This Week in Adorable News

Has the Death Watch of Terri Schiavo and the Pope got you down? Here’s some cheery news that will put a smile on the face of all but the cruelest Eskimo.

Baby seals are invading my part of the world. Two separate seals swam some thirty miles up the Taunton River and started hanging out in people’s yards. Apparently this happens a couple of times every year. I had no idea.

If I spot one tomorrow, I will squeal with delight.

Hopefully this post balances out all my blog posts that feature excessive use of the words ‘douchebag’ and ‘motherfucker.’ But somehow I doubt it.

What She Said

I usually mention this every couple of months or so, but instead, I’ll just link to this post in Mikhaela’s blog.

I know everyone has more important things to do than write letters to the editor, but there are plenty of joyless turds out there who do nothing but write nasty letters to papers and TV stations. Their bitching and moaning is ruining TV, newspapers, and even the comics that all of us normal people enjoy. A quick note will do a lot more than you can imagine in stemming the tide of mediocrity that is sweeping our once kick-ass nation.

Play God!


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I recommend the edited version if you can’t handle the unspeakable truth about religion. Otherwise, the original version is more likely to tickle your godless funny bone.

I’m generally pretty slow and unable to do any comics that cover something while it’s still dominating the news cycle. Lucky for me, Tom Delay and the Republicans in Congress have been riding Terri Schiavo all week long, effectively jingling a pair of giant keys in front of the wide-eyed media for the entire week.

Unlike everyone else in the world, I have no opinion on whether or not Schiavo’s food pipe should be returned. It’s not my decision to make. It’s her husband’s. He is her legal guardian. Parents lose that position when their kids marry, even if they marry someone whose decisions they don’t agree with. Archie Bunker would have no legal grounds to overrule the decisions of Meathead, should Gloria have fallen into a persistent vegetative state instead of becoming a gigantic fatty. It’s the law, even in that backwoods shithole we call Florida.

The point of this comic is that Congress wrote a law, and the President signed it, in just one weekend, claiming that such extraordinary measures were necessary to save a life, one that most scientists agree is nothing more than a piss and shit factory. There are dozens of legitimate laws they could’ve written last weekend that would’ve saved thousands, probably millions, of lives, lives of people whose brains aren’t necrotic lumps of dead flesh.

I may be an asshole for referring to Terri Schiavo as a brainless lump of poo, but at least I’m consistent. I think the same thing about people who aren’t even in comas. But if you’re going to claim that her life is precious, and that ending it is a heinous act, get off your fucking cross and do something about the thousands of other people who are needlessly sent to their deaths every day. Otherwise, your “culture of life” is just a stupid catch phrase.

And since I can’t afford an actual lawyer, I’ll write my living will here and hope someone Googles “Brian McFadden Living Will” should my brain figuratively shit the bed, leaving me literally shitting the bed.

If I should get into an accident in which I suffer minor brain trauma, I might become just retarded enough to enjoy crap like Fear Factor, Nickelback, or John Grisham novels. While embarrassing to my friends and family, and even to my fully functional self, I would like to be kept alive in this condition. But kill me if I start quoting from Austin Powers movies.

If I become paralyzed, and unable to speak or interact with my environment, yet retain my higher brain functions, please kill me. I can barely tolerate my body when it’s working.

For everything else, please freeze me. We are currently in a dystopian future, so whatever awaits my frozen carcass couldn’t be any worse.

Laugh While You Can Tour

I’m replacing my bitching about what a pothole did to my car with something infinitely more useful.


I put up a bunch of flyers, but will probably reach more interested people by posting something here. The Laugh While You Can tour is coming to Boston this Thursday, the 24th, among stops in several other northeast cities.

Bonafide cartoonists Tom Hart, Jen Sorensen, and Baltimore’s own Tim Kreider will be signing books at Million Year Picnic (99 Mt. Auburn St, Harvard Square) at 4PM and then talking and generally yukking it up at the Lucy Parsons Center at 7PM.

Although I will just be a spectator, I will also be there. I might even be the creepy douchebag who makes awkward eye contact with you!

12 Days Until Extraordinary Rendition

I was busy meeting a deadline and missed this article in Sunday’s Globe, in which a minority partner of the Red Sox confirms that his private jet has been chartered several times by the CIA. The exact purposes of those flights, which include stops in various foreign lands where stoning is the national pastime, haven’t been confirmed, but it’s likely that a few of those trips were for extraordinary rendition, the US policy of sending people to countries where torture isn’t so gosh-darned frowned upon.

Phillip Morse, the owner of the jet, is someone I’ve never heard of and I’m a fairly observant Red Sox nerd. The only way this relates to the Red Sox is that Morse put their logo on his plane. It’s not like hooded detainees were shackled to Johnny Damon on the team plane. (However, I’m pretty sure there isn’t an actual Red Sox plane. I recall some travel problems in Tampa last year because they charter all their flights, so it’s possible that at least a few players might’ve used Morse’s jet at some point or another.) He said the logo gets covered up for all the chartered flights, which happens a lot apparently.

The world of chartered private jets is a confusing racket to a poor economy class schlub like myself. You’d think if you had enough money to buy your own plane, you’d keep it nearby. Otherwise, what’s the fucking point? That’s like buying a fancy trophy wife and renting her out every weekend.

Anyway, I thought the story was interesting, a lot more engaging than the steroids scandal or the Terri Schiavo story, which is the subject of Friday’s cartoon. I heard about it via this post on Daily Kos.

Amazing Facts About the Fairer, Yet Equal Sex


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Larry Summers said some mean things about the ladies a couple months ago. Something to the effect of them not being equally represented in the maths and sciences because there might be something on the second X chromosome that makes them retarded. (I’m paraphrasing.)

There was a big bru-ha-ha and his stupid comments got lumped in with the even stupider comments of Ward Churchill, who called the WTC victims “Little Eichmans.” In blog time, this was ages ago and I’m too lazy to dig through people’s archives to find the relevant articles.

Why did I do a cartoon about something so old? Because I am one lazy motherfucker. Luckily the faculty at Harvard brought this story back from the dead by giving him an old fashioned “whining dervish,” an ineffective method of intimidation that involves a flurry of bitching followed up by nothing at all.

I have no real opinion on whether or not the guy should go. Apparently he has helped raise a lot money, which is essential to a beleaguered inner city university like Harvard. What he said was dumb, but it’s not like he kicked an old lady down the stairs of the Harvard T-stop. (Secret Hint: Those stairs are long.)

I’m sure you’re not coming to me for the latest opinions on women’s issues, but here is why I think Lawrence Summers was wrong. The reasons why women don’t go into the maths and sciences are all cultural. I’m not saying it’s right, but it’s more socially acceptable for a male to be a giant nerd than a woman. Visit any science fiction convention and marvel at a male to female ratio of a dying M-Class planet. (Note how I mock the nerds, yet ingratiate myself to them with a Star Trek reference. I have no shame.)

There’s been little more than a generation for women to pursue the careers men had been hogging for the previous 10,000 years. That means the infrastructure and role models for little girls are still being established. Also, it’s been proven in a study I heard about on the train that male teachers hate girls, and will punch them in the face before letting them do any cool science experiments with potatoes. But within the next twenty or thirty years, I’m sure there will be parity between the sexes in the nerdly arts, assuming Chief Justice Scalia rules 2012’s Barefoot, Pregnant, and Free Act unconstitutional.

I’m all for women joining fire departments, provided they can lift my 145 doughy pounds out of a burning building. I’m also in favor of cat rescue brigades, but they can be made up of both men and women; as long as someone is saving those kittens.

John Belushi made a sweeping generalization when he said women weren’t funny. However, there is a nugget of truth behind it. Statistically, there are less funny women than men, and there is reason to believe it’s biological, sort of.

In ancient times, before mid-life crises and trophy wives, women selected their mates based on physical qualities. This left the weak and nebbish cavemen to develop a rudimentary sense of humor, similar to today’s prop comedy, in order to appeal to the cavewomen who were clearly out of their league.

The cavemen had no such standards and would select anything that was vaguely humanoid. (Did we fuck the Neanderthals out of existence? Gross!) This gave females no incentive to develop a sense of humor.

And so it was for eons, even to this day. Developing a sense of humor is hard work that men and women can both do, but because women experience rejection at a much lower rate than men (Supported by another study I overheard about on the train.), there’s less motivation to be funny. Which makes funny women that much more awesome, their jokes aren’t laced with the salty twang of desperation.

I have no idea what I’m talking about, please don’t hit me.

There was a much better Larry Summers toon in Slowpoke, back when the issue was relevant.

The First Sign of Spring

Like many of you, I get a warm tingling all over my person when I spot the year’s first pile of pink slush blossoming on the sidewalk.

For you assholes in warm climates, many companies make de-icing products in hilarious and vibrant colors, which exist to highlight my cold and bleak environs.

Now that I have a camera phone, expect more stupid shit like this to fill the void between the Friday updates.

UPDATE: Edited to clarify that bright pink slush is not a highlight of my existence. Bright pink hot pants however…

Also, if anyone knows a way to alter the subject line in a Sprint PCS picture email from “A Picture Share!” to something less retarded, please let me know. Hopefully Flickr will add a fix sometime soon.

Let’s Start a Class Action Mr. MacNichol

Poor Robert MacNichol, the internet’s newest clueless douchebag. He’s a sad little man who’s threatened to sue some game review website because a video game they covered featured a character with the same name. His main beef was that Google would return results that weren’t about him when people searched his name. Obviously, I found this via Boing Boing.

While I agree that the man is insane and has no grasp on reality, I hope his case magically holds up in the courts. Then I’ll have the precedent to sue another Brian McFadden for damages. For the past several years, my untalented doppelganger has haunted my Google placement. Who knows how many friends and acquaintances were led to believe that I am a mediocre Irish pop has been.

This happens every time I mention him, so I’ll address it now. I don’t care if you are fan of the other, more evil, Brian McFadden. Your basic grasp of the intarweb will inevitably lead you to this page and you will get the urge to tell me that he is the real Brian McFadden. “Bullshit,” I say, you cabbage-eating teeny bopper. His name was Bryan. He changed it in a deliberate attempt to mooch off the obscurity I had carefully cultivated over the past quarter century.

Holy Christ! I just did an ego check on Google and I’m down to the last result on the first page, with quotes! Please help me take my name back from my crooning evil twin.

In Memoriam


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This is just a quick thing I slapped together to make sure I didn’t leave you with yet another week without any marginally funny cartoons. If this kind of thing isn’t entirely unacceptable, I might do a BFW Quickie every couple of months or so to free up some time without having to park my ass in my drawing chair for 48 straight hours and risk getting an awful case of bum sores.

When Will It End?

So I’m watching Nightline, as is my wonky custom, and its all about blogs. Not news, not anything important, just all about blogs and the bloggers who are in love with themselves. I won’t name any, but there are several blogs I no longer read regularly because they’ve become obsessed with defining blogging’s role in the media.

Was there this much introspection and self-congratulatory behavior when the CB radio busted onto the scene and revolutionized the way truckers informed each other to the whereabouts of smokey bears and rest stop hookers? If my vague recollection of Smokey and the Bandit is any guide, I will guess the aswer is no.

I’m posting this because I know it’ll end up in a bunch of aggregators that will be used to follow tonight’s Nightline and the resulting blogging circle jerk that will ensue.

So please, people who spend way too much time commenting on the medium instead of the message, lose your deluded sense of importance and get back to posting links to embarrassing quasi-celebrity photos and articles that contain at least a couple of facts in them.