Tag Archives: food

Bad Choices Are Easy To Make

Bad Choices StewBad Choices StewBad Choices StewBad Choices StewBad Choices StewBad Choice StewBad Choice StewBad Choice StewBad Choice StewBad Choice StewBad Choices – I Have Made Many

Not long ago I read a report trying to explain the environmental impact based on the foods we buy. Yet another attempt to make me feel bad for the numerous poor choices I have made in my life time. The gist of the article made me think about how many trees I have indirectly deforested, rivers polluted, and CO2 emitted by choosing specific foods and not thinking about the consequences.

Given the number of burgers, sausages, industrial cookies and of course chocolate and cinnamon danish* I have consumed in my 5+ decades on this planet, one could roughly calculate that I personally have led to 3% of global forests being destroyed. Which is approximately the weight of 100,000 male African savanna elephants. Trust me.

Furthermore, by my rough, sleep-deprived calculations, I have emitted more tons of CO2 — and especially methane — than most central American countries have in the same period of time. Which I consider quite the accomplishment, however it doesn’t sound good on a job application nor does it make for a great conversation starter on blind dates. Trust me.

(*Note to reader: danish usually doesn’t have a plural form, it’s like water or beer or air – it’s an uncountable ethereal and tasty substance that defies logic, and supports rampant diabetes.)

Wired for Bad Choices

So many many of my bad choices to eat meats and danish, as opposed to locally grown leafy greens, are notionally based on the principle that we have free will. I chose to ingest delectable baked sugary delights that led either directly or indirectly to an oil well being drilled (what? you think petro-sugar comes from real sugar? who’s being naive now?) and I felt no guilt. Coincidentally, I also immediately felt a numbness in my left arm and a difficulty breathing for a bit, but I can’t imagine the two are related.

Was it a question of poor education or a lack of facts that led me to choose the clearly evil foodstuff? Is there a little devil over my shoulder cackling with evil laughter knowing that mother earth has descended that much closer to the abyss? Of course not. We are wired for bad choices.

Our human DNA and electrolyte-fuelled mushy gray matter lead us to seek out what we want, not always what we need. Look at poor Socrates – he wilfully drank a chalice of poison as opposed to being forced to eat a kale salad with dried cranberries and low-cal dressing, knowing the former would be far more pleasurable than the inevitable bloating and gas he would get from the meal of greens.  Granted, drinking poison impacted his dating life and earning potential, but frankly, if you had to eat a kale salad or choose death, the great hereafter isn’t a bad option.

Bad Choices Built Civilization

I am not getting into a discussion of free will versus determinism, mostly because I am not smart enough to discern the difference and it is a mood killer on first dates. Trust me.

Rather I make the argument that if we didn’t make bad choices, civilization wouldn’t have evolved as far as it has. If humans didn’t make bad choices, we wouldn’t need police, the fire department, emergency medicine doctors and nurses,  lawyers, self-help gurus, or dietitians.

Bad decisions are the cornerstone of learning and growth. How many times have you said “Oh another drink couldn’t hurt. Make it a double!” only to find yourself lying in bed the next day reaching for a painkiller that was invented because someone saw a need to reduce the searing pain of a hangover. Your bad decision led to the modern pharma industry’s feeding you meds.

Think of all the lawyers that we need because people decided to submerge toasters in water or all the prosthetics that were invented because some humans decided to stick their hands into a spinning blade? Where would personal injury lawyers be without poor decision-making? They’d be flipping burgers instead of driving Porsche SUVs.


Since we are bound to make bad choices, either due to faulty genetics, poor lighting, poor education, poor parental modeling, a lack of sleep, or a significant other telling us we always do the laundry wrong, I say screw it. I am going to have another danish.

Pontifically challenged and perpetually perturbed,
Augustus Johann Sebastian Druker, 16th waterboy of the Earl of Sheepshire

Technology Is A Vengeful God

Stanko & Tibor - CrisprTechnology Is A Vengeful God

It’s funny how we revere technology almost like a god. But we do that largely because it’s way easier to revere that than following an established religion where you often have to give cash gifts to large institutions, especially if you want to host a wedding there. What a racket that is. Weddings, I mean. Oh, and the Trump-eriffic Mueller Report.

Technology, like religion, was created by us humans so that we would have something explain why little Billy was run over by the motorized parade float featuring hairy, fire fighter drag queens at the Gay Pride parade, despite Billy’s utter innocence. Sure, his parents were mightily distracted and in a zombie-like trance watching season 8 of Game of Thrones or playing Fortnite til 3 AM on a caffeine high. But a vengeful technology god took Billy away to teach them a lesson. Or to teach Billy a lesson. I am not sure which one. I haven’t been sleeping well.

Let me be precise here when referring to technology as a god. I am not referring to the Miracle/Curse of CRISPR, the gene-editing technology that may one day alleviate the pain of disease, and help to create healthy populations, or potentially make a bunch of amoral Chinese super soldiers. No, it’s far more mundane than that.

Back to the technology-religion thing for a minute. It’s really simple to worship at the Altar of Bits and Bytes, at the Church of iPad, at the House of the 88-inch OLED Screen with 4K, because, let’s face it, you don’t have to get dressed up and show up at an place of worship on someone else’s schedule, where parking is difficult to come by.

No one asks you to pray or for donations at the Temple of Technology. They just ask for a credit card and a monthly subscription that over time equates to a king’s ransom of a small African nation. Which you are happy to fork over blindly because you get pretty immediate rewards and gratification as opposed to having to wait until the afterlife, which I am told by people who claim to have knowledge of such, is a hard place to find a decent Chinese food restaurant that isn’t overbooked.

Existential Threat

Now that technology is our new god, or is at least 85% of the way to replacing most major religions, we have new worries and fears.  I think it’s fair to say that humanity’s greatest existential threat is  when the WiFi goes down, or your smart phone goes on the fritz. That’s when the technology god wreaks his (yes, I used a masculine pronoun because that bloody profession of techies is about 99.9% male-dominated) revenge and puts you at the mercy of the evil minions who occupy the lower rungs of the Help Desk.

Minion #3,692,134 lords his (or her) power over you after you have waited 73 minutes on hold (a.k.a. purgatory), then gets you to give your most personal details like your blood type and the last time you picked your nose in order to verify your account before he (or she) explains that after “rebooting your device” (that always sounded vaguely sexual to me for some reason), you’re kind of screwed and they have to send a technician to your home, for a small fee. Kind of like buying an indulgence, no?

Yet, despite the ignominy of dealing with the Help Desk Minions, and the associated manager or Level 26 expert you had to wait an hour to get to just to tell you the problem is somehow your fault, once they miraculously re-establish the electronic connection and the flow of electrons and compressed data packets, you are elated to be able to continue streaming pretty much meaningless pictures of your cat or child that no one else wants to see. Unless it’s my cousin’s daughters who are super adorable.

Where does this discussion all lead to? What are you, dear reader, supposed to glean from this shaky piece of writing and ranting as the long weekend of Easter arrives? I don’t know, but I certainly did sucker you into spending more time on your electronic device reading this mess.

May the Technology Gods have mercy on your soul!

Love and sniffles,
Friar Augustino Druker

The Devil’s Food

The Devi'ls Food

Devil Wins Latest Round

Dear Readers of chronically incorrect and incorrectly chronicled,

Some two long weeks ago, I read the latest article about genetically modified organisms (GMO) that claimed they are definitely safe. Tested, tried, true and having no effect on us humans. Of course there are those who stridently oppose this fact, saying these GMOs are the devil incarnate and creations of mad, money hungry mega-corporations, out to find yet another way to make a buck off buckwheat, barley and most likely the junk food I so religiously eat largely because I am so horribly addicted to the mega-refined sugar that tickles my taste buds and singes my synapses with each bite.

Which Side Are You On, Boy?

So if you’re asking me which side of the divide do I fall on, either the anti-GMO, firmly-entrenched-with-spikes camp, bearing teeth, fangs, gums and dyspepsia, or the pro-GMO, white-lab-coat-wearing, intellectually-superior-finger-waving science types, the answer is I don’t care. Not because I don’t want to. I do, I really do. Oddly, my not-caring is NOT the result — as many of you dissenters suggest on public forums and on placards left on my front lawn — of sugary foods, deliciously smoked pork products, or excessive butter intake.

My apathy (or devil-may-care attitude) toward making an informed choice on the GMO matter is the result of a fair number of pills taken to ease the symptoms of a cold that invaded all my sinus cavities, put down roots and then marched like the Chinese army down to my chest where the siege of Lung Ridge took place. If that wasn’t enough, a recent bout with ninja-blade-like kidney stones shredding their way through my dilapidated man-plumbing forced me to resort to pain killers that normally are reserved for people who just had something amputated with a rusty saw in a war zone.

A fog has settled that still hasn’t completely cleared, the stones, neither. So I can’t really care too much about matters of a worldly nature when my focus is just trying to get to the fridge to pour a glass of orange juice so I can try and float away my troubles down the yellow stream.

Sugar & Meds

All that orange juice led to a lovely sugar high, whereupon I read yet another fascinating article about the rampant use of genuine pharmacological mood-altering substances used on zoo animals to help them deal with their stress and depression issues. It seems they have many, chiefmost among them is the quality of their living quarters, being trapped an all, go figure.

It’s amazing what they have been fed to deal with their filthy animalistic ways. It’s a veritable Glaxo-Smith-Kline-Eli-Lily-Roche-Novartis cocktail the likes of which you’d have to go to a dozen different crooked or morally compromised and financially indebted doctors to get this many tranquilizers. I don’t think there are heroin junkies with this many psychotropic chemicals racing through their veins and brains.

And of course, after the juice, I ingested a coffee (to follow up my fruit danish extravaganza I neglected to mention). It got me to thinking what a horrible bunch of animals we are to treat animals that way.

The gist of the article is, these normally wild animals are freaking out over being trapped in cages for so damn long, contrary to their genetic urges to be wild animals. Most humiliating is that they are gawked at by slack-jawed city slickers and filthy, snot-ridden children who torment the animals by sticking their hands in the cages, like an appetizer, only to be yanked away at the last moment by a semi-sentient parent. You’d need a few liters /pounds /vats /gallons of Zoloft, too if you tormented thusly. It’s not far off from being stuck in a job where you sit at a desk all day pleasing your overlords, with the only difference being you have to leave one metaphorical cage to go back to the other metaphorical cage every day, except for weekend, vacations, holidays and those sick days you call in when you know full well you are just sitting at home eating bonbons.

Moneys and iPads

The gross irony in all of this is that we are nothing more than slightly less hairy monkeys with lawyers and cars and iPads.

In fact, many humans are just one missed body hair waxing appointment away from devolving back into the forests we once crawled out of and keep keep decimating. I won’t go into detail about all the wars and conflicts going on to prove of my point about us humans being animals. Nor will I dwell on some people’s eating habits at fast food restaurants and other sit down establishments that border on hunter-gatherer-slaughterer in cargo pants and a t-shirt with a printed slogan to announce one’s feelings toward alcohol, sex, cats or political leaders. Just watching some people eat confirms my theory that we just aren’t as evolved as we like to think we are, even with space travel and Star Wars, the movie.

(However, if you’re going by hairiness to determine our animalistic quotient, the Nordic countries are an anomaly. But I believe I heard somewhere from a guy at a bar, who knows a disgraced scientist with a gambling problem and a limp or a lisp that all that heavy alcohol consumption by the Nordic folks has killed off the body hair growth genes from all those distilled toxins. But I digress.)

Furthermore, that we feel the need to drug our caged animals is a sign that we want them to be more like us to some degree. Less violent, less emotional, hooked on the Internet and pharmaceuticals. It’s actually a meeting of the minds. (Or the mimes. I can never tell those apart.) Yet, I am troubled by neurotic polar bears hooked on phenobarbital and Paxil.

The Solution

Perhaps the answer lies before us. Put the animals back in the wild where they are meant to be. Where we can kill them, ruin their populations and their environments — naturally — and not in some gilded prison with a drug drip. Those drugs should be reserved for animals who need them, like high-strung, cocaine-addicted personal injury lawyers or investors. Or butt-heads who drive aggressively in trucks because they are deficient in their reproductive parts. Either way, leave the drugs to us humans and let’s give GMOs to the animals, because chances are they have a nasty hangover and need to come down gently.

I need some sugar.

Mirthfully merciless
Vlad the Inhaler 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

Interlude to The Commandments

Stanko & Tibor - Winterlude Interluds

To my fondest adherents (mostly they are incarcerated),

So much is made of laws and customs and social morays, how without them it would be anarchy, chaos, or like shopping at Walmart on a Saturday morning when the grannies and families are out for bargains at the cost of someone else’s blood. I am not sure we really heed these laws and customs, or even “best practices” (there’s a load of crapola if I ever heard one). Bear with me while I bare down on the imagined argument I am about to lay out (figuratively, of course, because if I were to lay it out literally, it would involve using a lot of paper or white sheets and a movie projector and I don’t have a permit for that).

A common refrain I think I hear in my family as we either age or have sinus infections is “that’s how wars are started.” This refers quite simply to one party having misheard the other and a minor argument has ensued or shouting. Or the shouting is needed to repair the miscommunication because we’re all deaf or listening to something way too loud on our respective i-devices that Mr. Jobs gave us before he the cold finger of vegetarian death claimed him.

My point being miscommunication and mishearings are often at the heart of what’s wrong with the world (that’s not counting religious or political zealots, both of whom seem to like raising taxes). Oh sure, there have been some horrible occurrences in the past when the message was loud and clear (yes, I’m referring to Hitler, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Apartheid, Joe Stalin, Chairman Mao, or the owners of many sports teams).

Yet so much death and violence and ugliness could have been spared had we all just listened to each other, or turned on our hearing aids.

10 best practicesLet’s suppose for a minute that the story of Moses getting the word of God on Mt. Sinai actually happened. There are people out there on the globe who scoff at this story, others who believe it wholeheartedly, and many, many somewhere in Mongolia fondling an ox, or on a beach resort in Bali too blasted from the hedonistic hellishness from the night before to really give a rat’s ass about this. But let’s take this as a basis for Western culture’s biggest misunderstanding: The 10 commandments

I contend without any formal training or guidance, and possibly with one glass 10-year old of port too many and 23 nights too few of proper sleep that if we posit that Moses did receive the commandments lo those many weeks ago, he must have misunderstood something. If Hollywood is to be believed, when Moses was up there on the Mount, there was thunder, lightning, a burning shrub (most likely from the lightning, or maybe God tossed a lit cigarette uncaringly out of a cloud – smoking was much more acceptable back then).

It would follow logically that Moses, who by that time must have been dehydrated from climbing Mount Sinai without a Sherpa guide or oxygen tanks and a North Face jacket, was a little dizzy and maybe took down the commandments by shorthand and couldn’t read them afterward. Or more likely, in state of not having had a coffee on the Mount, misheard what God said due to early morning grumpiness. Or he went deaf from all the thunder and shouting and had to read God’s lips.

My theory is that “Thou shalt not steal” was really “Thou shalt not eat veal” given that, unless it’s cooked properly, preferably with garlic and lemon, it’s not one of my favorite meats. Especially if it’s overdone. Furthermore, I have a funny feeling when God said “Thou shalt not kill” I think God really said “Thou shalt not spill.” Let’s look at the facts.

Humans kill all day, every day, for good reasons, for no reasons, for money, sex, fame, women, sports cars, for accidental rollator theft at the old peoples’ home, not to mention because of boredom in South American, Russian and Asian dictatorships. If that commandment in particular were meant to be heeded, we’re doing a pretty crappy job of it. Frankly, if we killed more, and more selectively (I’m talking to you Mr. Neighbor’s Cat Who Craps On My Lawn Just Before I Go To Mow It, and Subsequently Step In Its Droppings) world over-population wouldn’t be such a hot topic at the dinner table, right after “Can we order Chinese instead of having leftovers?”

If my theory is right, and “Thou shalt not kill” was a typo or miscommunication, and should have really been “Thou shalt not spill”, it would explain why my father would throw us death looks at the dinner table when we were kids and we knocked some liquid over. I think dad wanted to kill us then. Furthermore, have you noticed how bent out of shape people get when they spill milk? They cry over it! Even though we have developed a coping mechanism in the English language to deal with that fact. We tell people not to cry over it. Easy.

To underscore my point further, what happens when there’s a chemical spill somewhere? Everyone goes nuts, the media are all over it, some environmental lawyer with poor grooming habits is on every talk show and the victims of the spill are helped and cared for. Yet, when a politician runs over someone after an all-nighter with a hooker, no one bats an eyelash. But spill hot coffee on a dictator’s lap when he’s planning an assassination and there will be hell to pay.

It’s quite clear to me now that the 10 commandments should really be renamed to the “10 best practices”, because if they were true commandments, and there were real consequences with eating poorly prepared veal, there would be some kind of bad-ass payback in the form of locusts or reality shows being banned from television. Furthermore, if you believe in a god, he or she or it is a pretty hands-off manager, and not in the good way. You get your marching orders from some lower-level manager, then god is off who knows where playing golf or at a bar in the Caribbean with the top salesmen, and when it’s time to give feedback on your performance, you’re usually dead. So what good is a bonus then?

I won’t even get into “Remember the Sabbath Day” – I am sure it was “Remember to take a bath every day.” Those ancient Israelites must have stunk after being in the desert and sweating and fornicating. The least they could have done was wash their privates and armpits. But no, Moses had to go and take a perfectly good commandment on hygiene and he made up the word “Sabbath” just to confuse the vitamin and water-depleted freed slaves so he’d have a day off to watch football. There went millennia of good hygiene and the birth of smelly Frenchmen.

What does any of this have to do with the latest installment of Stanko & Tibor, the illustrated dialectical Karl Marx once used as a beer coaster when he was hitting on the busty waitress at Das Bierhaus? Not much except that try as we might, communications will be missed thus leading to wars, and killing will go on unabated, and sadly it won’t be that cat that is forever in my backyard dropping fecal reminders.

Master Plumber and Part-time Electrician
Zsolt “The Volt” Tesla-Druker




Not unlike the rabbinical scholars who would sit across the table from each other and argue a the meaning of life, the existence of God, and the universe, each from opposing sides all day and all night, (largely in an effort to make their wives do the heavy work in the fields while the men played an ancient form of poker called “5-Card Sheep Stud”), our brave characters in this episode of Stanko & Tibor are coming to terms with things they can’t control.

Speaking of things I can’t control — but have to accept — I spent last weekend in the backyard committing baleful acts upon living things. The majority of the time was spent slashing green grass that had grown to a height great enough to cover a small family of pygmies that I think were living beneath our house and fighting with the family of gophers that reside beneath our house in times of duress.

The slaughter continued as I discovered not one, but two ant colonies, one of which I am sure is the source of the 6-legged invaders of our kitchen of late. They crossed the line when they entered our house looking for sugary leftovers. Milling and skulking about in the kitchen without our permission was just too much for me to handle. Such disrespect. And visited upon my kitchen no less. So I proceeded to introduce them firsthand to modern chemistry and its compressed effects in the form of a foam that is meant to kill the little buggers where they live. Kind of like a nicely scented shaving foam, but with, I am assuming, DDT leftovers from Vietnam and other harmful chemicals found in discarded generators and modern foodstuffs like the sausages and cookies I eat on a regular basis.

The killing field widened to include the most evil of all invaders in my green space – weeds, specifically dandelions. The nerve, the chutzpah, nay, the temerity to erupt in full bloom in the backyard, en masse, was just too much for me to handle. Off I went to obtain my preferred killing machine, that claw thing that rips out the dandelions by the root, an industrial version of what my dentist has used on me for what she delicately refers to as “cleanings.”

Well, those dandelions and their deep roots mock me no longer. And you’d think that after violently ripping some 50 or 60 of them out, the other dandelions would have gotten the message to stay away from our backyard. They are either of a kamikaze variety or just not very bright as far as weeds go. Maybe they are the lemmings of the plant world. Now the green grass and occasional cat poop that is my backyard is safe for now.

Oddly, while I was committing these acts of “planticide” and “anticide” I kind of wondered if this how God feels when he or she or it is flooding a coastline full of villagers and tourists in Indonesia or triggering a volcano somewhere and wiping out a village of evil-doers doing their laundry and making love to their oxen in a third world country. I wonder if God thinks we all look like ants and has a giant can of death foam or worse, a giant magnifying glass for frying.

I also came to the conclusion during my garden rampage on the living things that by holding the power of life and death over living objects, I was like God. Or a serial killer, there really isn’t much difference between the two, is there. They both seem to have the same characteristics: indiscriminate killing, twisted logic, rage issues, don’t handle stress well, and they both probably have a tattoo with the words “Suck it” on a shoulder blade. But I bet God would be better at cocktail parties making small talk, like “oh yeah, I hurt my back splitting the Red Sea the other day, and I can’t get a good chiropractor…”

Effervescently yours,

Mojo Dojo Mofo Druker

Shopping for Truth

My dearest adherents to this comic,

As I walked to work the other day I gazed up at the early morning sky to see the sun brightly shining with a light corona of haze on its upward arc in the east, only be shortly met in mere minutes by a semi-translucent, semi-inky ridge of clouds that looked like they wanted to choke off the sun’s intense heat to give relief to an overheated city. I was amazed at the beauty of how sun and cloud play together at that time of day and how humans anthropomorphize our world around us to better cope with it.

Then I thought to myself, what a profound thought from a guy who watches Bugs Bunny with his kids and also produces a comic that involves a lot of fart jokes and sub-mental humor. And then I thought that such a deep thought could only have occurred due to the confluence of several key factors: a lack of meaningful sleep being crucial, modern pharmacology’s miracle of allergy medicine + my gout pills, probably a recessive gene that kicked it at that very moment, and then promptly switched off like a cheap incandescent light bulb, and lastly the left-overs of many a chemically-enhanced sugary product (i.e. gooey cinnamon danish) that spiked my blood sugar to levels not seen since my ingestion of a 100g bar of Marzipan right around Christmas.

And then when that thought dissipated like a drop of oil in a hot frying pan, I was left with this comic’s latest installment, once again on food. And my obsession with it. Not in a “Chef Paul Prud’homme, I can barely get my hands to touch because I am so fat” way. More like a “what am I ingesting that keeps my belly plump, round and unable to pack into my size 34 jeans without deep belly sucking.”

Personally, I like the product names way more than the reality of what’s in them and the effect they have on me. And that’s why I am going to be purchasing products that may well kill me (not the cigarettes, however. Relax, ma) albeit slowly and tastily.

Enjoy, and please check out some new designs I have for t-shirts and sweatshirts, you bunch of wonderful people with generous souls and open wallets.

Truth In Food

Wow, I am tired. What a long weekend here in Canada. In addition to it being my soon-to-retire mother’s birthday, we in the Great White North take an extra day off to eat, drink, be merry, and plant stuff in our yards under the guise of celebrating Queen Victoria’s birthday.  I could make some horrendous comment about a dead monarch with a tight corset and probably some kind of sexual repression issues, but I ate so damn much good food that I am swollen, dizzy and generally dopey.

So let me say this – this comic is an old idea I had literally a year or two ago, but couldn’t get around to doing. Now I have done it, and later on, there will be a few more on this topic, but give me some time. Actually, I was aching to do a post on the not-really-a-rapture, and I have the dialog and the sketch, but I figured, I’d get this one out of the way and then do a hand-drawn rapture comic. And to be honest, I spent the day of the rapture mowing my lawn, trimming hedges, and ripping out weeds, so maybe that was my diving punishment. Then again, since we live right next to a well-attended church, I figured if there was some kind of rapture thingy that we’d get rapture rub-off and we’d get sucked up too. By dint of proximity to the house of worship, I guessed that heaven’s GPS might take us along with the church. No such luck, I still have to make mortgage payments.

Well, it’s time for bed and possibly a sugary, mass-produced confectionery masquerading as a cookie, but is really a product of petroleum, recycled synthetic motor oil and Silly Putty®.

Keep the faith and keep hoping I regain self-control so I can lose some weight and fit into my shorts.

Dinner Talk

It’s ungodly cold outside tonight, about -18ºC, or 0ºF for my American friends and family, and I am sitting in my sub-arctic basement with my wonderful wife, who miraculously hasn’t killed me for ignoring her all the while I cartoon away like a man-child possessed. Such is the luxury/curse of nearly 12 years of marriage.

This installment of the world’s most dangerous illustrated intercontinental ballistic weapon of mass humor that occasionally has a semi-sentient comment about society, human nature or just tries to make a silly fart joke comes to you from deep within the external hard drive of the Druker house. In short, I have wanted to do this story line for literally two years. It’ll start slowly, and wander aimlessly, but eventually, with enough medication, sleep and booze, it will find a coherent end. And then I can go onto my next idea, which is really absurd.

However, there will be a bit of an extended break between this episode of Stanko & Tibor and the following one (stop jumping for joy, ma) as I want to work on the website and update the store part with some new merchandise and images that you will be able to look at, and maybe even o=purchase if you can pry a few dollars/euro/pesos loose to spread the word about the finest comic this side of an insane asylum.

On a completely unrelated note, please check out what I think is the funniest and foulest commercial I have seen in a while. It’s hysterical, it’s on my automotive blog.

Oh, and to the Gordon & Eisner families, congrats on the new child. Just when you thought it was safe to go back to sleep…

Keep the faith, fight the power, and eat fried and breaded foods.

-Jonny D

Stanko & Tibor - Dishonesty Folly
Stanko & Tibor - Dishonesty, Folly