(click on disturbing baby for story)…Then his hand, now free of it’s horrible puppeteer, proceeds to kill everyone that wronged it in the past. Good times. Good times.
The disembodied hand: Now available for your deadly revenge AND child raising needs!
(Available at all Macy’s and Bamburger’s)
Dear Sir,
While I appreciate you and your team’s continued perseverance to keep my biological faculties in order, and functioning enough for this Fake Rockstar to be accepted into society, I have some issues with a few of the operational choices you’ve made as of late. I’ve made a list to post on the Medulla Oblongata break room fridge:
1. There’s a definite problem with the motivation drive. I’ve plenty to do, but seem to be making a seat on the couch in underwear and covered in tears a priority. Please run a full diagnostic ASAP… That backstabbing cleaning guy may have switched everything to “chronic depression” again.
2. I’m not sure who runs the hunger reflex, but could you stop in and see if they’re sitting on the “execute” button? I eat and never seem to be full. This is causing some undue stress on the boys in blubber production, especially in the ass and gut quadrants. Please troubleshoot this situation when you have a nanosecond.
3. A similar problem seems to be happening the alcohol craving department, particularly around 3pm. Don’t get me wrong, I love the drink… I just need a break from falling asleep in a drunken haze, giggling at Colbert every night.
4. The sex drive still seems to be stuck on “Dirty old man ogling from his front porch”. While I do enjoy porn, I worry that I’m quite close to seeing all the Internet has to offer. This seems to worsen with age. Please investigate the possible correlation and what steps are needed to scale things back a tad.
Everything else seems to be humming along… No new obtrusive hair on the body and little hair loss on the head… And the Joke Transmitter 2600 seems to be churning out the funny nicely.
Thanks for your consideration of these concerns. I appreciate your continued cooperation.
Cheers,
Corey “Fake Rockstar” Pandolph
Cartoonist/Writer/Human Species
I’m torn.
I really didn’t like that song. I did try to like it and Natalie Embruglia was fun to look at, but that tune drilled a hole my head.
Sorry.
ANYWAY… I’m torn on what to say it is I do for a living. Evidently, I’m a cartoonist. And I’m not very proud of it. I think I’d rather be a REAL Rockstar, or someone who gets paid to name celebrity voices in TV ads (I’m a hoot at parties). But I’m not those things. I’m just a cartoonist.
I say I’m JUST a cartoonist because I mostly don’t like that it immediately places me in the current “cartoonist community.” Allow me to ‘splain… When I was pushing to get into papers through a syndicate, I got to meet some other newspaper cartoonists. Out of the 15 or so I’ve met, I like one. And the reason I like him is he feels the same way I do about being a cartoonist. So, now that I have a “webcomic“, I’ve tried to join the “webcomics community” through emails and feigning interest in other’s work, only to be shunned quicker than… Than some clever character reference to some online game I don’t play. Don’t get me wrong, I like the idea of having a little community of like-minded souls I can bounce ideas off of… Just not the like-minded souls I’ve met so far. I do really like the WORK of being cartoonist. I love to draw and I love to write. And I LOVE to get paid. I’m just not interested in the title of “cartoonist”and the baggage that society seems to place with it.
I’m passionate, sure… I guess. I don’t know. Look, I like to make people laugh and I like to get paid for it. I’m not interested in taking it too seriously because I don’t take anything too seriously. I suppose this alienates me from nearly everyone in comics… And possibly everyone in every other creative genre. Which is fine. I never bought into the whole “I Do it because I love it, despite getting paid.” Being paid cash money is the best feeling next to sex, beer and bacon. Or, Sex WITH beer and bacon… Can you imagine? Anyway, the money makes me love what I do. A shallow statement perhaps, but at least I’m honest. I suppose there are days when I wish I was included in the “community” more, but then I look at the way most of these guys/girls conduct themselves and I think, “Do I really want to be associated with that?” The idea of discussing the seriousness of being funny seems counter-productive to me. It also makes me sick to my stomach. I’d much rather get drunk and not talk.
I want the fame and fortune, but I want the regular ol‘ fame and fortune. Not this weird niche Internet cartoonist faux fame, where you have to attend conferences, buddy up with people you wouldn’t normally speak to, and engage in mind-numbing conversations about the industry and the future of the industry. I like geeky things. I like Batman. I love Superman comics and movies. I like to see things in space and I like to watch things blow up. But I like those things to a point. I have a life outside of that. I don’t want to talk about how ground breaking something is for four hours. And I don’t judge every aspect of society through a tiny sarcastic fish eye lense, peppering my chides with references from star wars and online comics no one’s ever heard of. There’s a new sitcom that does this… And it’s so sad.
I guess I need to practice my guitar more and write a hit TV show staring Jennifer Connelly eating bacon at a bar.
Could you imagine getting paid to do THAT? Now that’s the ol‘ iron clad fame and fortune I’m talking about. Uh-huh. I’m sure there are no weirdos or cliquey communities in TV entertainment. That’s where all the cool kids are. Right?
Cheers!
Corey “Fake Rockstar/Real Cartoonist” Pandolph
Originally published at Drink at Work.com. Also featured in the November isuue of the cartoonist’s periodical, “Stay Tooned”
Scene: A half-filled Gritty McDuff’s, Portland, ME. A cartoonist stands alone at his usually spot, stage left. A loud group of young sales people enters from the right.
Cartoonist rolls eyes.
Salesman from Hell #1:
“Everyone sit here with my friend from New York City! That’s right, New York City! He can teach you a thing or two, because he lives in New York City. How about we have drinks like they have in New York City, on account of my friend. He’s from New York City.”
The entire bar rolls their eyes. Including two small children having dinner with parents, stage right.
Salesman #1, 2 and 3 crowd cartoonist at bar, even though there’s plenty of space everywhere else.
Salesman from Hell #1 (louder than a Harley in a high school gym, to Salesman from Hell #2):
“… And then I said, sure you have these markets, but are they million dollar markets? Don’t come to me with $200,000 pieces of shit, I’m only serious about the big guns. I’m 45 and I’m fucking a 22 year old in the back of a $68,000 Hummer. You don’t get there in a $200, 000 market.”
Cartoonist turns away, again rolling eyes. He gulps his beer. The pretty young bartender, also Cartoonist’s friend, stops to check on Cartoonist’s beer.
Salesman form Hell#1 (glaring at bartender’s chest):
“That’s how I like the tits, right there. Wrapped up just enough for easy access. You’re a beautiful piece of pie, sweetheart!”
Cartoonist slumps over bar, with head in hands, wishing for a localized Armageddon at his side of the bar. Bartender looks at cartoonist, eyes wide and walks to other end of bar.
Salesman from Hell #3 moves to within 2 inches of cartoonist’s face. Cartoonist tries not to notice.
Salesman from Hell#3 (drunk, loud and spitting):
“What do you do?”
Cartoonist (unenthused, with beer raised to his mouth):
“I’m a cartoonist and comedy writer.”
Salesman from Hell#3:
“Awesome. Family Guy rocks. So fuckin’ funny. Do you draw that guy? And that dog… What the fuck’s his… Brian! Hey guys, this guy does the Family Guy show!”
Cartoonist gulps beer. His eyes widen.
Cartoonist:
“I actually don’t have anything to do with that show. I write and draw for print, like Mad Magazine.”
Salesman from Hell#1:
“Mad Magazine. What’s the guy’s name? Newman…”
Salesman from Hell#3:
“Randy Newman… George Newman?”
Salesman#1 and 3 improvise every known “Newman”, except correct one.
Cartoonist:
“Alfred E. Newman.”
Salesman from Hell#3:
“Right… with the tooth… Hey! Just like your tooth! Is that how you got into Mad? Because of your tooth?”
Cartoonist winces and shifts uncomfortably, wishing for the power to smote at will.
Salesman from Hell#3:
My girlfriend and I were at the sex shop down the street and we were reading those “Mad Libs” books. You know those? “Mad Libs”? Funny as all hell. Do they let you write those?
Cartoonist freezes and stares blankly at Salesman from Hell#3
Cartoonist:
“Excuse me…”
Cartoonist exits stage left for restroom where he contemplates slitting his wrists as a result of a complete loss of faith in Society.
More Salesmen from Hell usurp Cartoonist’s place at the bar, pushing his beer onto the floor.
Cartoonist returns, discovers his seat is taken and observes his beer on the floor with an angry glare.
Salesman from Hell#3:
“Oh… sorry, dude. Let me buy you another. Hey, what’s your name?”
Cartoonist:
“Corey.”
Salesman from Hell#3:
“No SHIT! that’s my name. We’re twins!”
Cartoonist:
“Do you spell yours “K-o-r-i” and dot the “i” with a heart?”
Salesman from Hell#3 (confused):
“Uh… no…”
Cartoonist grabs hand of salesman from Hell#3 and strokes his forearm
Cartoonist(soft tone, smirking lovingly):
“That’s too bad.”
Salesman from Hell#3 pulls back arm in disgust, hands cartoonist a beer and rushes to his girlfriends side. Cartoonist smiles with satisfaction and finds an empty seat at opposite end of the bar.
Lights fade to black.
Curtain.
