Uh, NO, This Isn’t “What Don Draper Will Look Like At 80.”


 DON-DRAPER

Seriously?? A little more orange and you have John Boehner, right?

A Mister Tim O’Brien, not from Fort Lee, New Jersey, but president of the Society of Illustrators and the victim of a brief but supposedly clairvoyant snit-fit, says the “troubled” character of Don Draper actually went on to have a “wholesome, fulfilling life.”

Bwwaaahaaaahaaaa!

Sayeth, Timmeh: “I think Don went on to be near his children with his move back to NYC. He learned something out west; that he had people around him who loved him and I think the rest of his life was recognizing that.”

Sadly, no, Tim. Did you even watch the show??

THIS is what the “troubled” character of Don Draper will look like at 60; just forget 80.  This is what Don Draper went on to fulfill: The life of an alcoholic on the street.
Real Don Draper

The “troubled” character of Don Draper, known on the street as, “Madman.”

Sayeth, Terreh: “I think Don went on to be near his drinking bros back in the hobo parks of L.A. Yes, he did learn something out west; that he had people around him there who used him, even as he used them; I think the rest of his life was spent recognizing that, hating it, and them, and eventually drowning in his addictions to alcohol and tobacco, and dying alone under a Maytag refrigerator box at age 62.”

But you’re not off the hook just yet, Timmeh.  Let’s learn a bit about cirrhosis of the liver, the disease that comes on slowly over years of heavy alcohol use.  Early on, there are often no symptoms at all, outside of, you know, the usual cognitive impairment that goes hand in hand with being a drunk.

As the disease really gets going though, you become tired, weak, itchy;  you’ll probably experience swelling in your lower legs; maybe develop an unpleasant shade of yellow skin;  you’ll find yourself bruising easily.  You’ll look in the mirror one day, and discover spider-like blood vessels all over the skin of your nose.  Worse still, you’ll have fluid build up in your abdomen;  the fluid build up may end up producing spontaneous infection.  If you’re lucky, you might avoid bleeding from your dilated esophageal veins.  And the resulting hepatic encephalopathy results in increasing confusion and eventually, unconsciousness.

So yeah, it takes more than a few drinks per day, over a number of years, for cirrhosis to occur.  But hey, that was Don.  He could hang with the best worst of them, and he almost always did.

Then there was Don’s lung cancer.  He was diagnosed at 58, after a protracted hacking fit one morning.  This was right after he realized he was broke, and had no recourse to medical care.  When it rains…  But.  Ninety percent of heavy smokers like Don inevitably find themselves with lung cancer, the most common cause of cancer-related death in men and women world-wide;  it’s responsible for more than a million and a half deaths every year.

Finally, we haven’t even looked into Draper’s more or less constant casual sexual relationships with women, and what that meant to his increasingly stunted soul.  Suffice it to say, all physical poisons greatly retard the efforts of the spirit to exalt the mortal mind.  And then there’s that big bag ‘o mental poisons— fear, anger, envy, jealousy— suspicion, hate, intolerance— these likewise tremendously interfere with the spiritual progress of the evolving mortal soul.

So NO.  Don Draper did not suddenly decide to live a “wholesome, fulfilling life.” Like so many other disillusioned, poisoned souls, he drank himself to death.

May he rest in peace.

A Bridge Too Far Fat

Outside of those folks who think you’re nothin’ but an adorable pizza pie-eatin’ machine slash governator…

Because You Should See This.

But wait. Take a moment to grasp the scale of this image.

Young MultiMillionaire Arrested

Bieber ButtYou’re doing it wrong.

CALABASAS, CA — A callow Canadian pop musician residing in the United States on an O-1 visa was arrested in Miami Beach early Thursday morning for a spontaneous performance involving drag racing, driving under the influence of alcohol and other drugs, and resisting arrest— all under the auspices of an expired Georgia driver’s license.  Nineteen year old Justin Bieber, who lives in Calabasas, was behind the peddles of a rented chicken-yellow Lamborghini when he was stopped by Miami Police.

Miami denizens say Bieber, who was nearly in a “stupor” from a night of tossing some $75,000 in paper currency onto a nightclub floor, was feeling the need for speed.  And if you must know more than that about it, or are just looking for an excuse to take a long shower, go here.

•  •  •

Wanda TalmageA dazed and near comatose Wanda Talmage of Calabasas, California sits slumped against a stunning mirrored pillar in The Commons At Calabasas Mall.

The irony of that “chicken-yellow” Lamborghini was not lost on Wanda Talmage, also of Calabasas, California.  Until last week, Ms Talmage was blissfully unaware of Justin Bieber;  in fact she was so distraught that all she knew for sure was that nearly two dozen of her children were missing, and presumed dead.

Ms Talmage is currently under-employed in a fashionably hip baby chicken mill just off the Ventura Expressway (take the 405 to Ventura, and stay on that until you cross 27, then turn on Mulholland Drive) on the outskirts of trendy Calabasas, the trendy home of numerous trendy and extremely wealthy “Californians,” many of whom have nothing better to do than make wannabe trendy parodies of already trendy parodies.


Want “The Buzz” on Calabasas, eggs and all?  Remember, this is time you can’t get back.

In monster chicken sobs, Ms Talmage recounted how she had been tricked into jizzin’ dozens of eggs for a local man named “Ralphs,” and before she knew what was happening, her embryos were whisked away, subsequently to be sold to one of Justin Bieber’s gofers, Arturo Estrada-Steinmetz.

Estrada-Steinmetz* rolled up to Las Bieb’s, and, boyiz will be boyiz, nearly twenty of Ms Talmage’s unborn were soon scrambled against the neighbor’s entryway plaster, with about the same accuracy a short order chef slings hash.  The neighbor even has a recording of Bieber hurling the eggs.

Admittedly, Talmage’s case will be difficult to make, let alone prosecute.  Beiber’s neighbor, and Miami P.D., not so much.

Of course, not everyone would react as Bieber has to the sudden acquisition of 55 million zemolas fresh out of moist prepubescent pocketbooks from around the world, as well as their undying affection.  Nevertheless, he’s quickly fashioning one hell of a cross to bear.  Here’s hoping he lives long enough to get the job done.

Yes, a fictitious foil.

NATIONAL LAUGHINGSTOCK

NatLaughing StockThis month’s national laughingstock just happens to be an adult crybaby.

This sorry-assed excuse for a magazine found its way into my personal space yesterday.  Not only was it not funny, but it pissed me off in a way that I have seldom experienced since I stopped abusing certain vile foamy liquids and other assorted borderline ingestibles.

Many of you are too young in this adventure to remember National LAMPOON magazine, let alone one of their most memorable covers, from January 1973.  (See it here.)  But unlike that cover, this parody did not make me feel sorry for the Boner-as-victim of his own groveling attempts to destroy the American government and …  you know what, just forget it.

Forget all the antics of the Republican “party” for a moment.  Just answer this question:  Why is a sniveling crybaby the Speaker of the House of Representatives of the United States?

Is this really the best creature we can squeeze out of our gene pool?

Apparently it is, so then, go ahead, Repuglican’ts;  do your worst, you catatonic douchebags.

America has it coming.

LIP SERVICE


Yes, she thinks you think she’s speaking extemporaneously; not reading off a teleprompter.

Never hesitate to admit failure. Make no attempt to hide failure under deceptive smiles
and beaming optimism. It sounds well always to claim success, but the end results are appalling.
Such a technique leads directly to the creation of a world of
unreality and to the inevitable crash of ultimate disillusionment.

— The Urantia Book

STILLWATER, MN —  Resplendent in her foxy* deep blue silk jacket and cultured pearls, Michele Bachmann announced she will not seek another term in the United States Congress.

The Tea Party darling’s very long list of denials about why she is not leaving may become more credible, if and when the rumor we are accused of starting turns out to be true:  that she will be joining “Prancersize” inventor Joanna Rohrback‘s firm as its Presidential “Prancer” and Commander-in-Chief horsey:


Another unfortunate example of Camel Toe.  But all is not lost; watch with the volume off.

And speaking of prancing show horseys…  another angry beaver attacked a man on a roadside near Shestakovskoye lake, west of Minsk, Belarus, slicing through an artery in his leg which caused him to bleed to death.  It was the most recent in a string of angry beaver attacks in Belarus, where the beaver population has tripled in the past decade to around 80,000.  Belarusian beavers can weigh up to 65 pounds and stand three feet high.
Experts say the increase in attacks is largely due to springtime aggression in young beavers that are trying to make a name for themselves and stake out their own territory after being forced to leave home by their parents.  Some older beavers can also become disoriented in life and attack out of fear;  others become bitter and vengeful when faced with the inevitable crash of their ultimate disillusionment.
* Foxy  I.e., Fauxy, Republican shemale drag

MAC ATTACK Update

Mac Attack

 

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.  Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more.  It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.

— Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)

You know the feeling.  You’re working along, like there’s, you know, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, and like man has perfected all his machines.  Then the monitor suddenly goes black for fifteen or twenty seconds.  Followed by a tantalizing flash of what you were working on for two, maybe three seconds, then back to black again.  Only this time for long enough to make that ache come in your chest, the ache that means all your files are belong to them.

So, as a proud Merkin gun owner, you are left with only one choice:  shoot that sumbitch.

Or, if you’re not a gun owner, you call Apple support, and they walk you through a couple processes that inevitably lead to an appointment with some local “geniuses.”

That was twelve days ago, after three different and expensive parts were replaced, and yet the geniuses remain surprisingly ungenius-like.  And you know what that means.  They can’t fix that sumbitch.  And you know what that means.

Sabbatical!  Vacation!  Goodbye Blog!

Yes, so we’ll be gone awhile;  you can record your tears and consternation below until we get back.
Or, you can get away from your infernal computer machine and go strutting and fretting, and get some fresh air.  That’s where I’m going.

UPDATE:

Okay, that was an adventure in moving.  All our junk stuffed into a 24 foot moving van;  well, except for a half dozen big plants, which deserved special handling.  And I’m not even gonna tell you the story about the box springs that took four scheduled attempts and half a dozen phone calls to the City of Carlsbad to get them hauled away.

Big Mac

So the old iMac apparently crapped the bed.  A year and a half “old,” that is. (Sent back to the glue factory for a dose of refurbishment.)  But a new one took its place, thanks to the AppleCare$.  I’m cautiously optimistic this one may last longer.

And oh yeah; It occurs to me that artists have a lot of physical baggage;  especially if they don’t sell all their paintings.  But, for most of them, it’s like selling one of you kids.  So I keep them.

Was the move worth it?  I’m not sure. No question about the new location, but I shoulda let somebody else do more of the lifting.  I’ll see what the doc says on Friday;  the initial diagnosis is hernia.  I’ll tell you what— whatever it is, after about thirty minutes of harmless puttering around, it will make me lay down.

Is that so wrong?