T wrote today’s cartoon in an effort to get caught up on Sundays and avoid chronic late fees. Nice job. I wouldn’t mind if he did more. Hell, some days I wouldn’t mind if he wrote them all.
I’m friends with my youngest daughter on Facebook. I extorted her friendship in return for an advance on her allowance. Yeah, I’m that kind of dad. Anyway, she posted a sweet update last night with a few choice misspellings. After cringing for a beat, I relaxed and realized she’s got half my genes and she obviously inherited my i before e except after beer gene. I’m a spectacularly, legendary alternative speller. Cartoon editors worldwide trade stories of my attempts to spell conceive and Coach Krzyzewski. But you know what? I DON’T CARE. Because my job is to be funny and my editor’s job is to edit and my daughter’s job is to be sweet and the spell checkers job is to spell check. Facebook and their evil mutant spell checker are clearly to blame. Q.E.D.
Or my daughter was drunk texting again.
Damn that Occum and his pesky it’s-all-so-simple razor.
Twitter allows “alternative reality” characters. Facebook doesn’t. Doesn’t that seem like an arbitrary line in the digital sand? Who is Facebook to determine who or what is real? Are my Facebook friends any more real than my Twitter followers. Does anyone online wear pants?
Last night’s House featured a dying blogger who shared everything about her life in numbing detail except the size and shape of her poop — which ironically (spoiler alert), turned out to be the pivotal in her diagnosis. As I watched I thought a fun challenge would be for someone (not me) to pose on Twitter as Dr. Gregory House and see how long before someone asks for serious medical advice.
We are what we tweet.