YES! JOIN FOR FREE!
Enter your address below to receive free email alerts when a new comic or a blog post is published:
You may unsubscribe easily at any time & your email will never be shared with anyone!
SHARE
FOLLOW
SEARCH
EAGANBLOG ARCHIVE
Explore the current collection.

Roger That
Roger Stone is one of those people, like the Orange Jaundice himself, who is better left ignored. But now, here he is at the center of the Mueller investigation. It appears that Roger may have been up to something treasonish with our president and his Russian rooting section. So we really should pay attention, even if that’s what he seems to want most.

He got a particularly big dose of attention last Friday morning. Twenty-plus federal agents arrived just before dawn by land, sea, and air at his villa in South Florida. He was cuffed, his property was seized, and he was hauled off to jail. Mr. Stone later said that he had been treated “worse than Osama Bin Laden.” To be clear, though, he was not deep-sixed at a secret spot at the bottom of the Indian Ocean.

Nope, he’s still up and around… and still running his dandy gangsta act for whoever will listen. The act, however, seems to have lost some of its panache. As he came out of the federal court in Fort Lauderdale after making bail, he raised his arms to give the Nixon double-V-for-victory salute. Sadly, the gesture revealed a wide swath of fish-belly under his polo shirt. It wouldn’t have been a good look even if his gut had been spray-tanned like the rest of him. His hair, usually a perfect rug, appeared to have been attached upside down. His mouth worked like an organic taffy-puller to keep his dentures under control, and despite the victory sign, he looked weak and disoriented. Perhaps the crowds chanting “Lock him up!” threw him off his game. The whole scene belied his dapper bad boy pose and revealed the ghoulish bottom-feeder underneath.

It is worth noting that at least some of the FBI agents who nabbed Stone and sifted through his possessions were working without pay at the time. One can only imagine the rush to volunteer that must have followed the call for agents for this operation. He is just the kind of guy that any straight-laced lawman would love to collar. He flouts the law. He badmouths the cops. He lies about everything. He revels in his reputation as a dirty trickster who makes his own rules. Do I want in? Are you kidding me? Furlough schmurlough...just tell me what time I’m supposed to be there!

I’m not sure what the motivation might have been for sending in an armed regiment of agents to nab Stone. Maybe the shock and awe was a message to Stone and his co-conspirators. Maybe there are as-yet-unknown charges whose seriousness merits this kind of muscle. Or maybe Mueller was just being extra careful about a poisonous rot that is threatening the health of our republic.

Whatever it was, the big bust gave at least one group of federal workers a chance to clap back at a president who had dissed them repeatedly and questioned their patriotism. Better yet, it was their job to do it. And yes, they will even get paid to rattle his cage. Eventually, anyway.
All Growed Up
When I was a child, I was happy with my lot. Oh, I had to go to school and do homework and a few chores, but none of it was really stressful. I was mostly free to do whatever I wanted as long as I didn’t break any serious rules. Even the things my parents made me do weren’t that bad. Life was good, and I knew it at the time. Still, I always wondered what my life might be like once I had grown up.

Now that I have arrived at full adulthood and have established permanent residence here, I feel as though I should give something back. And so, I have this bit of advice for the many, many young people who read this blog: there’s no rush, kids.

Adulthood is okay, I suppose. You won’t have to do what your parents tell you to do anymore (though it is considered polite to listen closely and nod). You won’t have to make your bed or take out the garbage or eat your vegetables. You can stay up all night and wear the same underwear for weeks at a time. No one will give you a time out. You will not lose your trampolining privileges. Life will go on as before. Society has its own ways of enforcing its expectations, of course, but you can pretty much do whatever you want. Freedom, and plenty of it. Sadly, however, that is not the whole story.

For starters, the rent will be due every month. Every month…and it has to be on time, or you will have NO PLACE TO LIVE. And then, there are all the other bills you will have to pay. Every month, on time. Phone, TV, internet, food. Food, for God’s sake! It’s relentless! And if you can’t come up with the scratch, no matter how good your excuse is, you will lose all of these things. Compare that, if you will, with getting it all for free…plus the trampoline.

Consider, also, all the nagging little tasks you will need to perform. It’s time to update your insurance coverage, time to reset your password, time to download that program again. Also, we have no record of your purchase, and yes, you will have to go to the DMV in person. Do this and do that. All of this is meaningless minutia and little, teeny-tiny bits of bullshit that never seem to stop coming. Eventually, you will learn, your whole life is nothing but little, teeny-tiny bits of bullshit. And the more you grow up, the worse it gets.

Which brings us to another unfortunate necessity of being grown up: work. If you think school is a pain, my young friend, then you are in for a very unpleasant surprise. Even if you work hard, you will never, ever have enough money. It’s not like school, where it’s just grades and so what? This is about raw survival, pure and simple.

Your parents and teachers have no doubt told you that you can find a job you love. I don’t want to suggest that they are wrong. Let me just say, however, that while you’re out looking for that job, you might also find Sasquatch. Or talk to a unicorn. It could happen. I just don’t want you to be devastated (if) it doesn’t. So let’s be straight: you, like almost every grown up who has ever lived, will likely face a lifetime of mindless drudgery. In fact, you might be better off just settling for the least soul-killing position you can find and make the best of it. Or…you might stumble onto King Solomon’s Mines. It could definitely happen. I certainly don’t want to crush your hopes.

(There is one bright spot, though: sometimes, if you’re lucky, there will be yummy baked goods during morning breaks. I recommend bear claw. But after that, it’s back to the hellish grind.)

And so, here is my advice to you as you stand, trembling with anticipation and ready to cross that threshold into the brave new world of adulthood — don’t. Cling to your childhood like a wolverine on crack! Keep living with your parents, at the very least. The deals don’t get any sweeter than that one. Do some chores if you need to. You could even keep going to school if the ‘rents will pay for it. And clean underwear never hurt anyone.

Anything but this.
Fear of Flying
I’ve never been much of a fast food aficionado. There is something about the unrelentlng sameness of each food unit that troubles me. That, and those tales about the uncertain origins of the “meat.”

And there is something else, too. I understand that the uniformity is a natural by-product of the food-factory process employed to make the food fast. While I have no problem with the speed of the food, however, I have become alarmed that most of it appears to be airborne. To my mind, fast food that is flying represents a significant health risk.

Allow me to explain. As I say, I don’t spend much time in these establishments, but my addiction to television confronts me with their advertising on a regular basis. Those commercials (which were no doubt edited for maximum dramatic effect) are filled — filled! — with images of flying food.

The Applebee’s ads, for instance, feature flying fried shrimp, fried chicken “tenders,” and swirling clouds of French fries. It’s the same with the “spicey tenders” at McDonald’s, the “nuggets” at Burger King, and those KFC chicken things, whatever they’re called. In each case the food comes at you, filling my full flat screen with comestibles that rotate and tumble and pirouette in floating slow motion like escapees from the Oort Cloud. I don’t know if these celestial bodies are headed for Earth, but they are certainly taking aim at my head.

Am I the only one who is bothered by this food assault? Sometimes there are even midair impacts with the sailing salad ingredients or gouts of sauce that also seem inhabit the airspace inside these “restaurants.”

To be clear, I concede that the actual interiors of fast food eateries may not be like this. You’d think that, by this time, we would have heard any stories of customers being killed by tiny, chicken-bit asteroids. It’s possible, then, that such events are only imagined by ad departments as appetite enhancers. If that is so, I can testify that none of this excites hunger in me. Instead, it causes me to fear for my own safety, both from internal and external malefactors.

Again, I am only reporting what I see on TV, the most reliable source of information in my life. But pictures do not lie. And while I have never been struck by any of these menu items, much less eaten them, I intend to keep it that way.
The MF-Word
By which I mean “motherfucker.” It was recently dropped by new Congresswoman Rashida Tlaib as a character assessment of our president. I may be revealing my own sexism, racism, ageism, and religious intolerance all at once. but it surprised me to hear this word issuing from the lips of a middle-aged, Muslim, mother of two.

My first take was, as Nancy Pelosi later referred to her own reaction, generational. I may use the word fuck more than I used to, but motherfucker seems like a curse too far for public discourse. Fucking, after all, is a perfectly respectable human activity. Motherfucking is unlikely to ever attain that status. There’s nothing wrong with cocksucker, either, even though it’s a tad harsher than fuck. The honorable Representative from Michigan, however, skipped over both of these lesser obscenities to go for maximum effect. That said, the more I have thought about this issue, the less objection I have to her usage.

Members of Tlaib’s democratic socialist cohort had already come to her defense. The irrepressible Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez declared “I got your back,” and went on to call out the “faux outrage” that was frothing up among the GOP bros. Pelosi herself pointed out that it was nothing worse than the President himself had said and went on to say that she was “not in the censorship business.” I’m liking Nancy more and more these days.

Kim Campbell, another politician in her 70s — and the first female prime minister of Canada — also showed her solidarity with Tlaib by tweeting yesterday that “he really IS a motherfucker!” We should also note that Campbell is a member of Canada’s Progressive Conservative Party. Snoop Dogg chimed in with a motherfucker of his own, and this morning Samuel L. Jackson did the same. Who am I to buck the tide?

I guess you might say that our dialogue has coarsened, that manners and decency have now given way to vitriol and recrimination. Or, you could look at it a different way. You could say that the terms of our dialogue have simply evolved to meet the new reality. What if, let’s imagine, our president is a serial money launderer? What if he abuses his power and violates the Constitution to enrich himself? What if he has jeopardized just one citizen’s well-being so he can protect his own sorry ass? What if he’s a fucking traitor? I can imagine all of these possibilities being true, but even if only one is, then the word motherfucker is not nearly strong enough as an epithet.

So yes, I too say motherfucker. In fact, the more motherfuckers the better. After all, it’s not as if we are saying something that isn’t true. To quote Canada’s first female Prime Minister. “he really IS a motherfucker!”
first  previous  1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11  next  last
image
Trump supporters are people who know what they believe.
~ JC, Bonny Doon