As most of my regular readers know (Hi, Mom!), I'm an Art Guy.  This means I spend a bit of my time reading artsy hippie design magazines like Print, Communication Arts, Step Inside Graphic Design and Good Housekeeping. It's important for me to stay on top of design trends, the newest paper stocks and the ever-important list of up-and-coming design stars, so that when I go to design conferences, I can blend in with the rest of the total whack jobs that permeate graphic design like an infestation of head lice in a trailer park. 

When I get a new issue of any one of these magazines, I'm always excited, because I know that when my coffee kicks in, I'll have a little something to read whilst perched upon the throne.  Today was no exception.

Turns out, there is a pair of Swiss designers whose thoughtful design process demands the coverage and respect of Print, one of the biggest design magazines on the planet.  Hard working designers the world over read this magazine to gather inspiration from the sharpest of the cutting edge. Any designer lucky enough to garner this sort of prestigious coverage must be an industry leader.

In the June 2009 edition, the article on "Stockholm's newest constallation of talented designers," profiled Andreas Bozajic and Fredrika Jacobsson, whose work is based upon the question "What is and what might graphic design be?"  What an excellent question to ask. How might a serious designer go about discovering the answer?

Well Fredrika and Anderas sought answers by "Walk(ing) across Tokyo in vegetable costumes."



I know. It's simply stunning in its rich, eloquent exploration of art and the deeper relevance of graphic design. Nothing on earth says "take graphic designers seriously" like a grown man tromping around Japan dressed as an eggplant.

Some designers bemoan how the corporate world doesn't give credence to our craft, and how we're viewed as mildly touched nutty buddies with a loose grip on reality and thus, not truly a purposeful part of any business plan.  But I think Fredrika and Anderas have shown the world that, yes indeed, we are a force to be reckoned with.

In much the same way one might reckon with an ecapee from the mental institution.

You're supposed to make sure you try to get along with everybody.  Supposed to.  But I'll be the first to admit I'm not all that great about extending the kind of merry sunshine I'm called to give to strangers.  Mostly, it's when I'm in traffic, in line at the grocery store or watching lizard face Nancy Pelosi tell the country all about her brilliant plans.

I thought I'd never be the kind of guy who'd punch a stranger in the head, but that pretty much changed today, while I was looking through stock photos.



My first reaction to this photo was one of sorrow.  Yes, sorrow that I couldn't find the sanctimonious blowhard hippie that thought to shoot this photo and stomp a mud hole in his bitch ass, along with the model, who, manages to somehow make me actually  hear her yappy, screechy, nails-on-a-chalkboard voice from the silent medium in which she is trapped.

I apologize to my gentler readers, who might be taken aback by this sudden outburst.  I promise to use my next blog for the good of the people, and not to vent about people I want to punch.

I noticed in pretty much every restroom, the stall dividers are secured to the wall by one-way screws.  Once those suckers are in, you won't be getting them out lest you carry 'round a Dremel with a cutting bit on your person. 

Since this bolting method is the standard, I have to assume there's been an incredible epidemic of brazen bathroom stall divider thefts plaguing the nation's potties. It must have been a part of a vast criminal enterprise, wherein heavyset men, with gold chains and chest hair curling out the top of their black t-shirts, swiftly make their way into the men's room with screwdrivers, and depart with the incredibly valuable dividers, which are then sold on the black market as giant flyswatters. Perhaps they're melted down and transformed into "bling."

Woe to the poor guy making food babies when Vito and Guido charge in to do their dirty work. The toilet paper is usually bolted to the stall wall, so you can imagine the intense personal crisis that would befall such a victim. Do you shout for help? Maybe you decide to grit your teeth and tough out the itchy chute for the rest of the day. You may even conclude you must sacrifice your socks for the sake of personal hygiene. It's a scenario no one likes to think about.

So let's raise a glass to the forward-thinking building engineers that thought to save us from the iron hand of organized restroom fixture theft!

Michael Phelps has a new ally in his war on sobriety. It seems the powerful intellectual think tank, Safer Alternatives For Enjoyable Recreations, has boldly stepped forward to petition swimming's national governing body to reinstate the swimmer after photos of Phelps sucking the sweet, sweet nectar of the mighty mellow Mary surfaced on the internets.

Observers note that an organization dedicated to the practice of hitting bowl after bowl of kind bud carries just the kind of weight Phelps needs in order to get his suspension rescinded.

"This may very well be the catalyst the world requires to change its mind about marijuana," said news anchor Dan Rather. "Clearly, a powerful message from such a well-respected organization can't simply be dismissed."

SAFER spokesman Connor "Doober" Doublinsky spoke to throngs of breathless reporters from the briefing room at the expansive SAFER World Headquarters Complex.

"We saw the photos and stuff, and, we're like, 'dude!'" remarked Doublinsky, "So now, we're all bummed for him and, so, we're gonna call up our buds and say, like, 'dude!' and they'll be like 'duuuuuuude.' So, like, not cool."

As the public holds its breath, awaiting the ramifications of this world-altering development in the story of the century, SAFER vows to never rest in its crusade.

"We'll never rest, dude," said Doublinsky. "Well, unless we run out of Doritos before the pizza guy shows up."

Number 1:
The world is still screwy. You can find examples to support this position each and every day. Today's piece of sunshiny evidence was foisted upon me by Yahoo news, who reported on a break-in at a nookie doll shop. That's right. A shop chock full of "blow up dolls named 'Jungle Jane.'" The article reads like any pervert-gone-over-the-edge story, so I shan't bore you with the details of the three-doll incident, except to say that, the actual quote given by the owner of the store read:

"It's totally bizarre. It's a real concern that someone like that is out on the street."

Of course, the guy who owns the shop full of Swedish Shur-Grip Suck Machines and latex blow-up pinyanya dolls is concerned for society. Because the patronage he serves who buys inflatable sex dolls one at a time to take home to his basement apartment is perfectly normal and perfectly healthy. But break in and steal Jungle Jane and now you're a pervert.

Number 2:
My buddy Jim pointed out something for me today about our new president-elect that I found spot on. Obama himself is saying all sorts of things about a bleak economy and using words like "crisis."

Where's all this hope he promised during the election? I don't want to hear him say anything even remotely like "crisis," dammit. I want to hear about hope. And sunshine and rainbows and cuddly bunnies frolicking in meadows of organically-grown flowers. The guy isn't even in office yet, and he seems to be an even bigger downer than the last guy.

Number 3:
When you see a really attractive girl wearing a logo that you designed, it makes the world better.

Number 4:
If your wife ever says to you, "You're not ever gonna go through a mid-life crisis and cheat on me, are you?" The correct answer to that question is "No I am not, my sweet love." Not "I'm not planning on it..."

Death is almost never ever funny. Usually, when someone dies, there's not so much as a chuckle to be found. Even if the world's very best comedians were at the scene of a deathbed, finding a little something witty to say amongst the long tone of the heart rate monitor would be pretty much impossible.

That's why the circumstances surrounding someone's death have to lend themselves to whimsy, in order for comedy to follow.

Such is the case in Adelade, Australia, where a man met what I would characterize as a horrible, painful and brutal death at the hands of his wife and a flammable liquid. This part doesn't seem all that funny from the get-go, until you find out that he was set ablaze by his bride, who was hoping to burn his wiener off. Turns out, Satish Narayan perished when what his wife intended to be a controlled burn became a conflagration. This occurred because Mrs. Narayan set the goodies ablaze while Mr. Narayan was deep in slumber, causing him to bolt upright at the sight of his dangler making like cherries flambe and thus, cover himself with lighter fluid. Yeouch.

Of course, Mr. Narayan allegedly had been using his equipment for off-site work, which is is something the lady of the house typically frowns on. I suppose he was unaware that his wife would frown upon it enough to flame broil the whopper, so to speak, otherwise he might have made a habit of sleeping on his stomach. Or in Guam.

My point is that even now, death is almost never funny. But thanks to Mrs. Narayan's bungled plan to cook up some sausage, sometimes it can be good for an involuntary giggle.

I am, right at this moment, sitting in front of my Mac, guitar pick dangling from my lips, trying to come up with funny things to sing. This isn't an unusual activity for me. I've been doing it since around 2003, when my "band" got some airtime on a local radio station to sing songs about tapeworms and dating a dead girl. We had concerts, had fans, and I even signed a breast once with a Sharpie. Sweet!

But now I've been assigned the task of trying to be the "entertainment" for my office's Not-Really-The-Holidays-Anymore-Holiday-Party at the end of January. This in and of itself wouldn't fill me with angst, excepting the fact that I've been gently instructed to "keep it PG-13."

This mandate came about because my "band" was the entertainment for last year's similar It's-Cheaper-To-Book-Banquet-Rooms-After-New-Year's Party, and it went, as far as I could tell, without incident.

Then, later I got word that someone was offended by the song we sing about disemboweling a midget, or maybe the one where we go bazooka bunny hunting, or maybe it was the one titled "Stinky Finger." But the powers that be asked us back anyway. To sing for everybody. So I'm trying to come up with new material that'll make them wet their shorts, snarf drinks out their nostrils and maybe even send my OH-so-hot wife into a fit of lusty desire for me.

But I just wrote a line about men wearing women's underwear that I think is really funny, and I know this is just the sort of thing that might make the Delicate Flowers of the office fill out their Offended Sensibilities Form we got from HR. So what the hell am I supposed to do? Kowtow to the easily offended and write jokes about toilet seats not being raised/lowered and airline food?

I think the important questions to ask here are:

1) Do I sacrifice my writing style for the sake of a few?

2) Do I turn to hack jokes to make for a sure-fire blah but safe evening?

3) Do any of the people who get pissy when I sing have the power to get me fired?

The answer to all three, thankfully, is no.

So brace yourself, office denizens. You're about to hear about men in panties.

Dear Mr. Slow Driver in the Left Lane,



Please please please stop it. I know you like the left lane. I may even go so far as to say you must love it, since that's the lane you put your car in, despite the fact that you drive five miles per hour under the speed limit. That long line of other cars behind you can see you're in love, and that your love has deafened you to the sounds of horns, and blinded you to single-finger hand gestures. In case your swooning passions have kept you from realizing this, that lane is... not for you. It's just not. No matter what sweet moments you may have shared together, no matter how many lurid promises you've made to the left lane to keep it for you and only for you, no matter how the gentle vibrations of its smooth asphalt ride up your seat and seductively tingle your loins, you just can't be together anymore.

The right lane is for you. Sure, she's less alluring and well-worn from her many patrons, and yes, you will have to share her with the Buick LaSabres and the 1983 custom vans of the world. But that is who you were meant for. The left lane needs someone who can read their speedometer, and see that five-under is just not giving her what she needs. She needs someone who can move at posted speeds and occasionally even (gasp) faster.

It's for the best that you break it off now. Continuing down the road of forbidden love can only lead to disaster.

You'll always have the memories.

Isn't it wonderful? I mean, absolutely wonderful?

Yes, there's a pregnant man in the world! Or at least there was a pregnant man.

You see, he's already squirted out the tiny person he brewed in his uterus! So he's not pregnant anymore! It's so wonder...

What was that you asked? What's a man doing with a uterus?

Well, you see the man is in possession of the kind of inner workings you might find on a



as opposed to a



because he used to, well... you know... be a woman.

But he got some pills from a doctor, so now he's got a beard. Sure, it's a wispy, thin, prepubescent-looking, nanny goat beard, but what kind of woman can boast a beard?

I mean besides Barbra Striesand?



Plus, he got his schmebes cut right the heck off so he didn't have to wear a bra in the locker room. Awkward! Maybe he got a surgeon to install him a package of sorts up front, and even though it disturbs me just a bit too much to research what it got made out of, I'm sure it's a good 'un.

So he's all brawny, burly he-man now. Yessiree one big hunka hunka masculine he-beef. Except for his ovaries.

And his vagina.

Now I know some of you out there might be thinking, "But Matty! Doesn't that just sound like a woman who's been surgically and chemically disfigured so as to appear like a man, except she just looks like a bearded lady?"

Well I'm ashamed of you for thinking such things! And doubting that this person with the ovaries, uterus, and vagina, who just had a baby, is anything less than the manliest man manhood has ever manned.

So like I said earlier, this is wonderful news! A pregnant man! He's not just another pregnant woman with serious identity issues and a poor grasp of definitions!

Oprah said so.

Of the many, many things I read daily that erodes my confidence in the mental capacities of my fellow man, nothing shakes me to my core like this story.

It seems a high school science teacher, trusted with the science education of Big Sandy, Texas' precious, precious children, brought a venomous cottonmouth viper into class for the students to pet. Two students accepted the invite to give the snake some love, and were subsequently pumped full o' bitey juice. What a great learning experience!



Sure, you could imagine a bumbletard student staggering into class with a water moccasin after an all-night bender in the woods sniffing paint and sampling pills he found in the dumpster behind Walgreens, but this was the actual teacher. The actual teacher, as you might recall from your own days in science class, is expected to know something about science. Chapter one of my reptile biology book begins:

"When reaching down to pet an unfamiliar snake, remember that most of them don't like you, and do not wish to cuddle. Some, like cottonmouths, are so averse to physical affection, they'll bite you until you die."

I'll be happy to lend Big Sandy School District my book, and I'll suggest they pay special attention to the chapters on why you shouldn't try to french kiss black widows.

Thank heavens for Barack Obama. I was wondering when the Almighty would reach down from on high and, lo, bestow upon us the greatest blessing the entire universe has ever witnessed. Well, fret no more, for Obama the Magnificent, Obama the Merciful, Obama the Fresh-Scented Blossom of the Meadow of Righteousness is here!

And now, even though it's a good few weeks before the official election, impassioned disciples of Barack the Fragrant have proclaimed the Great Leader pretty much has it in the bag.



Since it's totally clear this will be the case, and also since it's clear the Great Benevolent Master of All wants to make sure to "spread the wealth around," it got me to thinking. Sure, taking money from people who earn it to give it to people who haven't earned it sounds like a perfectly wonderful idea, but what if the Wise and Powerful Master extends this concept beyond the realm of moolah?

Say, for example, a goofy looking art type has a wife who's extraordinarily hot. As in, make your undershorts explode hot. Say there's another goofy looking guy with a wife whose shrill screeching voice and giant posterior makes him want to drive his Nissan Altima off a cliff. What would Enlightened Soverign do to level the playing field? After all, it isn't fair that this one goofy looking fellow has a hot wife, and another goofy looking fellow has a squealing angry hog. Clearly, it's time for the government to step in and make it all better.

But how?

Using the blueprint of Obama, Sublime Champion of the Average Joe, the following would occur:

1) The guy with the hot wife is ordered to stock his home with a bevy of calorie-laden snack cakes and ice cream, and is issued a mandate that his currently hot wife begin a 6-meal a day regiment exclusively from the couch, where she is required to stay 23 hours a day excepting potty breaks.

2) Issue the fat wife the full array of plastic surgery to enhance her various unsightly features, and a pair of vicious, man-eating rottweilers to be chained to the front of the refrigerator.

Continue the plastic surgery/rottweiler and Twinkie procedures until both women have achieved a similar level of aesthetic mediocrity. This will be determined by agents from the new Wife Hotness Administration, made up completely of former TSA airport screeners.



All expenses would be paid by the guy with the hot wife, since, let's be honest, he got to poink a really hot woman for longer than he ever deserved.

If this all sounds like a stupid idea to you from the get go, then you're not cut out to be part of the Hope and Change that only can be brought to you by Obama, Light of the World and his soon-to-be Infallible Administration of Genius.

Because like my buddy Jimbo says, "When I think of hope, I think of the government."

Keeping perspective is a hard thing to do. Especially when you're deeply committed to something. I, myself run into this issue every Sunday during Bronco season, where I lose all perspective – repeatedly and loudly calling for one of Denver's defensive tackles to break the legs of the opposing team's quarterback (Phillip Rivers, this means you). This is not behavior I'd normally display in any other situation, because I am a rational human being.

But I understand that we can tend to go overboard if we allow the inner retard in all of us to take over.

Case in point, this little gem of a video came to my attention this morning, which made even my inner retard say, "Holy crap."



Sure, the cute little kids all dressed in matching garments with the glassy-eyed expressions and chirping devotional singing seems perfectly normal and perfectly healthy, as is the case every other time a group behaves in this way...



...but some itsy bitsy part of me suspects these fine folks might have gone ahead and had a tall glass of Krazy-Aid. Now I'm not one to say that if you like your candidate for president, even if you like one that's unqualified to run so much as a Chuck E. Cheese franchise, that you shouldn't proclaim it to the world. You should feel free.

However, when you find yourself programming little children to sing praise and worship music to the Great Leader at the behest of the head-thrashing, t-rex-armed, crazy tiny lady, maybe it's time to tap the brakes.

Because you seem to have aimed the car for Kim Jong Ill Cliff.

Before I begin, yes, I'm aware that I'm a horrible, awful person. No one needs to remind me that I'm a heartless bastard on the order of that mall Santa on "A Christmas Story."



I don't know why I am, I just am. So when I post this article about the man who shot his wife's cat in a domestic dispute, I understand that I'm a horrible person for thinking that the cat... probably had it coming.

Don't get me wrong, the parts about the gunplay in a concrete-floored basement, the pot of herb left out for the cops to find, and the oh-so-well-thought-out disposal of Fluffy's carcass in a pond indicates that Mr. Vickers wasn't exactly the model of sound judgment, but hear me out.

Women seem to love cats for reasons that are beyond me. They can look past the swirling vortexes of disgusting cat hair that follows a feline. Cats barfing hairballs on the carpet isn't so bad to them. They don't blink when cat ownership includes mandatory sanded display boxes of cat crap that always pretty much smell like... boxes of cat crap.

But, worst of all, women seem oblivious to the fact that each and every cat – even one you might have rescued from unscrupulous fur coat manufacturers running low on real mink – hates you. Oh yes, they do. Sure, your cat might feign that they can tolerate your presence from time to time, but they don't care about you like dogs might. When was the last time you heard about a cat rousing a sleeping family whose house was on fire? When was the last time you saw a blind person with a seeing-eye cat? Did a cat ever pull Timmy from the well?

A cat sitting on your lap to get petted doesn't do it because it loves you. It does it because someone's gotta stroke out all the ticks and fleas it picked up whilst out and about the neighborhood, killing baby bunnies and helpless robin chicks.

Even the Pet of the Week, facing an appointment with the Blue Needle should he not get adopted, can't help but show his disdain for those trying to save his life:



In light of this kind of evidence, you have to feel for poor Mr. Vickers. He's smoking bowl after bowl of kind bud, but even this isn't sufficient to keep his mellow below the Wyatt Earp threshold. Yes, a pot-smoker driven to violent crime. By a cat.

To quote Chris Rock, I don't condone what he did...



...but I understand.

I don't blog nearly as much as I used to, and that's mostly because I'm so stinking busy with work, both from my normal job, and from my other gig as a tackling dummy for a 6 and a 3-year-old.

But this morning, news broke which made me certain the end of humankind is right around the corner, and I had to write this blog. Maybe other people don't think it's all that big of a deal, and some others might yet still suggest that this sort of thing is tabloidesque chewing gum, and not a real news item.

But when you look closely at the incident which I am about to refer to, it's clear that humanity is now officially circling the drain.

What could this harbinger of doom possibly be, you ask?

It's the news that Mutt Lange has left Shania Twain.

Why is this a big deal? Well, let me be frank. With all due deference to big shot songwriter/producer Mr. Lange, whose work with Def Leppard is probably the finest musical composition rock has ever seen, the dude is to good looks what a steaming pile of rat puke is to fine dining.



This guy is the example of what might happen should Porky Pig and the Lion from the Wizard of Oz ever decide to breed. One might suspect he actually oinks.

And, yet, what has this guy with the swine snout and the unkempt homeless guy hair decided? Well, he's decided that this woman...



...is not hot enough for him.

Not. Hot. Enough.

Can you imagine being this guy?

Mutt: Gee, I'm really sorry, Shania, but when you make my breakfast, looking like this...



...or when I come home and find you twirling 'round the bed posts looking like this...



...or when you get ready to leave for work to make me another cool million dollars looking like this...



...it just doesn't do it for me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to send small children into a hysterical panic of fear just by walking down the street.

This is especially disturbing for me, because as I've chronicled for you fine readers before, my OH-so-hot wife is way the hell out of my league as well. So I have an especially acute understanding of how lucky goofy-looking creative types are when they score big with a hot girl. This isn't something an ugly dude can just take for granted, much less toss in the toilet, unless the universe is spiraling into armageddon. It's against the laws of nature.

So take note, world.

Mutt Lange is the first sign of the apocalypse.

You might want to drop by Home Depot on the way home from work tonight, to pick up some plans for that bunker you'll be needing to build.