Death Of A Slushie

Photo by cyclonebill from Copenhagen, Denmark

A slushie in a much better state than the one I encountered. Also, it has two flavors. I don’t know what they are, but I cannot think of a blue and orange flavor that would go well together. It was probably not a great slushie.

It was there on the sidewalk. At first glance, I thought nothing of it. My dog and I kept walking to her customary pooping area. Then it registered.

It was an upside down cup, its resting place in the very center of the walking surface. The fact that it was a cup did not catch me off. In fact, at any given time of any given day, dozens of cups can be found lying about my apartment complex. This is due to the fact that a majority of the people living near me are disgusting. Not an average level of disgusting, but the level of disgusting that would probably get them on some sort of TLC reality program. They have no idea where trash does and does not belong. I have thought about hanging signs throughout the area that read “Trash in dumpster good, trash in piles throughout my stair well bad. Also, it does not make it any better if you hide it behind my bicycle.” They would probably just rip them down and leave them in my stairwell, though.

No, the sad thing was the stream of formerly deliciously frozen slushie now slowly melting and streaming down the hill. It was a miniature river of artificial orange flavoring and tiny chunks of ice crystals desperately clinging for life against the warm pavement of the sidewalk. This poor slushie had been abandoned by its owner and was now suffering the inevitable slushie fate. It was one of the gloomiest drink related sights a person can have.

I glanced around looking for the culprit. Maybe I would see a child crying, his sugar rush now just a mess in the way as I try to walk. Odds are, though, it was not a child. A child would lovingly care for his slush, savoring ever last bit of the fake fruit essence. He would hold it close until the moment he finally slurped the last remaining bit of it up. No, this was someone else with something much more heinous in mind.

This individual wanted the slushie to suffer.

I looked closely. Maybe there was still hope. If I tried, maybe I could scoop up the remainder of the treat and rush it into the safety of my freezer. I would have to move the bag of frozen chicken and the weird cubes of crushed garlic my wife seems to buy on a weekly basis, but I could find room. I glanced down to my dog who was giving me that look.

“Nathan,” she seemed to say. “It’s over. There will be other slushies to save. Just let this one go peacefully into the great slushie beyond.”

Who would throw away a perfectly good slushie? There is no reason to waste a delicious beverage like this. Even if that drink gave you a brain freeze, that is all on you. You need to learn how to pace yourself when drinking something that is made up of ice crystals and artificial flavors. There is no need to take it out on the drink.

Someday, this person will order another slushie and when they do, I hope they spill it all over themselves. I hope the slushie ruins their t-shirt just like they ruined this slushie today. They will sit in their car desperately trying to get the stain out of their shirt, but it is no use. The vengeance of the slushie is swift and very sticky.

Being the good citizen I am, I picked the cup up and placed it in the dumpster. The last thing the slushie would want is for the world to see its cup exposed like that. Plus, it’s not like anyone else would pick it up. They would probably just hide it behind my bike when I was not looking.

What a bunch of slobs…

 

Fun fact: This post contained the word “slushie” 12 times! Now I can’t look at the word without wanting to pluck my eyes out and throw them across the room! Isn’t repetition fun?

Ship In A Bottle: The Only Transportation That Can Be Measured In Ounces

From time to time, my mind tends to wander. I like to blame it on the media. I once read an article online explaining that TV is responsible for people’s ridiculously short attention spans. I’m not too sure how it ended because about four paragraphs in I remembered that there were a lot of YouTube videos I hadn’t caught up on yet, but the headline was pretty clear that it was all TV’s fault.

When my mind begins to wander, there is no telling where it will end up. It’s like spinning a giant wheel with everything single I have ever heard on it and it rarely ever lands on something logical.

Today I found myself drifting off and, naturally, my thoughts landed on the classic ship in a bottle. For those who have never seen a ship in a bottle, I will try to explain it clearly and succinctly: it is a ship inside of a bottle. That is it. I guess there wasn’t really a need for explanation there.

I have no idea who dreamed up the ship in a bottle. It seems like the strangest idea a person could come up with. The best I can figure out, someone a long time ago had a decent sized bottle of liquor. As there was no television or internet in that day, he did not have much else to do but to drink that liquor and soon the bottle was empty. The very intoxicated man looked at the bottle.

“There should be a ship in that,” the man stammered, wildly gesturing in the general direction of the bottle. His first attempt failed as he soon vomited all over his tiny ship, but soon enough the man’s drunken dreams had come true. He had put a ship in a bottle.

Making a ship in a bottle can’t be an easy task. I have devised a plan, though, if I decide to ever venture into the ship in a bottle world. First, I will build something much easier. I think I would start with a kayak in a cup. Then, once I had mastered that, I would move onto something like a dinghy in a jar. After I am able to perfect the air boat in a mug, the catamaran in a glass, and the yacht in a canteen, I would finally be ready to put a ship in a bottle.

Of course, then I would have to figure out how to brag about my new hobby. I am not too sure exactly how you would tell a person that you have built a multiple number of these things. You can’t call them ships in a bottle as that implies that you have put several ships inside of one single bottle and, trust me, I am not advanced enough for that yet. Ship in a bottles sounds like I took a single ship, broke it into pieces, then placed each piece into a separate bottle. That would not be an accomplishment at all, but it would a much easier hobby to take up. I suppose you would call them ships-in-bottles, but I also suppose it doesn’t matter as no one would want to hear you talk about that hobby anyway.

I think it’s high time we update the transportation we put in a bottle. No one has traveled by ship since the 1800’s. I think I should be the first person to build a Nissan Altima in a bottle. Of course, I don’t know if a standard bottle would work for a Nissan Altima. I might need to have a custom bottle made for this.

Maybe I should take up glass blowing…

A World Of Hate

There are some things you never expect to see. Yesterday, in between goofing around with friends and a relaxing afternoon spent with my couch and trusty Netflix account, one of those things happened. My CNN app alerted me to breaking news. I assumed that, like the last 50 or so, this would be regarding the fact that the missing Flight 370 had still not been located. It seems that CNN can be quite liberal with the phrase “breaking news.”

Instead, it was something much different. In Overland Park, Kansas, a city adjacent to where I grew up, where I had attended college, where I had met my wife, a man had opened fire outside of a Jewish community center killing a grandfather and his grandson, then killing a woman who was visiting her mother at a nearby assisted-living facility. The suspect was apprehended at a nearby school where, once arrested, the man would sit in the back of the patrol car shouting “Heil Hitler!”

The suspect is known to have founded the Carolina Knights of the Ku Klux Klan and the White Patriot Party. This man was so filled with hate for another group of people that he saw nothing wrong with aiming and firing indiscriminately (the grandfather and grandson were Methodist, only at the Jewish center for a talent show audition). For years, he had devoted time to hating, even being discharged from the army for distributing racist propaganda.

This post is not about gun control or the lack thereof. There is no government regulation that could have prevented this tragedy from happening. This happened because of one terrible human attribute: hate. The end results of this man’s years of hate are shattered families and a devastated community.

It would be nice to think while reading this that this was an ideology that is dying off. My generation, after all, is supposed to be the generation of “post-racial” thought. We should be far removed from this 73-year-old and his unfounded animosity. I would like to think that, but in an imperfect world there will always be hate. And this world is certainly imperfect.

There is a person I have spoken with every day for the past few months. He is very quick to label certain ethnic groups as “trashy” or “not classy.” When I ask him about this, the response is always the same shrug of the shoulders. Not only does he not see this as a negative outlook, he says that these thoughts are not racial but, “just the truth.”

While he is a far cry from the man who headed to a Jewish community center the day before Passover with gun in hand, this is an example of the thoughts that can lead to drastic actions. Thoughts like this may seem harmless to some people, but all it does is continue to foster the hate that has destroyed so many lives in the past.

And it is not just race either. Raised in a post-911 world, there are many who see all Muslims as violent terrorists. There is hate for people with differing opinions, Democrats and Republicans blindly hating the other group, calling them all idiots or, ironically, “hate-mongers.” There is volatility to the internet with cyber-bullying leading to multiple teen suicides. Hate appears to be everywhere we go.

I wish I could say that I was immune from this, but I have felt hatred as well. Growing up in eastern Kansas, I was witness to the group called The Westboro Baptist Church. Led by Fred Phelps, this group of individuals spends every waking hour planning protests against views that they deem sinful. Their website is a monument to groups that they say God hates, from the entire country of Mexico to the Catholic Church. They even wrote a post thanking God for “sending the shooter to the Jews.” Their main target of disdain had been the homosexual community.

For years, this was the living vision of hate for me. They would be seen with their signs declaring God’s hate for various groups. When their leader Fred Phelps died last month, there was a part of me that said “good riddance.” This man had been hate incarnate for years and now he was gone.

Then I thought about it. I was celebrating the death of a human being. I was behaving just as he would have and it made me feel a bit sick. For years, I had railed against this church and, in the end, I was thinking in a very similar way. I had involuntarily begun to hate.

But how could this be stopped? If people were to stop labeling groups, it would help. We could work towards a better understanding of each other and appreciation of the differences that each group brings to the table. Unfortunately, though, I do not think there is a solution. I wish that I could see a time in the future where people’s hate would disappear or at the very least not lead to death. I would love to view the world through rose-colored glasses and think everything is going to be okay, we can all learn to peacefully coexist, and the world will one day be a harmonious place.

The truth is humans are imperfect. Until that stops, hate will continue. There will be more senseless killing and people will be destroyed physically and emotionally. Maybe I am pessimistic, but it seems that this is the sad truth.

The truth can really suck sometimes.

Penny-farthings And Pony Rides

Ordinary bicycle, Skoda Museum, Mlada Boleslav, Czech Republic, photo by: Agnieszka Kwiecień Nova, date: 2003, permission: GFDL

It was early afternoon when I drove home. Having just finished a meal of egg casserole and fruit with friends, I sat in the car contemplating whether eating eggs at noon constitutes a brunch or whether I had just participated in a very confusing lunch. My wife, sister, and I were about halfway home when I noticed something outside of my window.

In the bike lane was a biker. He was clad in the usual spandex biker attire, his helmet strap tightly fastened around his jaw and dark sunglasses protecting his eyes from the brightness of the midday sun. If you were to just look at the man in the bike lane, nothing would strike you as unusual. It would only be if glancing at his bicycle that you would find something off kilter.

This man was peddling away as if he were just another biker. The only difference was this man was on an old-timey bike, the kind where the front wheel is taller than a small sedan. This man, seeing that the weather outside was fantastic, had decided to dust off his Penny-farthing like it was 1885 and gone for a nice ride along a busy city street.

Having never seen a person ride a bike like this, I was quite taken aback. I excitedly pointed out my window, shouting “Old-timey bike! Old-timey bike!” Then we continued on our way.

At the next stop light, the car had grown very quiet. Suddenly, my sister broke the silence.

“Why are there pony rides at the Hardee’s?”

To the right of the car, there was a red and white tent set up outside of the fast food restaurant. Inside the tent were several horses all walking in a circle. The cars continued through the drive through as if this were an everyday occurrence. After all, who would not expect to see a tent full of farm animals while getting an X-tra Bacon Thickburger?

Between the bike and pony rides, I began to get a strange feeling. It seemed that somehow on our ride home, we had driven into a dimension where we live in a carnival. I expected to see Ferris wheels and a cotton candy booth at the next turn. I glanced at the cars around us, wondering if they were filled with clowns and exactly how many clowns would fit into the blue Honda Civic to my left.

That’s when I remember that I had not had a single glass of water today. My liquid intake had consisted of coffee and juice, but no water. Maybe I was severely dehydrated and these were just hallucinations. Worse, I was so dehydrated that somehow I had sucked my sister and wife into these hallucinations with me. It was a bizarre Inception type of dehydration where people were able to travel into my thoughts.

When we got home, I drank a cup of water. I still do not know if the bike and the pony rides were real. I also do not know if any of the cars near me were filled with clowns. In all of this, though, I did decide on one thing.

If it happens after noon, it is lunch, not brunch. Also, I should probably have some water regardless of the meal’s title.

Take Your Time. I Get Paid Hourly.

By Nissy-KITAQ (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons


Dear Old Navy employee,

Greetings and a heartfelt salutations to you. You may remember me from a bit earlier today as I stood out quite a bit. While everyone else visiting the Old Navy today was interested in trying on armfuls of brightly colored dresses, I was the gentleman who wanted to try on a single pair of sensible dark blue slacks.

I want to start by saying I do not have any qualms about the service that I received while visiting your dressing room. You did an excellent job. For instance, I thought it was an example of great customer service the way you knocked on the door of the dressing room before opening it and letting me in. You were very courteous and made sure that, after my session of trying on unfamiliar pants, that those pants were what I was looking for. Then, when they were not, the way you politely took them from me was masterful.

No, the reason I am writing you has nothing to do with your work ethic itself. It has more to do with an article of clothing you were wearing. Now, I know the Old Navy is a casual work environment, so I was not expecting you to wear a pantsuit or some sort of cocktail dress. The fact that you were wearing a t-shirt with a humorous slogan on the front was very fitting to your work situation. It has more to do with the slogan on the shirt itself.

Take your time. I get paid hourly.

I do want to offer up a hardy kudos to you for choosing a very honest shirt. This was not one of those humorous t-shirts that make me think you are attempting to be ironic with your shirt choice. You are, in fact, paid hourly. Your shirt was simply expressing the situation you find yourself currently in.

However, it seems to me that at a job, this would probably not be the best clothing option. Now, I am no expert on what is and is not the finest idea in the workplace, but I would guess that this message is probably not exactly what you would like to convey to your boss. Everyone wants their boss to think they are working very hard, so a shirt that seems to say, “The longer you take, the more money I get,” does not help you further your career at the Old Navy.

It would be different, I suppose, if this was a product your store was selling. In that scenario, you are just representing the company. Then your bosses would see you wearing that and instead of seeing a money-hungry slacker, they would see an employee exemplifying the attitude of the company by showcasing some of the sassier wear that is available to customers.

After a search on your website, though, I found out this was not an Old Navy shirt at all. That means that you had worn a foreign t-shirt into work and it happened to be a t-shirt that seems to imply that you are not too concerned with getting a great deal done.

Maybe I am thinking about this all wrong. After all, the shirt was saying that there was no rush for me to hurry. Perhaps it is actually excellent customer service, letting the consumer know that they do not need to rush as you will be getting paid the same amount either way. Looking at it that way, it seems to be a good choice, I suppose.

On the off-chance you think your bosses might not approve, though, I would recommend not wearing that t-shirt again. Instead, I have written a new slogan for you to have emblazoned on a shirt that might show your bosses just how hard you want to work.

Could you hurry? I get paid hourly and I would like to jam as much work as I can into the hour so that, at the end of the day, I can say that I really gave it my all for the company that signs my paychecks.

Sure, it may be wordy, but I think you will find the extra words were worth it when you get a well-deserved $0.50 per hour raise.

 

Cordially,

Nathan

Entry From A Dog’s Diary, April 11th

Dear diary,

So this is how it ends.

I have been sitting here in the dark for what seems to be hours. I, of course, have no idea how long it has actually been since it can be very difficult to read a clock in the dark. Not that it would matter seeing as how none of the clocks in this house are at dog level anyway.

This evening, I was enjoying a nice time when the humans got up off of the couch, an action that is very unexpected. I don’t know what they could find more exciting than sitting on the couch on a Friday evening, but I have long since learned to not try to figure out what they’re thinking. Logic does not seem to be their strongest skill.

I watched as they put their shoes on, thinking maybe this was some sort of elaborate hoax. It seems they are always trying to trick me. Just the other day, the man took my bone and threw it. I jumped off the couch looking for the bone. I looked and looked. Then I found out that he never threw it at all. He just pretended to throw it and kept it for himself. Humans have the weirdest sense of humor.

Alas, this time it was not a joke.

“We’ll be back,” said the woman as they opened the door. I almost shouted, “Thanks for the invitation,” but it didn’t seem worth it. I knew exactly how this would end.

They walked out the door. This time, though, they did something unexpected. Right before the door closed, the woman’s hand reached inside and flipped the light switch off. There was not a single light on in the apartment. It was just blackness all around me.

“Wait!” I said. “You forgot about the lights! How am I supposed to see anything?” It was too late, though. I heard the key turn the lock and they were gone.

I sat there for a while trying to think what I could do. There aren’t a great number of activities to participate in when one can’t see. I thought about chewing my bone, but there was no possible way to find it. I didn’t even attempt to get to my food dish. That would just end with me slamming head first into the coffee table. I spent a good amount of time licking myself, but without the option of a water break, my mouth became very dry.

What other choice did I have? I laid here. I just laid and waited. With nothing else to do, I silently thought through what I will say to them when they get back.

“Wow, thanks for coming back, guys. I hope you had a good time. Say, did there happen to be any lights where you were at? There were some here too. Then only thing was that NONE OF THE WERE ON! NOT ONE! How would you feel if I started turning lights off on you ?! PROBABLY NOT VERY GOOD, I WOULD BET! I guess it’s okay, though. I had been REALLY needing to catch on my motionless sitting. It’s not like I got enough of that WHEN I WAS LOCKED IN MY PEN FOR NINE HOURS while you were off ‘working!’ Thanks for the doing me that HUGE favor! It’s nice to know that you guys are always looking out for me! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go eat some dry food, assuming you actually remembered to fill my dish up, while you put away your leftovers in the fridge.”

In the end, I came up with a better plan. I slowly crawled off of the couch, carefully avoiding the coffee table. I gingerly walked to the middle of the floor.

Then I pooped. It was a big one too.

When they get home, I hope they’ll recognize that I let them off easy this time.

 

Until tomorrow,

Charlie

No, Golf On The Radio Is Not More Interesting Than It Sounds

I am an unapologetic sports fan.

There is just something about watching a good game that is very exciting. I enjoy the strategic mind games of baseball, the give and take of basketball, the pure brute might and ensuing concussions of football, and the non-stop action of hockey. When the Olympics come around, I will take in a good track and field event or one of the hundreds of different types of races.

As an unapologetic sports fan, though, there are certainly sports that do not earn my seal of approval. For instance, every four years, the International Olympic Committee insists I watch rhythmic gymnastics. For those who have never seen rhythmic gymnastics, let me explain it in the simplest terms I can: instead of doing amazing acrobatic feats, gymnasts do moderately impressive acrobatic feats while dancing with props. Last time I checked, ribbon dancing was not an athletic competition. Are the gymnasts impressive during this event? Sure, I suppose. That does not mean I want to watch a bunch of dancing, though.

I also refuse to give a pass to NASCAR, or as it should be called, competitive circle driving. I cannot watch soccer and I will never in a million years understand why anyone enjoys volleyball. The biggest sport that I will never fully understand, though, is golf.

Golf in itself is a good game. Going out on the links for a nice round would be a very pleasant way to spend the afternoon. This, however, does not mean that I would like to watch it on television. If I had a list of things I would like to watch on television, golf would be above “live birth,” but below “How It’s Made: Sporks.” Having watched golf on TV, I thought it could not get more boring.

I was wrong.

While at work, I often listen to the radio on my phone using something called an “app.” This “app” pulls up hundreds of radio stations from around the world. An even more interesting feature is it will give me an alert when something interesting or of note is being broadcast.

I was busy typing away on my keyboard when I noticed the little light on my phone blinking to alert me to some sort of news. My app had decided to let me know that, if I was interested, The Masters were being broadcast on the radio right that second.

This was a confusing concept for me. I understand how most sports are broadcast on the radio. Most sports, though, have action to describe. Golf does not. I wondered what the radio announcers talk about. Do they describe the swing in detail, maybe comparing the swings to lumberjacks or windmills or some other sort of moving object? Perhaps they have nothing to talk about and just rehash how great Caddyshack was and how not great Caddyshack 2 was. There was only one way to find out.

“That was not the shot he was hoping for,” said the first announcer.

“No, getting that close to the green, you really hope you can be on it,” replied the second announcer.

“Now he will be working from off of the green,” the first announcer said. The two spoke for another thirty seconds about the location of the ball which, as it turns out, was not on the green, but pretty close. Having run out of ways to say that the ball was close to the green, the announcers moved on to topic number two.

“So, what can you tell me about this green?”

“Well,” Announcer Number 2 and golf course expert said, “this green is not as flat as it looks. In fact, it is quite a bit hillier. That is why you see some of these putts miss. When you get to this level of golf, the putts are much harder. The ball can hit one of those hills and just go a different direction. It looks like the green is fast today, though. He will have to take into account the speed and the hills when lining up a putt.”

The announcer then began to describe the grass because the only thing less exciting than golf on the radio is a description of bentgrass. That is when I gave up on radio golf. I had lasted all of three minutes and that was enough for my entire lifetime. There is nothing that will ever get me to try this again. I just do not have the time in my life to listen to that.

Well, unless the announcers do decide to skip the real golf for some Caddyshack chat. I think I could probably free up a bit of time in that scenario.

Lost In TV Land

Most people gaze neither into the past nor the future; they explore neither truth nor lies. They gaze at their television. – Radiohead

Yeah, that can wait until later. I’m going to watch TV. – Nathan on just about any given day of the week

 

Ever since I was a child, I have been obsessed with TV. I remember getting up early on Saturdays to watch the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles attack various enemies with weapons that no aquatic freshwater reptiles should have access to. My first exposure to opera was from Bugs Bunny, a fact that would cause great confusion while listening to Ride of the Valkyries many years later in a college fine arts class. I would soak in every second of DuckTales until my brain could no longer differentiate reality from animated ducks getting into all sorts of mischief and/or shenanigans.

If one of these shows was not on, it did not matter. I would watch whatever was on. I would watch it until my father would come and politely tell me it was now time to watch sports and that meant he needed the remote.

This theme carried on throughout my teen years, through college, and up until very recently. I have watched every episode of Scrubs. Yes, I am even including the ninth season when Zach Braff had departed. I jammed 58 episodes of Arrested Development, 201 episodes of The Office, and unknown episodes of hundreds of other shows into my brain.

Then abruptly, I kind of stopped.

I have no idea what happened. In the midst of runs of some of my favorite shows, I just suddenly stopped caring. Yes, I have continued to watch TV, but for some reason my number of shows that I follow has dwindled down to near nothingness. For the most part, this has been a good thing, I suppose. I have had time for all sorts of activities. At other times, though, it can be a bit of a burden.

Last year, my wife began watching a show called The Following. The show follows a guy who is trying to catch a serial killer that has a following, hence the title. She has become obsessed with this show, anxiously awaiting the next murder-filled blood fest every week.

For the better part of a year, she has been trying to get me to watch this show. It has become like a Public Service Announcement about peer pressure in my home, the only difference being that my wife is pushing television programs, not drugs. If I sat down on the couch with nothing to do, it was as if a weird instinct kicked in. Before I knew it, she would be next to me.

“You know what you should watch?” she would say.

I knew the answer, but I would ask anyway. “What?”

“The Following! You should watch The Following! You would like it. I think you would really enjoy it. Watch The Following! Do it! Watch The Following!” This would proceed for the next 45 minutes or so until she would get bored and move on to the next thing.

Despite her gentle suggestion, I had not watched a single episode headed into this season. This would not be a problem except for one thing: my wife has not forgotten that this show exists.

For the past few weeks, any time TV is brought up, I can be sure the next thing she says will be, “Oh, I really want to catch up on The Following. Let’s watch that.”

The problem with this is I have no interest in watching. It has nothing to do with the show itself. I am sure it is a fine show. If you ignore Quicksilver, The Air I Breathe, Loverboy, Trapped, Death Sentence, The Air Up There, Hollow Man, White Water Summer, or a handful of others, Kevin Bacon has only been in great projects. My hesitancy has to do more with my lack of knowledge in the particular area. Kevin Bacon has spent an entire year hunting a serial killer and I have no knowledge of any of it.

Today I arrived home to find my wife in the midst of an episode. I sat down with her. The following is a conversation that happened while watching:

“Who is that?”

“That’s the girl that killed her mom.”

“Why?”

“Because she lived out in the middle of nowhere and was never able to leave, so she always resented her mother for that.”

“And now those people are going to kill her?”

“Yeah.”

“Why doesn’t that serial killer guy go save her? He seems to really like her.”

“You know, you have ruined this part of the show for me.”

“Yes, I know.”

Perhaps someday I will catch up and be able to enjoy an hour of tension filled serial killer hunting with my wife. For some reason, though, I doubt it. If I have not started watching it yet, it will probably never happen. I guess I am destined to spend the rest of my life lost whenever I walk into a room where my wife is watching TV. We will begin to drift apart, her to a world filled with fictional serial killers, me into a world without. Our relationship will greatly suffer and we all know who will be to blame.

Thanks a lot for ruining my relationship, Kevin Bacon.

Rest In Piece, Archie Andrews

Photo: Archie Comics

It is a story we have all heard before. The All-American boy meets a girl and they quickly develop feelings for each other. I mean, she is perfect for him. She is athletic and very fashionable with a nose for entrepreneurial opportunities. It was love at first sight.

Then the same boy meets that girl’s best friend and THEY quickly develop feelings for each other. She is perfect for him. By that, I mean she is very rich. I mean, like, incredibly rich. Sure, she may be spoiled, vain, a compulsive shopper, snobbish, and incredibly vindictive, but did I mention she is very rich?

That is the life of one Archie Andrews. There is no doubt that being caught in a vicious love triangle for 73 years would have a great deal of undo stress on a person’s life, so I guess it should be of no surprise to hear what Archie Comics has in store for a future issue.

Archie Andrews, the All-American boy, is going to die.

In the New York Post today, Archie CEO Jon Goldwater broke the terrible news.

“Archie dies as he lived — heroically,” said Goldwater “He dies saving the life of a friend and does it in his usual selfless way. Archie has always been a representation of us — the best of us. Our strengths and our faults.”

Now wait just a second. We are expected to believe that Archie Andrews, the man who has strung along two girls for decades, is going to die heroically saving a friend and not at the hands of a scorned lover? Call me crazy, but that does not seem to add up. Having watched dozens of episodes of “Dateline,” there is something fishy afoot. In the words of “Dateline” correspondent Dennis Murphy, “But those EMT’s… didn’t understand one crucial observation they made at the home that night, that thing that caused them to tell the arriving police officer: There’s something that doesn’t look right here.”

But who would have done this to the All-American hero? Was it Veronica, the fiery heiress who was accustomed to getting her own way? Or perhaps it was Betty, the girl next door who wished to no longer be next door.

The way I figure it, it must have gone down like this:

As always, the gang was hanging out at the local diner. They had just finished a hard day at Riverdale High School. As usual, Archie’s good friend Jughead had ordered 20 or so hamburgers. That is when the killer’s plan was put into motion.

Jughead was scarfing down burger after burger when he began to choke. It seems that he was not taking the necessary time to properly chew his food, a fact that surprised no one. Archie sprang to action, jumping behind Jughead to perform the Heimlich maneuver. As Goldwater said, Archie did save his friend that day. This, however, was not what cost him his own life.

Famished from the work of saving his gluttonous friend, Archie orders himself a burger. He would have taken one of the other burgers from Jughead’s plate, however immediately after being saved, Jughead went right back to eating. That is, after all, how Jughead would operate.

A burger was brought out to Archie, but something did not seem right. It seemed that this burger had a very special ingredient. But what would it be? The killer would not be foolish enough to use a regular poison. No, as it turns out, Archie is deathly allergic to one thing: soy. Despite Archie very clearly requesting no pepper jack cheese as he was very aware that the pepper jack cheese in this establishment contained soy, someone had added extra pepper jack cheese. His throat began to close up and soon Archie was unable to breathe.

People around the diner began to rush about, frantically. Dimwitted Moose Mason attempted to help by beating on Archie’s back before Midge Klump was able to get him to stop, explaining that this was a very stupid thing to do. Kevin Keller and Nancy Woods panicked, rushing about in hopes of finding a way to save Archie. Jughead finished the rest of Archie’s burger.

Remembering that Archie’s backpack always contained an EpiPen for such soy related situations, Chuck Clayton reached in. He pulled the cap off and jammed the needle into Archie’s outer thigh, only to find that someone had emptied the epinephrine. With nothing left to do, Chuck called out for someone to dial 9-1-1 and futilely attempted CPR.

Now, though, the million dollar question is, unlike our hero, still alive. Who would have done this? Veronica is too self-involved to know anything about Archie’s allergens. Betty is just too nice. Jughead is far too busy eating.

As it turns out, the answer was right there all along. Yes, it appears that Jon Goldwater, CEO of Archie Comics, killed the All-American hero in an effort to gain some sort of publicity.

I guess that worked out for him. Well played, Goldwater. Well played.

How to Become the Art Snob You Have Always Dreamed of Being

badlandsbadley:

I was perusing my previous posts and came across this one. In the interest of continuing to educate the unwashed masses, I would like to bring this up. This is for all of those who do not want to be an uncultured swine.

Originally posted on The Life and Times of Nathan Badley...:

Crocker Art Museum

Crocker Art Museum (Photo credit: Tommy Huynh)

It’s a dilemma as old as time.

You have a date that you want to impress. You want that date to think you are a smart, well-educated, person with a vast cultural appetite. So what do you do on a date? Your usual evening of eating hot wings and watching procedural crime shows is not going to cut it. You need a night of culture, one that will impress your would-be mate enough to at least get that second date.

You have it planned out perfectly. A nice dinner followed by a dessert at a local gelato stand, then off to a local art gallery.

There is just one problem: art galleries are scary! There are all those paintings of demons and people with neatly groomed goatees. People talk about a twisted pile of metal like it is art when it is, in fact, a twisted pile of metal…

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