In case you were wondering, yes, that’s the Official Sock Flag of Over the Hedge. Sock flag etiquette dictates that you must do a silly dance whenever it passes by. Any silly dance will do, though I prefer to Hokey-Pokey…
…in tube socks.
For those of you living in northern climes (or foreign climes), the bite of a sartorially enraged fire ant is nothing to sneeze at. It ?!@#^!! hurts! And then it itches like hell and then it gets all pustular and then it erupts (after you scratch it, because it still ?!@$$!! itches like hell) and then as you can see below YOU’RE SCARED FOR LIFE!
On second thought, that tiny scar might have been from when I accidentally jabbed myself with a pencil after a particularly angry Angry Birds session.
Who is the last adopter? There has to be one. I don’t mean some cave dweller that refuses to stay current. I mean someone who’s actually trying to be fashionable, but waits until absolutely everyone has climbed on and off board before entering their first Starbucks.
Using behavioral profiling tricks I’ve learned from watching Criminal Minds, I think I can narrow this person down. The Last Adopter will be: male, white, over 50, never married, a mid-level manager, apolitical, drive a mid-size sedan, dine out at Chili’s, drink Bud Light Lime, still read a newspaper, not own a cell phone and own 2 dozen pairs of tube socks.
That’s right, the profile of the Last Adopter is almost exactly the same as a serial killer. Except for the Bud Light Lime. Serial killers drink craft brews. Mostly amber ales.
So, what have we learned today? We’ve learned that keeping current with fashion and culture is crucial to maintaining a healthy mental and emotional well being and avoiding carving your neighbors up into little pieces and burying them in the backyard.
The title of this post is something called a lie. I completely made it up. Never happened. Almost certainly never will happen. It’s just simple crazy nonsense.
So, let’s see how long it takes for Lady Gaga to be seen wearing tube socks. I’m thinking a week. Maybe two.
I bet you didn’t know I control the world.
That looks like an American flag hammock in the first panel, doesn’t it? If you squint, the red stripes and the blue game controllers make it look the flag. But it’s not the flag. No, really. It isn’t. So, please don’t accuse me of desecrating the flag.
See, how bad it’s gotten. I have to defend myself against potential misinterpretation. You’ve given me anticipatory defensiveness.
And it really itches.
I think the closest human counterpart to RJ is the Dennis Leary character on Rescue Me. Both are self-destructive, unrepentant and unintentionally cool. We forgive them their indiscretions because they sacrifice for others. It’s the degree of sacrifice that determines our respect for the character. While The Dennis Leary character is a fireman and saves lives, RJ suffers Verne.
Really not a contest.
There is such a thing as too much self control. It’s not RJ’s problem, but I see it in a lot of people. Personally, I find too much self-control creatively limiting. But then you’d expect that from someone who can be distracted by a single photon hitting his retina (MAKE IT STOP!).
I’m not saying a lack of self control doesn’t present problems. There are myriad billion dollar industries devoted to exploiting our every moral and physical lapse from gambling to porn to potato chips. It’s just that without the occasional slip you never really get to explore the outer boundaries of debasement, debauchery and Drambuie (Rusty Nail: 1 1/2 oz. Scotch, 1/2 oz. Drambuie. Shake. Pour over ice. Garnish with lemon slice.).
It’s about perspective. It’s a lot easier to see yourself when you’re not yourself. The trick is not to let the self that’s seeing become the self that’s being seen…
…by your family, the cops, the judge or your cell mate.
4. Twinkies dipped in maraschino cherry juice
3. Twinkies dipped in maraschino cherry juice and covered with Karo syrup.
2. Twinkies dipped in maraschino cherry juice, covered with Karo syrup and sprinkled with Super Sugar Crisps dust.
*Lil’ Jack’s Snack Insulin. Extreme snack? Pack only Lil Jack’s. Now in the 3 liter convenience jug.**
**For use only in the Lil’ Jack’s heavy duty “whisper quiet” insulin pump.
Like RJ, I think we all quiet the pain of being ourselves in one way or another. Some with food, drugs and alcohol, sex, exercise, work, whatever. Some with good works, self-improvement, building businesses, public service, whatever. But what about the pain itself? Is it inevitable. Is anyone out there pain free? Can anyone ever really be pain free?
Being human is a painful condition. It’s a joyful condition too. But not as often as it’s a painful one. If you think about your whole life, you spend a great deal of time being unsatisfied. But this is a good thing. Dissatisfaction can lead to innovation, progress, growth. No pain, no gain. Simple. Cliche. Trite.
But what this really means in practice is that we can never be truly satisfied. To be truly satisfied would mean that we don’t progress. We don’t innovate. We don’t grow. We stop.
We can’t be satisfied without being unsatisfied first. But to be satisfied, means we stop being unsatisfied, which shuts off the only way to become even more satisfied. So, it’s all futile, right? There’s no point in trying because we’re all running in place, right?
Wrong. We can achieve satisfaction. Just not for very long. Satisfaction is and should be transitory. It has to be. Just as dissatisfaction has to be our default setting.
This is why I don’t believe in heaven. Heaven, as I understand it, is some sort of perfect place where you hang out and, I guess, be happy all day long. That just sounds really boring to me. And don’t get me started about having to hang out with my dead relatives.
But Wait. Hanging out with dead relatives would make me so unsatisfied that it would motivate me to what? Become more satisfied by moving to a place far away that would way better than heaven. What place would be way better than heaven?
Right here. Right now. Struggling to be better. Not best. Just better.
Pain is good.
Pain: Twinkies for the soul.