Why does a bluegrass cover of Gin and Juice make me so happy?

  I’ve added some new comics to my reading schedule as well my links list, and I thought I’d share. Because it’s my blog, damn it.

Bad Gods: Lore Sjöberg is a venerable Internet humorist, inspiring belly laughs as one of the Brunching Shuttlecocks, as the creator of Table of Malcontents, and as the author of the Alt Text blog for Wired. Bad Gods started as a weekly Flash animation, went dormant for awhile, and recently resurfaced as a non-animated meta Internet observational humor sort of thing. I’m not quite sure where this new incarnation is going, but I’ve kept it in my RSS reader despite a year-long dearth of updates. Lore is the kind of funny I aspire to, before I devolve into fart jokes and incessant profanity. Updates M&W.

Gunnerkrigg Court: Gunnerkrigg Court concerns the supernatural goings-on at the spooky titular boarding school. It has a very graphic novel kind of feel, with interesting panel layouts and a rich color palette. Author/artist Tom Siddell writes convincing dialog for children, which is rare. Better yet, he knows when it’s appropriate to drop the “blah blah” and let the visuals tell the story, which is nearly unheard of in a lot of online cartooning. The serialized story isn’t comedy necessarily, but it does observe richly emotional and comic moments between the players (human and otherwise). Updates M,W&F.

  On my way home from work yesterday, I spotted a convergence of psychobabble chicanery that I’d previously seen only in unpleasant dreams. At one end of the car, a skinny, semi-professional looking blond woman reading The Secret. At the other end of the car, a rough, badly-used looking older gentleman cracking open a large envelope full of glossy Scientology paraphernalia. I swear I could see a fog bank of stupidity forming where their individual credulities converged.

  I’m sure I’ve beaten you about the head quite enough with my outrage over The Secret, but I don’t think I’ve ever broached the subject of Hollywood’s favorite cult “religion.” (I don’t have a tag for it yet, and until I find an alternate reality where my memory isn’t so porous, I’ll have to trust the silicon overlord.)

  I don’t have the energy to get into it here. The alien warlords and ghosts are almost too ridiculous to comprehend. However, I will make this (not at all insightful) observation; any “religion” that charges you money to learn their teachings is a fucking cult, regardless of what any number of brain-addled celebrities would like you to believe.

  By the way, Scientology is also Hollywood’s most notoriously litigious cult “religion,” so I’ll be sure to post a link to my legal defense fund as soon as I receive the cease and desist letter.

  I’ve decided that, in situations where a believer would invoke an omnipresent deity, I’m going to start swearing to astronauts.* After all, astronauts are the only beings that I know for sure have been smiling down on us from above the clouds.

*For purposes of this exercise, “astronauts” will include Russian cosmonauts, Chinese taikonauts, and any whatever-nauts from future manned space programs. My admiration for those who’ve flown in space is not bound by anything so silly as nationality.

  For the love of astronauts, DO NOT wear flip-flops to work and then complain about injury or discomfort of your feet. That’s what they make shoes for. You’re basically wearing a dry sponge held on by a rubber thong. Of course it’s going to be uncomfortable. By choosing to wear such impractical (and onomatopoeic) footwear in a professional environment, you’ve forfeited your right to complain about the state of your feet.

  I don’t usually go in for that “celebrity gossip blog” bullshit. As far as I’m concerned, celebrities are either human beings who deserve some modicum of privacy, or camera-fellating attention whores who don’t need their already inflated egos stroked by the constant attention. I’m making an exception, however, for Bravo’s new voyeurgasm Hey Paula.

  The satellite box was left on Bravo the other night, so when whatever it was that I was watching ended, I wound up right in the middle of en episode of Hey Paula. (I’d tell you what I was watching previously, but the memory of it was completely pounded out of my brain by the sheer horror of the subsequent spectacle.) I know I’m not the first person to observe this, but that woman is a fucking train wreck. She’s whiny, hysterical, abusive and dismissive to her small army of personal staff, wildly more self-absorbed than her resume should permit, and she can’t get through a sentence without slurring some relatively simple word.

  Anyone who’s given even a cursory glance in the direction of American Idol knows that Abdul appears to be drunker than an Irish wake pretty much constantly. On her own show, she defends her behavior with a mantra of complaints about how little sleep she gets. On behalf of America, Ms. Abdul, I’d like to respectfully ask you to shut your fucking cry hole. Take one afternoon out of selling your crappy costume jewelry on QVC and take a nap. You’ll either catch up on some sleep, or you’ll lay off the hooch for a couple of hours. Either way, you might be able to get through your next public appearance without stumbling about in (a remarkable simulation of) a drunken stupor.

  Unless, of course, you’re counting on your dubious behavior for publicity that your far more dubious talent and your appallingly infantile personality could never generate. In that case, keep it up. Just keep your fingers crossed that your fans don’t get wise.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  Is this all there is?
- Desperately Seeking Soothing

Dear Desperately Seeking Soothing,
  I like to think so. Who wants to slog through life hoping for a reward after it’s over?

  The concept of a post-off-mortal-coil-shuffling reward is one of the oldest tools of religious authority. If the faithful believe that there’s a fabulous reward coming later on, they’ll shoulder their burdens (or strap on their dynamite corsets) and trudge on until it’s their turn as the bug on the cosmic windshield.

  It’s tempting, when my faith in human nature is at its lowest ebb, to believe that the concept of a reward in heaven is nothing more than a carrot, meant to keep the masses quiet as they bear the burden of crushing poverty, while their church amasses a sizable (an non-taxable) fortune. But I suspect that the truth is a bit more complicated.

  If people knew that this was the only life on the agenda, they might work a lot harder trying to make this life as good as possible: taking chances, trying new things, helping out their fellow short-timers. If you die and there’s no there there, then the journey finally becomes more important than the destination.

  Then again, some of us might use that as an excuse to treat the world and our fellows even more callously, if that’s possible. If you’re not going to punished in the afterlife, why should you care about whose feelings (or face) you stomp on?

  All of that was a roundabout way of saying yes, this is all there is. You get one life, just like everybody else. Don’t wait around expecting to get all the things you want once your body lies mouldering in the grave. Planning for retirement is daunting enough; planning for eternity is impractical and unnecessary. Just try to keep in mind that everyone else is living their one life too, and it’s not a zero-sum game.

  I’ll ditch the philosophy and get back to the snark next time, I promise.

[x-posted from Ask The Little Bald Bastard]