Being Frank

What’s up mother fudgers? So at the Rejection this past Tuesday- which was just delightful, thanks for asking- I came up with an idea for a cartoon, but I don’t think the New Yorker would buy it. Given my limited artistic skills and even more limited computer skills that would prevent me from posting any drawing were I ever to make it, I figured I’d describe the cartoon to you. Not necessarily the ideal way to present a cartoon, but hey, shut up. So the drawing will depict a teenaged girl in a cluttered attic, hunched over with both hands on her stomach and a look of supreme discomfort on her weary face. The caption will read: The Diarrhea of Anne Frank.

So after hearing my girlfriend describe to her mother in vivid detail the extravagant wedding we attended this past weekend I now realize what she must feel like when my dad I are doing a detailed recap of some big game. Not to paint her as someone who hates sports and loves weddings or anything like that. Okay so I should just say not to make her out to be somebody who hates sports. She does like sports. But you get the analogy, no?

I think it would be tough to be in the matches industry these days. If I were big in the matches game I would really resent all those restaurants and corner stores giving away my products for free. You don’t see matchbook stores giving away free meals from nice restaurants or overpriced deodorant and the like. Now I know you might be saying “what’s a matchbook store? And match manufacturers probably sell matches to those restaurants.” But that’s not the point, the point is, this is my blog and I wish you wouldn’t point out the flaws in my logic because you’re making look like a damn fool.

Anyway, that’s about all the fun I can sprinkle on your Thursday for now. Consume it sparingly- it might have to last you for a little while. (But just between you and me, if you use a mixture of one part cayenne and three parts thyme, nobody will be able to tell the difference.) Well, when I can’t even follow my own convoluted non-sense that’s usually a pretty good indicator that you guys are totally screwed. Ha-ha. Later.