Tag Archives: mothers

Wild Berry & ADHD

ADHD Ritalin


[Note to disturbed and deviant readers of this chronicle: This was partially written before the recent snow fell, hence the reference to leaves, of which there are no more on our tree.]

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the unholy matrimony of twisted and corrupt thoughts with the freedom to express them via Internet publishing, thus initiating a rethink of the meaning of the term “freedom of speech.” Also, it’s my birthday so I can do what I want today, as long as my wife lets me.

Wintry Weather is Distracting Me, Must Be ADHD

There was a severe change in weather last night with cold winds whipping the trees and our house, which caused literally thousands of leaves to be littered on our street. This weather is part and parcel of November climate, but no one really is ever ready for it, even the weirdos like me who like it. But weather-readiness isn’t the point. Mother nature, survival and ADHD are what I’m getting at here.

As I left to go to the gym in the eternally vain attempt to ensure my feeble heart  can pump my cholesterol and putty-thick blood through my veins to my oxygen-starved brain, there was a constant and bitter cold wind that continued to denude the trees of their remaining leaves. Leaves, these are the victims of the winter and other natural occurrences that may not be so natural, or maybe it’s just  Mother Nature going through menopause or possibly postpartum depression. But I’ll get to that in a minute.

This weather got me to thinking of those poor souls who have been crushed by mega tornadoes, super floods, super typhoons and other natural disasters. It leaves me wondering what’s the point and who is to blame? Natural or unnatural? Man-made or freakish bad luck? I’d like to blame someone for this otherwise this rant will be over in a sentence or so. Ah, wait, it’s coming to me. No, it’s gone. Maybe a coffee will help. Wait! It’s back. OK, since I can’t really blame anyone or any corporation or government for the massive destruction, I can theorize as to what these super storms are all about.

Either these storms are an inefficient form of population/birth control, or Mother Nature has postpartum depression and is trying to drown us, kind of like an unwanted child from an illegitimate affair, or worse. The birth control argument seems to be a little weak, unless Mother Nature is advocating abstinence or the rhythm method. Maybe she’s Catholic, who knows? Either way, neither one seems to be that effective. Maybe as a form of population control, she’s trying to keep her offspring from ruining her Earth (too late Mom, we got to the cabinet with the cleaning chemicals and have started poring them into the rivers.)

Oddly, these massive weather events sometimes lead to more humans being created, take heat waves for example. Power is out, people get all crazy with the heat and they foolishly fornicate due to the hot weather madness, which offsets the seniors Mother Nature picks off as they suffocate to death because they have no air conditioning.

Accident Waiting To Happen

I’m starting to think human beings were a big wake-up-next-morning mistake and Mother Nature is freaking out because this is putting a damper on her career, or her hormones went off the chart. Yes, that’s what we are: the unintended offspring of Mother Nature and Father Time after a heavy night out at the club with a dozen vodka shooters, a few more banana daiquiris, maybe a huge joint, followed up by some drunken, sloppy, unprotected sex on the stained futon in Father Time’s poorly decorated and cheaply lit apartment in the student ghetto near the pizzeria where the hairy-armed cook behind the counter also deals weed. We’re an accident.

So what do you do with an accident that you’re embarrassed about? Well, if it’s a car and you have insurance, you bring it to four-fingered Tony who will fix it on the cheap before you resell it to some sucker. But since there is no insurance for rotten offspring, and she couldn’t find a buyer for us even if she wanted to sell us on the black market, she has to deal with it. Or hopes we disappear altogether.  Normally you ignore the accident or put it up for adoption or ship it to a convent in the countryside or a boarding school, hoping desperately it goes away. But if it doesn’t go away and you’re moody like Mother Nature, you go to extremes to obliterate the mistake.

Look, as offspring go, we are pretty ADHD, and we have pretty much ruined all of her good furniture, like forests, lakes and rivers and grasslands. Not to mention the animals we’ve killed for warm, luscious, stylish coats, the ones with mink fur. We still haven’t gotten to the mountains yet, but give us time and we’ll stain those too with indelible markers or pee on them or use a can of spray paint to mark our names.

I can’t imagine Mother Nature could even find a babysitter for us ADHD humans. We’re constantly breaking things, we kill each other over toys, we rape and we pillage, we pollute and we pass gas. As far as I know, there is no industrial strength Ritalin to calm all of us down, and the only way we’re ever pacified is either through alcohol and drugs, post-sex sleep, electronics like my iPad, or shock therapy like a storm of the century, massive flooding, or maybe a volcanic eruption.

Parental Absenteeism

Not that Father Time has been such a good parent either. More like an absent father. Where has he been as Mother Nature raised us single-handedly? At least she cares enough to be embarrassed and annoyed by us. Father Time is out with the boys at the club, driving fast cars and generally shows no remorse for his one-night stand. Mom’s left holding the bag, not much governmental assistance, and she’s bitter about it. We offspring are never allowed to come out of our rooms at dinner parties to ask for some of the leftover cheese puffs. No. We are shunted off to the damp basement to watch crappy TV while she’s upstairs with her adult friends eating fondue.

So, as we humans are busy procreating at a rate that only vermin, rabbits and rats can better, Mommy Dearest Nature is busy thinking up ways to off us — and she has come up with a few creatively psycho solutions: drought, floods, locusts, hurricanes, typhoons, volcanoes, diseases, cancer, the Internet, junk food, the ice age (she came close there with that one), politicians, wild berries, hemlock and McDonald’s. So far nothing has worked.

She even gave us nasty toys to play with, a.k.a. guns, chemical weapons, nuclear weapons, missiles, cigarettes, and Pop Tarts, just hoping we’d kill ourselves when she was out for drinks with her friends. Then she’d call the police and the paramedics after she had found us dead in the closet having ingested a huge bottle of sun tan lotion mistakenly labelled “chocolate milk”, laying motionless, breathless, without a pulse. She’d feign tears, tell the police she was just out to get milk at the corner store, she’d never left us alone before, she only left for a few millennia, how could this have happened?? Oh the shame. Then as the paramedics leave with the bodies, she closes the door, smiles quietly, lights up a joint and watches the last season of  Breaking Bad with some chips and dip, followed by a bottle of wine and some Home & Garden TV.

On a side note, I have been accused of having defective telomeres (the aglet of the genetic world) that have allowed my genetic tips to look like worn split ends, thus leaving room for my brain to develop deviant thoughts and rants like this one. Maybe it’s because Mother Nature neglected me as a child? Makes perfect sense to me.

Deviantly dynamic and diligently unintelligent,

Sir Chester Breastfondler the IV

Mom’s Money

To those who claim they are literate, educated and erudite, you should be ashamed of yourself for reading this comic. But please don’t stop – it gives me some kind of validation and sense of self worth.

After this week’s tragic events, there is no really easy way to deal with it. So with my psychological defenses and coping mechanisms, I will do what I usually do — and that is turn to humor. It’s pure distraction in my case, and it usually leads to me sitting in front of the computer and cartooning and, of course, eating and thinking of future episodes of the comic once referred to by the Dadaist painter Man Ray as “some garbage my eight-year old could do if he had been born with the umbilical cord around his neck.”

I spent a fair bit of time recently doodling on the computer, placing and drawing the characters, thinking of future episodes and dialogue, and then rationalizing how I could dream up dialogue this bizarre, and of course noshing on sugary things. Given the half-dozen so called choco-chip cookies I ingested with the speed and haste of the ancient Israelites hoofing it through the Red Sea on their way to the Land of Milk and Falafel, I may petition the drug companies to merge with the plumbing cabals of the world to come up with a clog removal product for my arteries that dissolves in butter or is coated in chocolate. Because that is likely the only way that anything will get inside my arteries.

But I digress.

As I was driving around this morning doing errands I heard a report about the best time of year to diet, which as it turns out is winter. It seems humans burn the bad fat we accumulate better in winter so we can keep warm and thus lose weight. And winter, at least in the northern (a.k.a. good) hemisphere, is often associated with endings that lead to new beginnings. Then again, with global warming I don’t see us being in for much of a cold winter any time soon, so that opportunity to burn bad fat seems to be going up in coal-fired smoke. And furthermore, why do we diet? To stave off death? No, so we can wear the clothes hanging in our closets that we think we look cool in, or once did. We diet to ensure a future wearing past clothes. Strange, no?

So when you read and subsequently recoil in horror at this episode of Stanko & Tibor, think of the future, of your loved ones, the arguments you have had with them, the future they hold, especially the younger ones who will one day choose your retirement “castle”. Think of the past they have misspent and how it made you laugh and cry. And then hug them. Or bear hug them if you don’t like them. Or retreat into humor and eat a chocolate or cinnamon danish. With icing.

May your slide into the new year occur without any twisted joints.

Archbishop Jonny of the Assiniboine Herald of the Canadian Heraldic Authority

The Mother Of All Mothers

To those among you who profess to be educated, refined, erudite, savvy and cool, and who still secretly read this cartoon under the blankets with a flash light:

The title for this post, “The Mother Of All Mothers” came to me as I almost tripped drying in between my toes just as I got out of the shower. Why the hyperbole/Saddam Hussein reference? Look, if I knew why my brain works the way it does, the doctors would have prescribed a fix for it already. But thankfully they haven’t.

Introducing a new character to a comic is a bit like passing a kidney stone. It’s slow, there are convulsions of massive discomfort, both mental and physical, and during which I would really like to take a fistful for painkillers, but I do refrain where possible. If the public response to the new character is anything like that of previous characters (i.e. deafening silence, quiet scoffing, old ladies giving me the finger at shopping malls, the odd letter containing death threats from fringe groups like the Amish Biker Gang), I may have to resort to using profanity in following episodes to increase my readership among my family and friends.

Speaking of family, my nephew actually said he laughed when he finally read my comic, high praise indeed. Furthermore, a number of you (the not-yet-but-who-should-be-incarcerated) have suggested that the mother character somehow is similar to or even resembles my own mother, may she rest in peace, in either physical and personality traits.

What are you people smoking?? Couldn’t be further from the truth. My own (and only) publicly acknowledged mother is not the inspiration for the character you see here in Stanko & Tibor, the finest chronicle of the North American badger since 2008. Sure, my mother can heap mounds and pounds of guilt like an Alberta oil sands commercial dump truck, but she ain’t the inspiration. My grandmother on the other hand… No, no, I kid, I kid. The character is merely a vehicle for jokes and healing psychological scars I have from childhood that modern pharmacology hasn’t yet found a cure for, shock therapy notwithstanding.

So enjoy this episode, don’t read too much into it, I am not that deep (I watch Bugs Bunny reruns and eat industrial chocolate chip cookies, people). Laugh, if you will, turn away in horror if you must, spit on the floor in disgust if necessary, but be sure to tweet or Facebook or Google +1, or whatever it takes to get the word out on this comic cuz I need the exposure.

With haughty and rigid salutes,

Major General Admiral Pedro Dönitz

Ill Winds

Dear and Dearest Readers,

Given the tremendously long interval between this posting of the comic once referred to by Mitt Romney as “socialist poop not fit to be stepped on by my wife’s show horse” and the one posted here and now, you’d be forgiven for thinking that I had given up on my love for story-telling via foul-mouthed, immoral gargoyles and woodland creatures. Well, you’d be wrong, as my labor of love still burns brightly, but it has just taken a beating at the hands of my day job.

Speaking of labor, some people labor away at their place of work, some women go through labor, some people celebrate the honesty of manual labor, and some folks survive the labor of passing a kidney stone (I know whereof I speak). We in North America, who aren’t incarcerated, have just passed the Labor Day holiday, often accompanied by grilled meats and family cheer, and in many instances it was followed by sending our kids back to school. Now those little rodents can experience the joy of educational labor.

So how does the topic of labor relate to ongoing and unending drama that is Stanko & Tibor? I have really labored long and hard over the delicate and artful method I would use to expand the lineup of characters, and what cunning literary technique I would employ to gently introduce the reader to my latest machinations. And then I reached to the only conclusion an indolent person like could: Screw it, just cram it down the reader’s throat and get on with it. Didn’t see it coming, did you?

Now you may ask why you should have to wait until the next episode before I actually show you what this Mother person looks like. The answer is simple: I have some cookies to eat, some mindless animation and sports highlights to watch before I dream up the next episode. Bear with me on this long journey and you will be rewarded with wisdom.

Much love,

The Short Wizard Gandalf Druker