Madder-Hatted


Sneaky Patrickia–that madder-hatted individual with the gallstones to match their acerbic wit–had no idea what kind of hoop-jumping routine would be required of them for this year’s science fair project. The looming deadline seemed to sneak right up–same as always–in the shower, that pang of guilt just a blink before rinsing the caustic excuse for a shampoo out of their hair. Only around science fair time does Sneaky Patrickia feel they’re getting the uniquely invigorating scalp treatment extolled by the well-crafted copy on the back of their trusty shampoo brand. No other prickly nervous sensation has consistently proven to facilitate scalp exfoliation in quite the same way.

Maybe this year old Sneaky P. would finally put in the time necessary to derive the evidence that could back up their hypothesis of shower-based cold sweats exponentially increasing the accuracy of the semi-outrageous claims found on the backs of popular scalp-purifying shampoo bottles.

Maybe. But more than likely, as borne out by the results of P’s 142 previous science fairs, it would end up being some diorama about a vertebral circulatory system (bovine, ovine, simian, you name it). Our ageless friend very much enjoys detailing mammalian blood flow concerns, at the expense of variety.

His Loss


She came on through, a skirted blanket with banquet stains galore and more than her fair share of Ogden memorabilia to her name.

It would pain her to see the overworld mantra being abused so unabashedly, “be your own friend” repeated ad infinitum by a guy who really doesn’t understand “that whole mantra thing,” (his words), aside from what he deems most obvious: short phrases that are fun to mutter over and over again. He’ll be the first to tell you that he’s more a fan of the exercise’s soothing qualities than anything else; doesn’t see how he could possibly transcend the mortal coil and commune with the force that led him to occupy that particular sentient meat vessel in the first place.

Oh well, his loss.

Hi-Fi


Less-than-adventurous timebending intricacies (transcending our 3D simian roots) twiddle thumbs like the activity could possibly go out of style, were it not for these beings’ innate knowledge that thumb twiddling is the #1 commonality between all of the highest orders of primates (at least throughout all natural phases of thumb functionality as they occur along their respective evolutionary arcs).

All of this just goes to show that you shouldn’t leave an enthusiastic philosopher with nothing but the clothes on their back and a few days to kill. Without the assistance of distracting stimuli, they will inevitably be enveloped in an endless cycle of boredom and batty hypotheses, recklessly abandoning the true reason why they’ve been put here: figuring out how to better configure a universal remote for Todd’s new hi-fi setup. It’s been a real bitch and a half.

Damn


Charming, as they would usually say. No, not “they” as in those gum-toed nutjobs who always go around making their piddly business the front page news for the neighborhood. I’m referring to the more discerning whackadoodles. You know the ones, the jobbers who really grind your corkscrews. They just get your goat so profoundly that it becomes insanely difficult to express your displeasure with standard colloquialisms.

Stormy in-beveraged descrutinizers wallow merrily, filthier than the average pear, sleazier than a locomotive (though we never quite figured out just how sleazy a locomotive could be until we took a cross-country trip by rail–what a lovely jaunt that was, a trek for the ages; we ate cheese and discussed crouton dissection techniques).

Blorn out and hungstraddled, a ginger poof of plume-riveted magic lit its last-ever candle with no background fanfare whatsoever. Nobody gave it a second thought, save the ghost of the mouse that got crushed in the grate while it was only trying to scurry on along, minding its own business. But the rodent business ain’t as lucrative as it used to be, friend. I should know, I read it in a book at some point. I’m a regular Reading Rainbow enthusiast. Ain’t you heard? Damn.

Perfectly Honest


The very notion of blending a stereotypical extra-helping son-of-a-gun with a monkey’s uncle, if disseminated properly, should just about rehydrate the masses with the piss and vinegar they’ve been sorely lacking in this age of interpretive incontinence (one would think). There’s really no excuse at this point to bank on any other outcome, if we’re to be perfectly honest with one another.

Sure, there are plenty of other theoretical outcomes, but when practicality comes knocking at the door, the ensuing scramble for pragmatism will inevitably result in the mating call of the perpetual compromiser: “let’s just call it a day, shall we? It’s not as though anyone else is really doing much to stall this circus of mottled indiscretions anyway.” Okay, so maybe that’s a bit too contrived to be the universally-accepted mating call, but you get the picture.

Each generation faces the ever-present tumult of failure-studded progress; the wisest among us will inevitably batten down the hatches and continue practicing their craft, content to further their own life’s work while the turbulence around them blows itself out.

Chèvre Chaise


It’s become more and more fashionable to sink capital into transforming your obedient pupperoo into a live-action cartoon pooch. Breed is neither here nor there; folks are more concerned with accuracy of likeness than anything else, often times leading to bizarre combinations of aesthetics.

What would happen if you were to combine a beagle and a toaster? Well if you can believe it, Permissia McSimmons has done just that! After getting the idea to construct a bagel costume for her constant companion, Chèvre Chaise, she took the theme one step further with a top-loading polished chrome car carrier. Her social media presence vaulted forward and never looked back from there.

Appetite for the Absurd


Heralded as the Jonestown Network alternative to Stem, the Fruitful Terrier Sitter Extraordinaire, Pango Pango Junction packs quite the wallop when it comes to pure, unadulterated edutainment at a reasonable price. Parked at the intersection of broad leaf swelling and matriarchal patronage, I defy anybody to come away without some kind of interesting new trivia in their noggin by the end of each episode.

Before I agreed to subject myself to the bizarre ritual that is test-viewing a public television program for the determination of proper demographic distribution, I thought “oh jeez, here goes another several hours of my life that I’m never getting back. And right on the heels of finishing up my kite-flying apprenticeship at Old American [for Profit] University, too.”

But, being the good sport that I am, I didn’t even balk at the dubious honor. I suppose it doesn’t hurt that the show’s producer and I had a bit of a fling a few holiday seasons ago, and that we still flirt pretty heartily with each other. I’m a real sucker for shallow intimacy, especially if it’s spread out over the course of several years, where I can put the person/people out of mind for a while and reconnect with that polarizing animal magnetism as though we’re on a sinking ship/divebombing plane/bucking bronco… I guess it would be tough to get two of us on one of those beasts at the same time, but you get my drift.

You know, I’ve had a lot of time to think about this topic. Not to wax depressing, but living alone has afforded me the time to step back and reflect upon the foundation of relationships at their very essence of innate human fragility. I’ve come to develop the inconvenient understanding that I was never meant to settle down with any one person, and the fairy tale love affair might as well go the way of the dinosaurs–at least, as far as I’m concerned. Damn, now I’ve gone and gotten myself all glum again! What the hell?!

But anyway, I promised Gwen I’d do her a favor by giving my unvarnished opinion on the latest project, so I borrowed her official showbiz flash drive and gave the first few episodes a spin. Yes, plural episodes. Just shooting a pilot clearly wouldn’t have been enough doing to properly showcase their dean’s list-caliber aptitude for creative enterprises. One could chalk it up to insurmountable confidence or simply an arrogance that never got flushed out of the system by regular beatings/embarrassments, but I reserve such judgments for the critics of the world.

Well, this review got a bit out of hand. Suffice it to say that I recommend Pango Pango Junction to anyone looking to spend some time on a contemporary spin of the “one-size-fits-all daytime head-scratcher” subgenre. Or simply anyone with a healthy enough appetite for the absurd.

Until we meet again, gentle reader–

Sardonicus Q. Jellyknife, Esq.