout would explode after a few bites. How many secret agents do you know have to take anti-gout medication? Probably none.

I can’t imagine me doing one of those Mission Impossible slide-down-the-heat-pressure-sensitive-chamber on a wireline. I’d get dizzy and vomit, thus setting off the anti-vomit alarms, the dogs would come running, and I’m scared of them as it is, and I would be shot on site.

Worse, if I were merely threatened with torture, I’d spill the beans without hesitation, provide diagrams, videos and the credit card numbers of the other agents. I’d even drive the enemy to their houses if it meant avoiding a car battery to the testicular area.

To top it off, I have allergies galore. If I were a secret agent and I had to put up with one of the Bond villains petting his puffy, hairy cat, I’d either be wheezing and sneezing my head off or worse, I’d be all dopey from the antihistamines I’d have to pump into my blood stream to negate that evil cat. They’d catch me in a second.

So I decided not to pursue that career knowing I don’t have the “right stuff” to become a secret agent.

Not the Right Stuff

Along the same line of thought, I think Donnie Trump really doesn’t have the right stuff to become president. And not because he’s a colossal jerk-bully-ego maniac. I’d argue those qualities are highly useful for being the leader of the 32nd most indebted nation on earth. It takes some ego and bravado and general jerkiness to tell other nations what they are doing wrong while yours steadily increases its purchase of weapons after each mass school shooting where defenceless children are involved.

Also certainly not because he’s a womanizer, because there has barely been a two-term president in the past 100 years who wasn’t. Roosevelt, Kennedy, Clinton (all free-loving Democrats, I might add), and I am sure I am missing some of the older ones. Seems to be a must-have on the curriculum vitae. But I digress.

No, it’s most likely that Donnie the Dingdong Trump doesn’t have all his cookies baked, metaphorically speaking. Either too much hair dye has seeped into his brain or a recessive gene kicked in a while ago.

He is an effective sociopath, heaping blame on others when he screws up (Trump Steaks anyone?). He says whatever comes to his mind. Which is usually is a sign of advanced craziness. (See: North Korean leaders for reference) That “quality” might be fun on a TV reality show or at a dinner party where there is free shrimp and booze, but not so much in delicate political situations.

Chinese Food

Somehow I think if he does become, dare I say, the President of the US of A, I can foresee some bad feces happening. Like at a State dinner with the Chinese prime minister. I’ll bet you he’d lean over to the Prime Minister’s wife and say something like “How come all you Asian women have small breasts?” Or something like “I nailed an Asian broad once – I was not impressed. I thought you guys invited the Kama Sutra.”

No doubt come dessert time, he’d make a crack about fortune cookies and pull the corners of his eyes to make them more “Asian” shall we say. Then we’d have a real shot at World War III. Heaven only knows what he’d say if he were visiting Russia.

Half a Brain

How can a man who clearly lacks mental stability, a social filter, and a has a greater sense of self-worth than his own misrepresented wealth be able to handle the responsibilities of the President of the USA?

It must be because of his mastery of the unispheric brain. Simply, it means one half of your brain is working hard, and the other half is asleep. Ducks do that when they are sleeping so predators don’t kill them when they are nodding off. Donnie The Brain Boy Trump I think only uses half his brain most of the time while the other half is asleep (or dreaming of how he could trademark his ego.)

Whatever the case, he does look a fair bit like a hairy mole.

Stunningly dull and forever yours (unless I owe you money),

Miguel Confucius Druker

Are you a hairy mole?

Day-to-Day, Frustration & Complaint, Meaning of Life

Trump Vs. The Empire

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Trump v. Empire

When will primary season be over? There's an election afoot, and that causes discomfort in many. Mostly it causes gas.

 Who Is More Evil? Hard To Say

If find the whole thing a little ironic. No, wrong word. Bizarre is le mot juste. Right now, everyone I know who’s following the American primary race is actually rooting for The Empire and not the Rebels. Let me explain.

The so called Establishment candidates, Hilary Bitter Clinton, and I guess Lyin’ Ted Cruz, are in a pitched battle for the leadership of their respective parties, to get a chance to become The Head Banana of the United States of Bananas. They are battling who? The Rebels: Bernie “Trotsky” Sanders, and Donald The Disassociated from Reality” Trump. And let;s face it – they are rebelling against the empires that are their parties.

So what is a person to do when Evil is Good and Good is Evil? The answer is simple: Eat. A lot. Preferably chocolate danish. And cinnamon danish will do in a pinch. But there are side effects to constant eating of life-affirming sugars and dough.

Unnatural Emissions and Omissions

Everything I eat makes me gaseous and bloated. No matter whether it’s carbs, fibre, protein, sugar-based confections like those delicious petroleum-laced snacks made by a faceless conglomerate that has various safety violations and a few environmental crimes under its belt, or even bacon, which technically speaking, is its own food group according the Grand Council of Baconistas.

To alleviate this blight, everyone says I should do a ‘cleanse’ and avoid all matter that causes gases to form in my belly. There are several problems with a cleanse. First of all it sounds like something a religious, fascist zealot would do, so right there you lost me. Second a ‘cleanse’ involves denying myself of things I like. Self-denial is something people who have too much time and wealth on their hands do. I don’t have the time to deny myself stuff because that would mean cleaning out the pantry.

And a cleanse is something vaguely associated with cleaning, an act I loathe because it means I have to wear rubber gloves and be exposed to chemicals that, while shifting my brain into an altered state where conversations with inanimate objects tend to be quite hysterical, tend to have a deleterious effect on my relationship to reality, and thus my wife.

Make  Me

Worse than that, why would I want to clean anything? Isn’t that why there are cleaning ladies? And by that I mean no disrespect to the legion of cleaning men, although that term does seem like a bit of an oxymoron, given the males I know. Unless, however, it’s a neat-freak man, with obsessive compulsive issues and no readily available medication, living in a clean apartment with fresh cut flowers.

Dare I say, it goes against my genetic code to deny myself those things which will lead to the joy of the palate and the bloating of the belly. Come to think of it, the DNA testing results from that guy with a limp and a patch over one eye in the back alley near the strip club was a little suspicious. The results came back with the proper 23 chromosomes, but 4 were still dormant, hence explaining my deep desire to nap every afternoon after lunch.

Well, seeing as this is all too absurd for even more words, I will cleanse my palate with something sugary and cleanse my mental pallet with some sleep.

Mightily Manly and Majestic,

Little Lord Fauntleroy Druker

Day-to-Day, Meaning of Life

Trump, Rump, Dump, Chump, Sump Pump – Rhyming Crap

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Stank and Tibor - Loving Trump the Drumpf

Trump, Rump, Chump Dump, Sump Pump – Rhyming Crap

It wasn’t long ago that Donald Trump was the butt of many jokes. A rich butt, but a butt all the same. Now, Herr Hair Piece has made life a little scarier with his bid for the Republican presidential nomination and of course his subsequent attack on the — dare I say — The President! None of which is news, of course, as every one and his brother (or sister) has been glued to the TV, radio, mobile device and anything else that reports the so called news these days. You can’t escape it, much as I would like to.

Trump Rhymes With ‘Rump’

It’s not rocket science as to why small-fingered Trump is so popular – and it isn’t his vouching for cuts of Grade ‘A’ beef, so beloved by men with a subconscious wish for an early coronary and preceded by a fine bout of colon cancer. (I think if If he vouched for a mediocre rump roast, it would have hit a little too close to home for him, but apt it would have been, indeed.)

Trump the Rump is a bully, plain and simple. A charismatic shmuck of a bully, but a bully all the same. That’s why so many people love the guy – they’re afraid of him. Or strangely he’s adored and lauded for “telling like it is”  – which is usually code for “I won’t use logic to assess that statement because my rage-related hormones are boiling  like a thin beef broth over an open flame.”

Bullies and blowhards make all kinds of false statements backed by nothing more than bluster (Wow, I used a lot of ‘B’ words in that last sentence. Amazing I didn’t use ‘ball-busting bastards’ – I must be losing my edge.) This aspiring presidential rump is one of the best at beating up (verbally) on anyone and everyone. How nice.

Trump Rhymes With ‘Chump’

It’s quite shocking that a stylish bully like Donald Fart Face has made it this far, because in essence he is a chump. For those who don’t know the word, a chump is defined as “A stupid or foolish person; a dolt.” Oddly, it’s also defined as “A short, thick, heavy piece of wood.”

Foolish he is not, how else could he get legions of people to do his bidding by punching people who disagree with him? Maybe he really is short, thick, heavy piece of wood, originating from a genetically manipulated cross between dog wood (hence his bark) and pond scum that has been poisoned by toxic sun tan lotion? It would explain his stubby fingers…

Trump Rhymes With ‘Dump’

If he is elected the Republican presidential nominee, despite the party’s best efforts to derail him, and goes on to defeat Hilary Clinton in the general election, I think he stands a good chance of having the White House redecorated to look like a Vegas Casino. I can’t really tell you why I believe that. Maybe it’s the spicy Thai chicken I had that’s clouding my brain and making me pass wind.

Since the Trump style involves a lot of gold, hair product, and no doubt a Trump-endorsed male cologne probably made from gasoline and cheap Amaretto, there will be an industrial smell about his presidency. The kind of smell used to mask a city dump.

 Trump Rhymes With ‘Sump Pump’

How one gets to a sump pump from a Trump isn’t as long a twisted journey as you’d think. This kind of pump is used to remove excess liquid, usually from a flooded basement. Where sewage tends to back up, like after a torrential rainfall of crap. Not unlike that which spews from Donald’s mouth on a regular basis as he spits bile and filth at those who oppose him. Nice. How dictator-like.

And it’s not just me who finds it amazing that this chump of a sump pump clump of orange hair masquerading as a human has inspired so many people to come out and vote. He’s certainly tapped into a vein of anger that the Republican elitist jerks neglected for, oh, 30 years or so. Maybe we shouldn’t be so amazed that Trump is where he is given his skill for oratory and showmanship, and his keen ability to reason and use logic like a 4-year old pissed off at the playground.

Enough ranting for one evening. I have other more important things to do. Such as eat marmalade-filled cookies that contain something akin to heroin, hence my predilection for spending actual hard-earned cash on something I m sure is made from petro-sugar, sawdust and chocolate-flavored styrofoam.

Swimmingly swollen,

Field Marshall Druker of the Azores

PS – Happy 80th Birthday, Dad

Day-to-Day, Frustration & Complaint, Meaning of Life

May The Text Be With Ewe. I Meant ‘You’

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Stanko & Tibor - All Text

Dateline: Somewhere north, dreary, rainy, late December, late afternoon, late for my latte, late with the latest comic. Must text my thoughts before the medication wears off.

To Text Or Not To Text. I’d Say To Text

First off, I haven’t seen the new Star Wars flick yet, but when I do, you can be sure there will be a comic about it. Probably something involving interspecies fondling, I’d reckon. However, until then, not an ounce of text, not a drop of sweat or electronic ink will be expended on the subject. But if Star Wars had used sheep as the actors, I think they would have gone with “May the Force be with Ewe.” Just a random thought from having taken a LOT of sinus medication late.

So often it is the case that we have reduced our lives from speech and complex sentences to this thing we call “text messages.” We are racing for the ultimate in brevity and at the same time, stupidity. It’s remarkable how with the advent of texting, we mobile device-addicted, semi-sentient, 23-chromosomed monkeys have managed to simultaneously make communication more efficient by reducing it to the textual version of grunts, and at the same complicated our lives with all the misspelling and consequent misunderstandings and inadvertent embarrassments that we transmit from device to device.

Silence Is Golden. But Gold’s Value Has Plummeted

In theory all this texting leads to less speaking, thus removing from the world vast amounts of noise pollution, and potentially thwarting the release of CO2 from all the exhaling we do when we speak. In theory, it should lead to more silence and less blathering and bleating.  And as the saying goes, silence is golden. But have you seen the value of gold in the last 6 months? Dropped like a stone. Why, Star Wars movie tickets for opening night had a higher market value.

Can you just imagine how much texting went on by all those hard core fan boys and girls before the official opening night? Real communication, like where people talk to each other? I doubt it. Well, until the movie started and then there must have been millions of people humming the movie theme and simultaneously wetting themselves with joy. Which probably limited some of the texts.

The human need to text, to let one’s thoughts run free through the electronic ether, seems to grow unabated. Those thoughts, about as deep as a thimble, escape virtually unchecked, and more often improperly corrected by the smarter-than-thou auto-correct feature every so called “smart phone” has enabled by default. We get the meaning across sometimes, and other times the word “important” is somehow auto-corrected to “incontinence.”  This does not help out in the world of intercultural business communication.

Steady As She Goes

The outcome of this need to communicate intense brevity – without the use of our voice boxes, and instead replaced by our not terribly dextrous fingers on tiny keyboards – will lead us all to ruin. Why do I say that?

Because by having taught my mother to text (so she doesn’t call us as often to ask if I put the chicken back in the fridge, lest it develop deathly bacteria), we have enabled her to write to us ever more frequently, ever more pointedly, knowing full well that when we hear that “bling” indicating a text has come in, we will rush to the mobile device, only to shake our heads in bewilderment when the words “Just wanted to see how you’re shoeing” appear, and we roll our eyes as our blood pressure spikes.

Happy Holidays.

Steadily unbalanced and virtually yours,

Jean-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry Druker

Day-to-Day, Frustration & Complaint, Meaning of Life

Heroic Lies and Other Black & White Untruths

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Stanko & Tibor - Heroic Lies

Dateline: Mid-August, it's a heatwave and simultaneously election season. It's too much for a bear to soul.

Heroic Lies

As the thick, dare I say pasty fog of sleep cleared and I managed to roll out of bed, turn on my iPad and read with some amazement the latest Chump von Trump zinger about who’s really a hero (clearly not that sissy pants John McCain III), I started to understand a bit about universal truths and universal lies. You just can’t have one without the other.

I won’t get into the “death & taxes” universal truth argument because you can avoid paying taxes as long as you’re heavily disassociated from reality due to a pill or heroin addiction, have a crafty and crooked accountant who makes you look poor, or you have a printing press. Kind of like Greece pre-Euro crisis/national emasculation.

And what of death? Is it a universal truth? Or a universal lie? Is it all darkness? The big sleep? Or is it just a phase before we boogie on down to Hades for some eternal, unpleasant sun-bathing with only half a tube of Bain De Soleil SPF 4? To be honest, I am not too keen to find out personally, given my genetically built-in fear of it, and the fact that I am a bigger sissy than John McCain or that delicately prune-like Herr Hair von Trump.

Infallibly Fallible

Having coincidentally thought long and hard (maybe 15 seconds or so) about the lying as a coping mechanism and the infallibly fallible politicians we have to choose from in democracies when election time rolls around, I have decided to use my web-based bully pulpit to give this installment of the comic that now is down to a readership of three — one of whom is heavily medicated to prevent unintended and unscheduled naked jaunts through the park again, and the other two, conjoined twins battling fiercely over gets to wear the sole part of pants they own before head off for a job interview as a WalMart greeter — a message!

It is universally true that politicians will lie any chance they can get. They can’t help it. If they didn’t, you wouldn’t vote for them. No one really wants to hear the truth anyway. So deal with it. We get lied to all the time by people in power. It’s the basis for a functioning political system and the accompanying bribery machine that makes it all work so smoothly.

Let’s be honest about lying for a moment. We non-politicians aren’t a whole lot better. We lie every minute of every day. We lie to our lovers (‘Of course I’ll leave my wife for you’), our spouses (just ask the members of Ashley Madison), our bosses (‘Oh it wasn’t me. Frank in Accounting must have screwed up the TPS reports. I heard he’s off the wagon again’), our children (‘Of course you’re as smart and pretty as your sister’), our religious mentors (‘I have no idea who peed in the holy water, Father Mike’), and especially to cruel dentists when they ask if we floss regularly. Of course, I do.

Donald The Don

Well, maybe not everyone lies. Maybe that walking piece of chum Trump is telling it like it is. Maybe all Mexicans are drug lords and/or criminals, John McCain isn’t really a hero and all of the women on The Apprentice flirted with him – consciously or unconsciously. That’s to be expected. Could it be that Donald, future ruler of the world, has stripped away the veil of lies to tell it like it is?

More likely his hair dye has pickled his brain.

Lovingly exhausted,

Ombudsman Druker of the 3rd Precinct

Crime, Day-to-Day, Frustration & Complaint, Meaning of Life

Your Guide to True Crimes, True Idiots

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Stanko & Tibor - Crimes & Idiots Galore

True Crimes

Driving home this evening in my creaky, achy minivan, trying not to notice the criminally exorbitant price of gasoline in my fair city, I heard on the radio that the national bureau of statistics had calculated that the rate of violent crimes in the country had dropped to its lowest point since 1991. Well, I thought, that is a pretty good sign of a society that is not totally going into the porcelain crap collector.

Yet that was followed by a more sobering fact that non-violent crimes had indeed increased in number and frequency, and showed a mild yet consistent trend upward. What made the report truly interesting and surreal was something I hadn’t really considered as a crime statistic before.

A Little Extra Death

Let’s differentiate between non-violent crimes, such as fraud, property damage, identity theft, excessive fruit fondling, and the violent ones, like breaking-and-entering (which sounds vaguely sexual), robbery, Pope-pestering, rabbi-rousing, wearing a pink polo shirt with checkered slacks, manslaughter, murder and pet-kicking.

But we now we have a new category of crimes being counted: terrorism. Just think, blowing up people and places is considered a crime that’s counted among the stats now. When I was growing up writing your name in pee in the snow was considered a violent act. Especially if you misspelled your name or only used lower case letters. Now it’s the ideologically-driven, indiscriminate murder of civilians that police have to count. Like they don’t have enough paperwork to do and African-Americans to physically abuse, now they have to deal with terrorists when they file a report.

Etymology and Cheap Segues

Interestingly, the etymology of the word idiot is Greek: idiōtēs (“person lacking professional skill”, “a private citizen”, “individual” – if that last descriptor is true, then we’re all idiots. Seems about right).

More critical to this fractured, late-night rambling, I thank the literary gods for that etymological deus-ex-machina because I had no clue how I could segue in the next paragraph from crime to the Greek tragedy occurring in Europe, and the subject of this inane comic some of you read when questioning whether you want to continue living or not. (Coincidentally, in a recent Reuters poll it was revealed that the expressed desire to commit suicide and/or vomit after reading my blog/comic has stayed steady between 99-100% among my loyal readers.)

Actually, come to think of it, now that my sugar levels are spiking, if we are speaking of true crimes and true idiots, Greece’s inhabitants and especially its politicians, and most of Europe fall under those descriptors.

Corruption Matched Only By Idiocy

Marvelling at the complicated corruption and financial extortion and ineptitude that is Europe and a bankrupt Greece, one has to wonder who is the bigger idiot, Greece or Germany, the bankroller of the EU.

If we had to define Greek attitudes toward paying taxes, acceptance of bribery monies, nepotism and backroom deals, we could generalize and say they wilfully and knowingly committed fiscal self-fornication for many a decade. When they entered the Euro Zone, they now had a rich Onkel to bail them out.

So when the proverbial περιττώματα hit the fan, some German banking sucker would fork over some cash at exorbitant and usurious rates figuring Greece was good for the dough. Little did those fat, corrupt German bankers know that the Greek skill and penchant for pissing away the money of others was comparable to that of drunkard on heavy diuretics at an ouzo factory. (Btw – I love hurtful national stereotypes. They make writing this crap much easier.)

Simple, Idiotic Answers to Complex Questions

Now that we have all watched this criminal Greek tragedy while Iran was negotiating a sweet deal to continue funding terrorism and simultaneously build a nuclear bomb pretty much unfettered, a simple yet moronic solution presents itself in this episode of the comic once referred to by Pope Francis as “the devil’s dung.”

Bomb everything, pave it over and put up a Wal-Mart. Violent, arbitrary, Neanderthilic and a wholly unnecessary overreaction? Sure. But so are Fox News and shopping at Wal-Mart on a Saturday.

No, I say we follow the simple, direct, armed approach. It has specific, measurable and attainable goals, as was taught to me in management classes. Which I mostly faked my way through as I was playing with my phone.

Everlastingly exhausted and mentally dull,

Alexis Nikos Druker

Day-to-Day, Frustration & Complaint, Meaning of Life

The Pause That Refreshes

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Stanko & Tibor - Pause From Reality

A PAUSE REFRESHES. SOMETIMES.

Contrary to what most of you think, I have not published anything in months because I was in “pause mode” – which sadly doesn’t mean vacation. I was working darn hard at my job. A job that has me traveling far more than I imagined. So the enforced pause from the world of cartooning, blogging, and as some call it “spewing out crap onto the Internet” has slowed my output of witty observations, crooked drawings and sometimes hurtful commentary.

Did the pause refresh me, recharge my will to cartoon and blog? Did this enforced creative hiatus do wonders for the material I have lined up for future episodes of this crudely crafted comic? Not really. I’m still sleepy and I have gained weight from eating hotel food and indulging in vats, heaps, bushels of chocolate when I was anywhere within spitting distance of a vending machine or airport lounge. But that isn’t such a bad thing because what I saw while traveling the globe, and stopping to eat chocolate bars, made me realize many things about humanity, inhumanity and chocolate.

Cheaper By The Billion

Like the absurdity of repeatedly cleaning the gunk out from between my toes –deemed by international podiatrists as a proper measure of good foot hygiene and a sign of latent pathological fetishes– I saw many absurdities in my most recent travels. Each time I was in a cab stopped at a light (rare in Mumbai – traffic rules are the mere notions of a fevered, frustrated motor vehicle bureaucrat), or driving on somewhere elevated to avoid a local flood due to the passing monsoon, or to swerve violently around a dead animal or injured beggar, I had time to pause and think about what passes for humanity.

One key theme repeated itself as I went east: Life is pretty cheap. That isn’t meant to say human life isn’t important in Asia. Not at all. It’s just as important there as it is here. Seeing how we treat each other, and more importantly, the declining quality of baked goods that use oils and carob to substitute for butter and chocolate, everything and everyone on this planet is a commodity, especially when you’ve got millions and billions of them (or it).

My theory of cheap life is economic in nature. With well over one billion people in India, and China having its 1.5 billion and another half a billion or so scattered in and around the region, when a monsoon, earth quake, volcanic eruption,  maniacal dictator or just a plain old, run-of-the-mill plague comes along, suddenly you’re down a million humans or so. No one bats an eyelash except maybe the media, unless it interferes with the cricket/soccer scores. Someone else will aways come along and fill in the void. When you pause for a moment, especially when you’re trapped in a taxi in a colossal traffic jam, the source of which is most likely someone being stupid enough to cross the road assuming drivers will actually stop, you realize that makes life pretty cheap.

Gay Marriage – The Pause That Refreshes

You know what isn’t cheap? Divorce. Once the Supreme Court of the USA decided to make same-sex marriage legal, that country had to take a pause. Some hugged, some recoiled, some wept, and some rejoiced. A small but I am sure influential group triple rejoiced: Divorce lawyers.

I bet divorce layers across the 50 states of the USA took a moment to reflect, to pause, to opine, to ruminate over the implication that gay marriage, now finally legal, would be the impetus for many costly, prolonged, anger-soaked legal proceedings that will fill the courts and subsequently the coffers of many in the family law community.  Many a golf club membership or over-priced Autobahn-cruising, German luxo-barges –mit Leder– will now be funded due to the legalization of gay marriage in the USA. What horrible sitcom will arise from this that we haven’t thought of yet?

In actuality, the moronic, semi-sentient, troglodytic judges of the Supreme Court got the decision all wrong. They shouldn’t have legalized gay marriage. Sheer and utter foolishness. They should have made marriage, civil, religious or underwater, altogether illegal. Gay or straight. Or hermaphrodite. Your sexual preference shouldn’t determine whether you can marry or not. Marriage should be outlawed. For several shallow yet meaningful reasons (so I can beat a dead horse while I wait for my coffee to steep in the French press).

  1. It would eviscerate the profession of divorce lawyering thus forcing them to get real jobs like a McDonald’s burger-flipper or Walmart greeter. They could be replaced by ice hockey referees who make split second decisions, and are unionized, wear helmets and have blades on their feet so they are less likely to allow fights to linger.
  2. It would virtually eliminate the so called profession of wedding planner. Has anyone ever met a wedding planner they liked? That didn’t overcharge them for something a software program or an iPad app could effectively do for a fraction of the price?
  3. When was the last time you were at a wedding where the wedding cake tasted half as good as it looked? Never, that’s when. Sure, the hors d’oeuvres are tasty, and if it’s an open bar, a wedding can be fun. But wedding cake? The gross overuse of “fondant”, the dearth of real cocoa in the chocolate icing, the millimeter-thin layer of marzipan between the layers of sponge cake. It’s a sham. The wedding cake is the the triple-decker tower of sugary false promise that inevitably is given to the janitor or taxi driver hanging around at the end of the night looking for freebies. Was there ever a greater confectionary deception than the wedding cake?

Conclusions and Naps

So what are you, the reader of this absurdist rant, this fantastical (hey, that rhymes with ‘testicle’) work of art going to take away from this instalment of the irregular periodical visually chronicling the foibles of humans, and its author/creator? Will you pause, for a moment, before hitting the delete key in anger, index finger cocked and ready, and think about what I have said here? Or will you take a vacation hoping that when you come back, I will have come up with something about the financial Greek tragedy that’s the subject for the next comic? Or will you take a nap and wake up refreshed?

Don’t bet on it.

May you never step in elephant droppings,
Mentally Malicious Mogul Druker of Maharashtra

Day-to-Day, Frustration & Complaint, Meaning of Life

Permissiveness, Marriage and Aliens – It’s Obvious

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Stanko & Tibor: Permissiveness Is Badness

Societal Permissiveness

I was watching the American news the other day. In between the earthquake in Nepal, the regular horrors in the Middle East, the Apple Watch, the beginning of spring and another stupid cat story, there was a vitriol-filled discussion in those states allegedly united and free, about gay marriage. And the right to ban it or allow it, or something with colourful cut flowers. I wasn’t paying attention too closely. All I do specifically remember was a gentleman with deep religious convictions and nigh-on perfect, bulletproof hair complaining about “cultural and societal permissiveness” and then some sausage commercial came on and I got a hankering for products high in salt and fat.

After the commercial ended, and I had time to think about the effects of religion and marriage, it was clear to me that I had discovered something very fundamental about the human race, across the entire earth and pretty much at any point in history. Using the trident-like prongs of logic, caffeine and a genetic code damaged by being left near the microwave as a child, I finally made the connection that neither science, nor religion, nor even Hollywood has dared to utter.

When humanity and organized society were in their infancy, we were exposed to, and most likely colonized by, a bunch of interstellar, gay, cross-dressing and/or transgender space aliens. I swear it’s true.

Facts

Before any of you readers who aren’t incarcerated call the cops on me or have me then hauled away by the men from the loony asylum, hear me out. But first down a jigger of gin or smoke some medical marijuana, or delve deeply into your arsenal of mood-altering medications, as it will make this highly rational and scientifically shaky justification that much more plausible.

Let me start with some facts. How many religions are there on the planet, both dead and living, that don’t or didn’t have major religious figures who were or are wearing something akin to a dress and with a lot of makeup? Let’s examine the facts, shall we?

The ancient Egyptians priests? A fashion show on the Nile. Buddhist monks and high priests? Flowing robes, dainty ankles, very bright colors and a hint of catwalk excess. Japanese royalty? Please, if that society wasn’t influenced by a bunch of marauding space alien fashionistas, I’ll eat my sushi roll cooked. Let’s not forget the Pope and his cassock. Somewhere in the Vatican there is a cabal of secret, hip-swishing Catholics with a taste for dress-making and gender-bending we really haven’t begun to comprehend. I certainly haven’t, and I am the one who came with this stupid idea.

We won’t even go down the path of other major and minor religions and societies.We certainly do not have to delve into the French wigs and heels to know the fashion-forward space aliens ran the French court back in the 16th century.  I could go on for hours about the Brits, but really, just watch Little Britain and you’ll know that’s where the alien cross-dressing colony finally set down permanent roots.

Why the dress-up? Well, it is clear that alien designers, seamsters and seamstresses found it much easier to make a flowing dress than to go with a tailored 3-piece suit or a pair tapered slacks and sports jacket. There’s no fiddly inseam to worry about, and who needs a zipper? Heck, look at the Scots? Practical kilts have held up for centuries, perfect for keeping warm and for molesting unsuspecting sheep right in the Highlands, as it were. But I digress.

Getting Ugly

Am I trying to make this an ugly argument? Not at all. It’s just that these otherworldly fashionistas have been with us for so long, since cavemen days no doubt, that’s it’s pretty much a fact not worth fretting over. Yelling, screaming, protests, banners, vitriol. What for? Gay marriage? So what. Let them marry and suffer the indignities and cruelty of monogamy and forgetting your significant other’s birthday, and the subsequent hell there is to pay for said memorial omission. Let’s not forget permitting them to share the wallet-busting and infuriation of wedding planners. And figuring out what to serve at the dessert table and the f—ing font on the invitations. Enjoy!

Legal Aliens

Perhaps more chilling than this fact-laden argument I just presented is that no one in honest society is willing to admit is how the concept of marriage came about. The history behind it murky and twisted, but the aliens are behind it. Trust me.

Another race of interstellar, booty-seeking, rape-and-pillaging professional pirates came along after the cross-dressing spacemen had outfitted and tarted up our ancestors. Their race is ancient and fraught with strange languages and customs. It is insular and aggressive. They profit from the ills of humankind. Their name is whispered in night time stories to scare children to sleep. They are called “Lawyers.”

This second wave of spacemen used their superior powers of linguistic manipulation to convince us that pairing up under the guise of a religious or civil official (and buying a house and getting a mortgage) was key for societal cohesion and stability. But when the feces hit the fan, we now had to use their services to permanently solve marital distress — at $350 an hour, including $26.00 for a stamp to mail that subpoena.

Where do you think the term “legal alien” came from? They somehow convinced a jury of their “peers” that O.J. didn’t do it. They have special mental powers of obfuscation.

In Summation

How does this clearly constructed set of arguments and facts related in any way shape or form to the comic above, that was cited in a recent edition of The Farmers’ Almanac as “only being useful for wiping out cow stalls and chicken droppings?” Give me a minute here while I pull something out of my derriere.

Ah, got it.

The universe is a strange place. Each has his or her own view of it, and everyone thinks they are right. They believe they are right, otherwise life would turn into a doubt-filled free-for-all like at Costco on a Saturday when you’re unsure whether to buy the 8kg block of cheese or the palette of condoms that’s on sale. We all have things we see as right and wrong. As sacred and profane. And in the end it doesn’t matter, because a) as my history teacher once said “I respect your opinion, but it is wrong” and b) the lawyers will win anyway because they made killing illegal.

Incapably yours,

3rd assistant to the Prelate of the Believers in Nothing, Jonny Dribbler