Blind Eating the Blind

Today's Bizarro is brought to you by Three Blind Mice, Inc. "Making the world a wealthier place for a few of our closest friends."

Most decent people are angered when they see an able-bodied person parking in a handicap space. (Is "able-bodied" the PC term for the non-disabled nowadays? I can't keep up.) I am one of those who experiences revulsion when I see such a thing. But when I stop to think about it, I almost never see a legitimately disabled person using a handicap parking space. I don't mean never, I mean almost never.

The overwhelming majority of people I see squeezing out of their cars in handicap spots are obese, or have no visible disability at all. Not being able to stop eating is now a legal disability. I drink too much, can I get a permit for my car? Seems like it would behoove society to let drunk drivers park up front so they don't have to circle the lot too many times. Now, before you start accusing me of being bigoted toward fat folks, let me say I am not saying that they are bad people. But they have chosen to disable themselves and I question our society's decision to reward that with an opportunity to burn even fewer calories.

Medical costs go up for all of us when a large part of society chooses to abuse itself. That's why there are helmet laws. If someone wants to ride without a helmet and gets killed, that's natural selection. But if they are disabled for life and society has to pay for it, that's a decision by one person that costs the rest of us a fortune in the long run.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for making things easier for those who don't have it as easy as most. For folks whose physical capabilities have been compromised without their consent or control, I say let them park up front. Let them park in the mall. Let them drive from store to store and shop through their window, most American shopping malls have plenty of room for this. But for the rest of our lazy, undisciplined nation, let them walk a few yards, maybe burn off a calorie or two.

In Asia, I've seen tiny people over ninety years old carrying a stack of firewood up a hill in their bare feet and not breaking a sweat. An alarming number of Americans can barely pick up the phone to order a triple-cheese-meat-lover's pizza without needing a six-pack of cold Pepsis to bring their temperature back down. What's wrong with this picture?

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Today's Bizarro is made possible by a grant from None Of Your Damn Business, Mofo!

We've all been insulted by uppity sales clerks or receptionists from time to time. When I was younger and more insecure, it used to really piss me off. Now, I'm relieved to say, I let it roll off me with a smile.

Let's say I'm strolling through Nieman Marcus (which, in and of itself, would mean that a dirty bomb had detonated near my home and I could not return without purchasing a radiation-proof hazmat suit and that was the only store within 1000 miles selling them – but for the sake of argument, let's just say I'm in that hellish place shopping) and I ask a clerk how much a pair of white socks are and he says, "$225," and I say, "For a pair of socks? For real? Do they talk or have a stock portfolio or something?" and the clerk gives me snooty look and says, "They're Donna Karan," and walks away smugly.

In my youth, my face would have flushed as though I had been slapped and I would have shouted, "If you could afford $225 socks you wouldn't be working here, you prick!"

But now that I'm older, wiser and more secure, in the same circumstance I would simply tap the clerk politely on the shoulder, shake his hand and with a smile on my face say, "I've got crabs and I never wash my hands."

My hairline notwithstanding, maturity has many rewards.

Hammer Time

(To enlarge the above image and inspect it in all its glorious detail, click on the statue's buttock)

Today's Bizarro cartoon is brought to you by Sweatin' to the Oldies.

As a lifelong fan of classical art, I'm partial to this cartoon. It was a collaborative effort between myself and Todd Clark, a very good gag writer and talented cartoonist in his own right. He lives in Boise, Idaho and as such, has no friends. Most people won't even talk to him unless he moves. I feel sorry for him and correspond with him from time to time, and he gives me gag ideas for free as a way of thanks. It's kind of sad, I know, but he's a really talented guy and just as nice as a bowl of heated walnuts.

So he tosses me this idea that Rodin's famous statue, "The Thinker" originally had a thought balloon. I thought it was genius. So I fluggled around with it ( cartoonist lingo) and came up with the above image. A bit of interesting trivia regarding this cartoon: I make a cameo appearance in the background, can you spot me? The answer will be at the bottom of this page.

The image at left ran with the Rodin cartoon in some markets. It is an old gag of mine that I like to use as a title box with classical art cartoons. The original cartoon had a caption across the bottom that said, "Unfinished Self-Portrait."

I'm really proud of this self-portrait cartoon, it's one of my top five favorites I've ever written. Not because it's drop-dead funny, but because it is strange and thought provoking. I'm not sure what it means, but I'll bet it's profound. Maybe a shrink could analyze it and pontificate about my subconscious desire to be conquered by a hammer. Or perhaps it represents my inner struggle against petrification. "Am I but a stone?! Am I not flesh and blood!" he cried out in vain to the deaf sculptor.

No idea where that came from, my apologies.

Answer to today's puzzle: the skull in the drawing on the wall is mine.

Big-Headed Keister Dance

Today's Bizarro cartoon is brought to you by Barry Bonds brand denture adhesive.

I like to watch sports on TV. Not all sports–I'm not a fanatic who wears a lot of sports clothing or drives a car with a big Patriots logo painted on it or has his front teeth enameled with "KU." I'm more of an average fan who likes to watch sports on TV while I'm sketching cartoons, gets wrapped up in the playoffs from time-to-time, and loves highlight reels of people doing amazing things like catching and throwing simultaneously while six feet off the ground and upside down, or running full speed into the Gatorade stand and wiping out half of the marching band.

I'm also a big fan of sports mascots. What a hideous, thankless job it must be to wear a foam rubber suit and jump around like a leprechaun with a jalapeno up his keister. The only upside to a job like that is that you're anonymous, so you can pretend it isn't supremely humiliating. I once read a story about a mascot who extolled the virtues of "getting paid to watch the game." True, but you're watching it through a mesh-covered fun fur slit with a cascade of sweat pouring down your face. I'd pay a hundred bucks to alleviate those symptoms if they were affecting my enjoyment of the game, wouldn't you?

On the subject of steroids, I say legalize them all. If consenting adults want to pour chemicals into their bodies and become freakish lab experiments to be able to jump higher or throw harder or look lumpier, what do I care? If they get so freakish that they are scaring the fans, we can always cover them up in fun fur.

Fueling Fools

Bizarro is brought to you today by Alien Technology Corporation.

I'm not a person who embraces the spiritual, mystical, mythical, or ethereal. I don't believe in Big Foot or Zeus or psychic phenomenon or ghosts. I used to add UFOs to that list without hesitation, but now I'm not so sure.

I've not had a UFO experience of any kind – unless you count the time I came across this Unusually Fetching Obelisk – but I've heard enough reputable people stand up before the press and say they have that it opens my mind a bit.

A smart guy once wrote that mathematically speaking, extra-terrestrial life is a possibility. Even if there is only a one-in-a-billion chance of intelligent life evolving on another planet, since there are a billion billion planets, that means that there should be a billion planets with intelligent life. That's all hypothetical, of course, but you get the idea.

If there were a billion planets with intelligent life, it is not impossible to believe that one or more of them might have been intelligent enough to invent a way to span huge expanses of space quickly and efficiently. In other words, they may have developed a better way to propel themselves around than exploding drops of liquid in a tin can. That technology has worked well for us here on Earth, but it is beginning to wear out its welcome. It is high time that we think outside the pump and invent some better way to get around.

If aliens are visiting earth and poking around, I hope they come to my comedy shows in San Francisco and Oakland in a couple of weeks. How much fun would it be to look out into the audience and see a couple of giant, green heads with big football-shaped eyes? I could riff on that for thirty minutes. We could hang out after for a drink, then they could give me a lift back to where I'm staying before they head back to their hotel.

An evening well worth the trip out West.

Phone Eddy Cut

Bizarro is made possible by a grant from the Level Forests Initiative. "Making trees work for you."

Instead of carping about the Bush administration's disastrous environmental policies, let's talk about cell phones.

I held off getting one until relatively late in the game. I don't like talking on the phone very much and dislike being "available" 24/7, so the prospect was not attractive. I don't remember what year I finally gave in, but by that time, most humans on the planet down to age 12-or-so, had one.

Now just about every kid old enough to hold one has one. I saw a five-year-old in NYC walking down the street with his yuppie mom, while talking on his cell phone. True story, my throat is still sore from the dry heaves. Soon, we will be able to hear the muffled tinkle of those hideous electronic "musical" ring tones emanating from the bulging stomachs of pregnant women. A sonogram will be nothing more than a quick call to the uterus. "How are you feeling? Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. And how many fingers and toes? Mm-hmm, good. Now look down between your legs...anything sticking out?"

The worst thing about cell phones to my mind is the prospect of being killed by a driver on their phone. States outlaw phone use without a hands-free device, but it doesn't address the deeper issue: the problem is not so much your hands as your attention. A person in the car with you will innately stop a conversation when you need to concentrate because they see the same things you do. A person on a phone just keeps yammering, which divides your attention in a different, more exclusive way.

I realize that sounds uncharacteristically brainy of me, but that's only because I didn't think it up. I heard it discussed by some behavior study brain guy on the radio.

The next worst thing about cell phones is the volume with which some people speak. I cannot understand why some people think you must shout into a phone. That hasn't been true since Sheriff Taylor used to call Aunt Bea from the courthouse. It's a phone, not a paper cup and string. Keep it down, please.

By the way, this idea was suggested by my kooky buddy, Derek, who used to be a lumberjack, but denies being an ass.

Surgical Dancing

Bizarro is brought to you today by Slices of Life, providing the public with medical supplies at discount prices since 1869.

I've only had two surgeries in my life: knee surgery to repair a torn ACL in 2000, and a vasectomy in 2004. The knee surgery was far worse, requiring weeks of excruciatingly painful recovery and excruciatingly painful rehab. If you ever find yourself in the position of telling a goomba where the money is hidden or calling his bluff about breaking your knee, I'd recommend the former. But the old hinge works better than ever now that doctor whats-his-name fixed me up, and I'm as good as new. In fact, I'm better than new. After the surgery and rehab were complete, I found that I could tap dance with that leg. I've been meaning to take lessons to get the other leg to catch up but haven't gotten around to it.

The vasectomy, on the other hand, was no big deal and boy, what a terrific form of birth control. No fuss, no muss. No new skills to report after that surgery, however. Although, now that I think about it, I've never tried to tap dance with my scrotum. Hmmm.