Tuesday, June 22, 2004


Note: The following column has been subcontracted to a fat orange cat

So, have I ever mentioned how much I hate Mondays? The alarm clock rings (I’m a cat, why the fuck do I even own an alarm clock in the first place?) and I can feel the evil seeping in like the light through a venetian blind. It’s strange, as I am a four-legged housepet, and have never had to work a 9-5 job, that I dread Mondays so much – but there you have it.

There’s a Boomtown Rats lyrics that I’ve had in my head lately that I think sums the issue up nicely:

Tell me why/
I Don't like Mondays/
I want to shoot/
The whole day down

That’s it in a nutshell, isn’t it?

Perhaps my dread of Mondays is merely a conscious indicator of the overall malaise in my life. I can’t sugar coat the truth: I’m a morbidly obese housecat. My life is an endless series of personal humiliations. I can’t even clean myself after I take a shit, Jon has to clip the wads of soiled fur from around my ass. And really, the problem only compounds itself. Like Dr. Phil says, it’s a vicious cycle: I eat because I’m unhappy, and I’m unhappy because I eat.

It perhaps doesn’t help that my so-called "master" is one of the most pathetically closeted people in the world. He thinks he has a crush on my veterinarian. This is horrible for me, because he’s spent thousands of dollars on unnecessary and particularly unpleasant procedures just to get the excuse to spend time in the same room as this woman. But he’s not really in love with her, she just reminds him of his mother and he’s transferring his maternal fixation onto her. It’s deeply unhealthy. I mean, she’s married, for Chrissakes. One of these days he’s going to get his ass beat, and I for one am not going to be able to feel much pity for him.

Besides, I know what kind of dirty magazines the man buys. He keeps them right under his bed, where I hock my furballs. I’ll give you a hint: they have sweaty naked men on the cover.

In any event, they’ve made a movie out of my life. Which is odd, considering my popularity peaked about fifteen years ago, but hey. I guess that makes sense. They didn’t make a He-Man movie until Prince Adam was parking cars in Redondo Beach.

In all seriousness, I’m a bit pissed about the whole thing. How many billions of dollars has that Davis prick made off of my image and likeness? All I ever get is a plate of soggy microwave Stouffers lasagna. Bill Murray gets to do Letterman, I get to do a pissant comic book blog. Where’s the justice?

So, since I’m in the type of foul and curmudgeonly mood that has made me beloved by millions of unimaginative toddlers and "developmentally challenged" high school janitors, I figured I’d share some juicy gossip to pass the time.

It’s not secret that Beetle here has been a grateful beneficiary of the Armed Forces "don’t ask, don’t tell" policy. King Features has actually done a good job of covering up the more recent and far more serious allegation that Beetle was one of the half-dozen or so MPs indicted in the recent Abu Ghraib prison scandal. That dog being sicced on Iraqi prisoners? That’s Sarge’s loveable pooch, Otto.

Ah, if it ain’t everyone’s new favorite firebrand radical, Huey Freeman. Nothing like making militant radicalism palatable to the mass market in order to sell plush toys and TV pilots.

But the secret that the Universal Press Syndicate doesn’t want you to know is that until 1997, Freeman was a registered Republican. It was only when it became politically expedient to be a liberal that he switched party affiliations, perhaps in hopes of nabbing his party’s vice-presidential nomination.

Oh, wait, I’m thinking of Ret. General Wesley Clark.

Well, shit. I guess I’ll just say Huey’s gay too. Is anyone surprised? It’s always the angry ones.

Ah, the Patterson clan. Is there a better example of filial unity and unadorned affection to be found anywhere on the comics page? What dark secrets could possibly lurk under this lovely exterior?

Well, there was great consternation on the set when it was learned that the actress playing Deanna Patterson nee Sobinski had actually had an earlier career playing "blue" roles in Brian Michael Bendis comic books. Apparently the strict moral code that Lynn Johnston forces her actors to work under almost caused an irreparable tear in the strip’s continuity. It was only the last-minute interference of United Features that saved the character from an untimely death by wood chipper after the revelation was leaked.

Here’s Deanna Patterson, in "family" way in a very pro-family oriented strip . . .

. . . and here’s Deena Pilgrim, in a not so family way in a very un-family oriented strip.

They took away Vanessa William’s crown for less.

No. Fucking. Comment.

How did this get in here? I am not talking about this shitheel.

Next slide.

Next fucking slide.

Everyone’s favorite comic strip medico, Dr. Rex Morgan, has some skeletons in his closet, too . . .

Ah, to be young and desperate for money.

Finally, we have those comics page mainstays, the Dagwoods. Nothing wrong here, is there?

Well, we’ll never know, since King Features paid a rumored $5.6 million dollars to bury a 1996 BBC documentary on the couple’s supposedly rocky marriage. The terms of the settlement explicitly forbade any BBC employees from revealing just what the shocking revelations would have been, but let’s just say that a little birdie told me that Farley Patterson’s death was no accident.

He knew too much.

About a month before Farley died he came over to see me. It was late and he’d been drinking. He seemed very upset, like he’d just had a jolt or a horrible shock. I couldn’t get anything straight out of him, he just kept coming back to the same sad refrain: "I know what’s in Dagwood’s sandwiches . . ."

About a month later he died "saving" that Patterson brat. The truth died with him.

And if I did know, I’d never tell. Because I value my life.

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