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.
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!
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:
- I’m a colossal coward
- I’m easily disassociating from reality and network news — without meds
- I should cut down on the Oreos
- 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.
Brutus son of Gordus the Impatient