COME VISIT OUR NEW HOMES

Okay, things are a might dead around here, but swing by our new homes:

Cheeky Monkey

and

Well Hanged

So long Farewell Auf Wiedersehen, well not totally

As has been apparent to even casual observers, my interest in the day to day operations here at Banana Slug has waned considerably over the past several months.
While it has always been fits and starts here, I have realized I no longer have the will to continue this venture; it has been five years and while I’ve enjoyed having this particular portal on the intertubes the site kind of spun away from what I’d originally intended and took on a more political flavor than I would have preferred.
We had some fun in that vein for a bit and I’m certainly guilty of beating on the comedic dead horse that was George W. Bush, but I’ve grown tired of the rancor and with the new administration (for all their faults) I don’t feel so angry I want to vomit blood continuously anymore.
And that's a good thing.
Certainly we tried to get past it here and continue soldiering on in a different direction but honestly this site has its own I don’t know what (that’s from the French, kiddies) and everything has felt a bit forced.
So I stopped, reassessed, and worked on some other projects. I went to France. I ate some really good triple chocolate Klondikes. I let my beard grow out (for what it’s worth I looked rather Amish) and took up yodeling.
And then after much discussion between figu7es, sslugger and the rest of the editorial board we agreed it was time to put Banana Slug into mothballs for the time being.
This wasn’t an easy choice as a number of people have put a lot of work into this over the years and I personally have expended a great deal of effort in trying to bring the funny to the three or four people that trip over this site seeking to feed their disturbing gliemizes fetishes. Plus, this obviously a labor of love as it were, since it certainly has never been a paying gig, so I’m a bit saddened it will be going away.
We’ll keep the archives up, but Banana Slug is officially no more for the time being.
We want to offer a huge thanks to all those who have read us over the years (and it’s a surprising number frankly, given the unremittingly poor quality of the work).
Now are you ready for the really bad news?
We are starting over at some new digs.
And we are taking Mr. Laughing Wolf with us. Not only has he been indispensable in handling the heavy lifting while I moldered in existential crisis, he’s damn funny in his own right. Plus he thought up one of the new names and we already owe him $18 and don’t want to pay.
So, please visit us shortly at our new homes (did he say homes? As in plural? Okay, so the idiot can’t keep up one web site but thinks he’ll do better with two? Dumbass):
Cheeky Monkey, which should answer the ages old question, WTF? Our thanks to laughing wolf for the name and for his continued contributions, whatever they may be.
and Well Hanged, where we will attempt to dissect the human condition, drink lots of coffee (or diet Coke) and perhaps post some short fiction now and again.

Why exactly do I think I will keep up two web sites when I can barely function on one?
Frankly, I don’t know. But it seems worth a try.

We should be open for business at both some time shortly. If we have any readers remaining I hope you will all consider a visit.
Until then, goodbye and thank you; this has been a lot of fun.

Jack's Fat Girlfriend

Jack owns the hearing-aid place just down the hall from my comic shop. He has been in business there for fifteen years, the same amount of time that my store has been open, and, thus, we have known each other for a while. Jack is one of those guys who, though pushing forty, is still mentally and emotionally stuck at age thirteen. Farts are the height of humor and he waxes poetic about "boobies" like he has never actually seen a real one. I'm sure that you know the type. We talk a lot. Mostly because he knows where to find me and I am sorta trapped in my shop all day. Jack says that we are friends. I tell him that the only reason I don't choke him into unconsciousness with his own tongue for using that particular F-word in regard to me is that he lets me steal internet service from him. Jack comes to me for advice and as a sounding board for his personal and professional issues. I, in turn, point out his many flaws, verbally abuse him and, in general, crush his dreams and make his soul bleed. It is a win/win situation.



A little over a year ago, Jack went through an ugly divorce. It was ugly not only because I had to listen to the details, but also because his wife was bat-shit crazy. (As illustration of the magnitude of the woman's flying mammal-guano insanity, I offer this little anecdote: She bought a puppy, a Springer Spaniel, because the granite counter tops she wanted to make her life complete were too expensive. The pup, at seven months old, was a tad too eager when taking treats from her hand and, occasionally, nipped at her fingers. Because she had read on-line that Springers were supposed to be "soft-mouthed" dogs, she believed hers to be defective. So she shot it. Duck to avoid falling bat poo). When the divorce was final, Jack began to wade into the dating pool. Lucky guy that I am, Jack found it necessary to share the trials and tribulations of his awkward re-socialization. Blind-dates from hell, the crash and burn of an internet dating service, Russian mail order brides (who, he informed me, he would not ask to say "moose and skverrel" as a method of checking authenticity. Dick.), and sleazy one-nighters were all moaned about on a daily basis. I was actually hoping that he would find true love quite soon because I had grown concerned about the adverse effects of bleaching my brain every night. Even Ian, the snarky and more evil than Laughingwolf voice in my head, was growing bored. ("Wolf," he whispered to me during one particular whine-fest, " this guy makes my ass tired. And, being imaginary, I don't actually have an ass.)
Eventually, proof of the existence of a Higher Power arrived on the day that Jack announced that he had met "the one".
"If I give you a dollar," I asked, "will you not tell me about her?"

Jack did not even pause to consider my more than generous offer. "She is bigger than the women I am usually attracted to," the mutton head stated with a straight face.

"So, she is a giant? An ogress?"

"No. She is just, you know," he puffed out his cheeks like a blow fish, "big."

"You have a new girlfriend and, before telling me her name or occupation or astrological sign, the first thing you mention is that she is fat? You must really like her."

"Not 'fat', just...", he waved his arms around his hips,"..big." (At this point, Ian began to do a happy little dance. Ian's happy dance leaves scuff marks on my psyche). "Bigger than normal."

"Bigger than normal for a person, or bigger than normal for, say, a rhino?"

"For a person that I would be attracted to," the idiot assures me. (Ian is now having a hoe-down. I think my ears are going to start to bleed).

"Is she crazy? The women you are drawn to seem to be crazy." I give him a concerned look,"I only mention this because a crazy, fat, nameless, unemployed rhino-woman sounds a bit dangerous. You could be trampled in a mad rush for a donut or something."

Again, Jack is serious, "No, she isn't crazy. And she is allergic to gluten."

"Then, you are safe from pastry induced stampede," I point out as I usher him out the door. "She sounds like quite the catch."

Jack grins and nods his head proudly as I casually flip the "closed" sign and pretend to lock up and go to the library.

For the next couple of weeks, whenever he starts to annoy me (basically, every time he talks to me), I can send him on his way by asking,"How are things with your fat girlfriend?" (By this time, I must add, Ian has invited other people's head-voices to join the party). This goes on until Jack confronts me and says that I am being mean to a woman I have never met. He feels that I am being unfair. It is with unholy joy that I get to point out to him that he was the one who introduced the whole "fat" thing. That, due to his extremely shallow nature, the first and only thing that I know about his new flame is that she is "big."

"I am not making fun of her," I explain in the tone I use to correct Caleb, my dog, when he misbehaves,"I am making fun of you."

The puzzled expression slowly morphing to embarrassed understanding on Jack's face reminds me of why I put up with this crap. (Ian does a quick-step, jazz-hands, takes a bow and drops the curtain. Ian is a wise ass, but a great showman). "I am a douche," Jack says as he heads back to his office. I smile my agreement.

Yesterday, I met Jack's fat girlfriend. She is a teacher, a Virgo, likes Lost, has brown hair and eyes (and a name), and owns two dogs. I found this out in five minutes of charming conversation with her.

Also, though curvy in a Sophia Loren fashion, she is normally proportioned. For any kind of woman. Jack, you see, is a douche.

There is no "ME" in Team

(Unless, of course, you shuffle the letters a bit. Then there is a "me". Also, a "meat", which is just so disturbing on any number of levels that it is probably for the best if we avoid anything even resembling shuffling. I believe that we will all sleep better that way. Thank you for your cooperation).

I don't get it.


I have tried to wrap my head around the concept for most of my life, but the pieces never seem to snap into place. I am befuddled. Granted, I have never been much of a team player ( though I once enjoyed playing hockey...mostly because of the ample opportunity provided to knock idiots on their asses); fencing and archery were more my thing because achievement was based on my skill and the competition was against myself. Never found the need to prove myself to anyone else. And group, "hive mind"-type settings tend to give me the heebie-jeebies. Besides, given that any sport I played was on a non-pro level and there would be no big payday for the winner and that the average jock, who wouldn't know a book if it kicked him in the jock, tends to make my head all hurty (thinking is fun for me. I know, I'm a freak), I have never been able ( or wished) to conform.

As a result, I just don't get the whole sports-geek thing.

I understand the folks who play. They are in it for the cash, fame, babes and because they are unable to earn a living where anything like...you know...intellect... would be required. What I don't get are the geeks who don't play, but still get all emotionally involved in the whole shebang. Do not get it at all. And no one has ever been able to adequately explain the syndrome to me.

You will have noticed, by the way, that I have used the term "geek" in reference to these people twice thus far. Before you get all huffy about that and go thinking "Ha! Old Laughingwolf done made him a mistake right there", let me point out that I use the word because it does, in fact, apply. (And, for the record, how dare you doubt me? After all that I have done for you. Ungrateful is what I call it). I says what I means, and I means what I says. Geek. As in comic book geek, Star Wars geek, computer geek, sports geek, etc. They are all the same. Want the logicallies of my argument? (Glad you asked). Here, in no particular order, is the list of similarities:

1. They are way too emotionally involved in something they are not active participants in.


2. They wear clothing bearing names, insignias and pictures of people who are not them and groups in which they are not members.


3. The collecting of...stuff: toys, cards, action figures (a bobble-head is an action figure. Last I checked, bobbling was still an action) and assorted memorabilia as indication of their devotion is a shared trait.


4. They memorize lists of dates, names and statistics which they recite as if it actually had some sort of meaning or importance in the grand scheme of the universe. Said trivia is seen by them as a form of knowledge of genuine value.


5. When in groups of their own kind, they utilize jargon which is undecipherable to the uninitiated.


6. They nit-pick the details and truly believe that they, the non-participant, could have done it better.


7. Rivalries between fans of a particular team/movie/player/character/sport are the norm. Much energy goes into futile arguments and not enough blood is actually shed for my liking.


8. I could go on like this forever, but I feel that I have made my point. A geek is a geek, no matter what his/her goofey hobby is. So there!

Substitute Brett Favre for Boba Fett and watered beer and hotdogs for soda and ding-dongs, and you have yourself, what we in the business of calling people things label, a geek. Like the poet shoulda said: a geek by any name would smell as rank.

But, I seem to have wandered from my original point (Big surprise there, right?), which, I believe was: "Why is it such a big deal that your favorite team won a game which you neither played in nor got paid for?" and "Why do I have to hear about it? Or pretend to care?"

Your team wins the cup/bowl/spork and the entire town goes parade-having, drunk-rioting, car-burning and fist-fighting nuts and Dr. Salk discovers the polio vaccine and...not so much. Hell, I once spent what seemed like an eternity listening to an ex-marine ramble on and on about his time in the "P.I." and successfully fought the urge to jab something sharp into my own neck (a much tougher feat than catching a football I assure you) and didn't even get so much as a greeting card!

I asked a sports geek of my acquaintance to explain it all to me once. He said, simply, "Bragging rights". Which did not help at all, really. Bragging rights? A group of people whom you do not know personally but happen to have their base of operations in a city which is geographically located in your general area, beat a similar group from a distant place in a game that you did not play with them and you get to brag?

Uh...um...you da man?

Not that anyone cares

But it's possible I'll be back at this soon.
Or not.

Techno-Babble On

Ignore what I have told you in the past. The end of human civilization will not be caused by Oprah, evangelists, ambulance chasers or midgets. These things will, of course, be contributing factors (along with our old pal, stupidity), but they will not be, in and of themselves, the main source of society's downfall. Nope. That honor will be reserved for a more vile, malignant and insidious evil: the cell phone.
I realize that the previous statement makes me sound un-American, as the malevolent devices have become such a component of every day life, but it is, none the less, true. I also acknowledge that the statement gives the impression that I am anti-technology, but this is not at all the case. I am way too devoted to my DVR and X-box to even consider membership in my local Luddite chapter. (I am also quite fond of TV, the wheel, the printing press and machine knitted socks) . Justifiably, I have, at times, been labeled philistine, cretin, misanthrope and ass-hat. I not only accept this, but revel in it. Accusations of Ludditism are way out of line, and I will happily burn the mechanized loom of anyone who says otherwise. I do not, will not, however, own a cell phone and must confess that I tend to look disparagingly upon those who do. Because the damned things are evil I tell you!
Let Uncle Laughingwolf 'splain:

It is an established fact that people have become less considerate of others, more self-centered and prone to the belief that they actually have something important to say (the truth being, in fact, that they are yammering idiots). The cell phone merely supports and contributes to these things. Who hasn't had their enjoyment of a movie interrupted by a jerk who believed that the "please turn off your phone" message was not meant for him? Never had their life endangered by a phone wielding nitwit driving a car? Had to listen to some moron's "private" conversation while waiting on line? (My solution to this one, by the way, is to start to whistle whatever tune comes to mind. When the numskull on the phone inevitably hushes me and asks "Do you mind?", I either reply, "No, not at all. Mind if I whistle?" or, "Shhhhh! The chorus is the tricky part." This is why I am sometimes called an ass-hat). These little annoyances build up in the psyche and people become more angry, irritable and likely to climb a bell tower with a high-powered sniper rifle. Bang! Society crumbles. (True story: A while back, there was I guy in my store who had the misfortune of receiving a phone call while still in the shop. He demanded that my customers and I "keep it down" so that he could hear. Guy was surprised to learn that his cell phone had a colonoscopy application).

And, look at the toll these pernicious little gadgets are taking on our children.

It is reported that school bullying continues to rise and experts are not sure why. Well, experts, I can tell you: cell phones. The kids are in each other's business twenty four hours a day and, as everyone knows, familiarity breeds contempt. Your kid isn't getting picked on for old fashioned legitimate reasons like being a band geek or wearing the wrong shoes, he's getting wedgied because he didn't know when to shut up. What is worse is that, because of the phones, the bullying doesn't stop at the schoolyard, but continues to follow the kid home because he is too much of an idiot to turn the damned cell phone off! After all, the call might be important. Because 13 year olds have such a firm grasp on what is truly important. (Unlike adults, who have no grasp whatsoever. "We are out of eggs" is your emergency? I will alert the local news networks you dimwit). No wonder the kid's can't read and are failing in school. They spend too much time yacking on their damned phones and meddling in each other's affairs. Rather than handing your kid a phone and condemning them to a slow mental and emotional meltdown why not just take them to Sea World, slather them in chum and toss them into the shark tank?
It will be much quicker and, if you take your phone, you can snap some cool pictures to send to your friends. That will give you all something to natter about.

Okay, now this is just getting silly. I mean, how hard is it to come up with something to write about? Just sitting here now, I can think of a dozen topics. For example, you could do a piece on...uh...that thing with the...uh...those people who...um...doesn't it tick you off when...crap.
I see what you mean.

Um. No, wait.

Sorry. Still nothin.