Ricin Family Portrait... they should've KNOWN.

C'mon. Is EVERYBODY in the great state of Texas greatly oblivious to something plainly obvious to a common dust mite?  The only thing I doctored on the photog is (obviously) the text.

But this IS an actual "family portrait"of the Richardsons, better known to you and I as the Ricin Family -- the lovely tribe who enjoy bit acting, killing varmints, and sending ricin letters to Obama and Bloomberg.

So... what's with the Hippie?????

He can't be a son. He's too advanced in age, and the parent, too young.

My money is on "baked brother". He resembles the husband a bit, and considering he's the only male in the pic owning the belief that delightful hair product shouldn't be reserved solely for females and doucebags.  I'll add "en route to Woodstock and took a left in Des Moines, instead of a right... and still thinks it's 1969.... and reeks of Mother Earth".

Of course, this IS "New Boston, Texas", a contradiction in terms if I've ever heard one. Of course, New Boston is only 100 miles or so Southwest on the I 30 from Arkadelphia, Arkansas.

Wow! Arkansas and Philadelphia. Blends as smoothly and as seamlessly as... well, Texas and Boston! Is this like the redneck version of Sharktopus.

Also, what's the tyke on the left pulling out of his shoe.  Is it a shoe bomb? Is it a packet of ricin?

Is it the fake Academy Awards Best Actress envelope his psycho mom forces him to orate nightly to her as she accepts a curiously formed fire log for her work in Madea's Big Happy Family?

Not 100% sure what's crazier: The Ricinlopes, or actually believing ANY Tyler Perry film has a shot at being nominated for ANYTHING.

I should email her at whyguessit@yahoo.com (I swear, the address is on her imdb.com resume), and ask.

Oh, wait.... she's in JAIL. Almost forgot.

Angelina Jolie Changes Her Body, Then Changes Her Mind

It's been rumored, as it was when she originally conducted the voluntary surgery, that Angelina Jolie has (once again) waffled on something that simply cannot be flipped as readily as an iHop pancake.

The source (NOT Perez Hilton) claims a man and a woman, with 23 children en tow, who looked suspiciously like a homeless Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie -- if they raided Western Costumes "Fashionista Skid Row" department, as well as the local Mercedes Benz dealership.... in addition to the local orphanage -- entered a popular Hollywood prosthetics company this week, asking about "fake flesh that feels real and can hold milk".  Perplexed, the manager directed the couple and their Benetton army to a dairy farm just outside of Los Angeles.  Miffed, the couple and their 22 children marched off, boarded their semi, and departed in haste (according to the source, one of them blurted "oooo, cowsies mommy Angie" and was summarily scarified for the sake of the ruse).

The rig, dubbed "The Freedom Barge" by the tabloids due to the large quantity of adopted foreign children who ride it, later appeared at Rick Baker's Monster Make-Up House. Behind closed doors, as their 21 children purged their energy playing street hockey with fake body parts, negotiations (again, allegedly) turned heated as Baker repeatedly pointed and gawked at the "homeless woman who looked just like Angelina Jolie's" chest area, as the "homeless man who looked just like Brad Pitt" barked in retaliation.  Meanwhile, the "20 homeless kids who look just like homeless kids" took sides and placed bets. Soon, the army was on its way -- and again, empty chested.

A double mastectomy is a serious commitment, born of many hours, days, or perhaps weeks of dedicated thought process and expert consultation. Or, in the case of the Hollywood elite, over a power nosh at Soho House and a midday bender.  What might be construed as a brilliant idea on Monday may, like so many overly-managed Hollywood flops, morph into a massive miscalculation by Friday. It seems Ms. Jolie's advisory board very well could have consisted of a rail-thin feminist, an alimony-stricken plastic surgeon, a narcissistic publicist, a Monsanto executive (since they're inherently evil, no matter what... allegedly), and the Goddess Gwendolicious Neebong, famed Thai fortune telling cross-dresser to the stars, whose hatred for any kind of milk product is infamous.

As the legend continues.


Brando's Brain is a creative product of BeelineMedia.com.  Check us out for tons of quality crap-ola and great products, like the imdbme tee, and The Big H cartoon book.  It's all dysfunctional... and it's all good.




 

PSA of the Day: Working with Spiritual Goddesses Can Kill

A public service announcement all reading should heed.  Never, and I repeat... NEEEVVVVEEERRR conduct any business with a self-described spiritual goddess/self help guru/ lifestyle evangelist WITHOUT:

a) A realistic budget based upon realistic information derived from her real world, as opposed to her fanciful, perfect world she shall "receive" after completing her online "Discover Your Inner Business Beauty" 10 week session.

b) A realistic deposit based upon said realistic budget derived from before-mentioned real world information not culled from neither her online "discover myself" classes nor her goddess group gurus whom she turns to for "metaphysical support and understanding".

c) The very real possibilit she'll bolt from the assignment simply due to the her "feminine warrior" instincts and nothing more.

d) A train wreck clause, which basically justifies full billing if she suddenly pulls out of an agreed deal for reasons such as "the stars spoke to me" or "this is hard work and my aura is at risk."

I should have known better.  The moment I walked into her place, I should have known better. Instantly, the ABC rule (Always Be Closing) should have launched into full tilt boogie. "Secure the project! Secure the money!" must be your inner mantra.  The Vegan lifestyle. The trinkets and yoga paraphernalia. The words which construct her sentences. Her excited inclusion within several online "women only" business sessions that promote feminine power, self-love and self-worth in addition to teaching how to balance an accounts receivable ledger. The candles. The colors.  It all spelled one thing, and one thing only...

Galactic Flake!

You see, it's not about the online business sessions, nor the yoga, nor is it the way she goes about saying things. Individually, nothing evil nor unjust can result from any of these lifestyle choices. Yet, cumulatively, they paint a portrait of a closet case narcissist quite prevalent amongst the walking and breathing of Los Angeles.  The "It's All About Me" collective of spiritual fucktards who'll walk away from commitments for the solitary reason that it suits them at that particular moment, since they "live in the moment.  Never mind the conduct of proper business. Pay no attention to logic and reason. They play the instrument of life with the fingers of emotion, and if they wake up tomorrow to their wheatgrass juice, organic oatmeal, and Tibetan chants -- and suddenly "feel" the necessity to 86 their business agreement with you, then so be it.

They need no reason, since it's all about them and what THEY want.  Really?  Fine...

Good bye and good riddance.

Playing with this deck of razor blades hoping I might not get sliced is completely on me. But, the money would have been nice.  The year (in addition to 2012) has not been too terribly kind on my pocketbook, so I unthinkingly dove head first into the work to rejuvenate my ambition. She seemed nice at the time, and the project had a possibility of extending well past the character design stages.

Again, on me. The reality of the situation is simple: Nobody in the health coach, self-help arena has any money! Check that... they do.  After all, that $1500 online course on "Discovering Your Secret Feminine Soldier of Love and Prosperity" doesn't pay for itself. And yes, it's pay-in-advance and non-refundable.

Perhaps that's the secret! Become a self-described guru, charge everybody exorbitant online fees up front, and offer them in return a template package I've sold a thousand times before that has never worked.

Or, walk away from the headache altogether and write it off as a loss.

......*

Still thinking.

Tebow, God, and THE Question

What does Tim Tebow DO after he's cut from a team?  Let's just say he's got perrks...

Star Trek Chow Down

Perhaps the new Star Trek flick might have a re-creation of the famous Romulan Cafe scene from the episode "Kirk's Klingon Pie", as shown above.

Or not...

Hooligan Youth Keys New Aston Martin... Nobody Cares

At the unveiling (at the very least, the San Fernando Valley unveiling) of the 2014 Aston Martin Rapide S, I witnessed an act of unbridled aggression so heinous, so brutal and non-classifiable, that it deserves mention within the annals of this blog.

Just after the uncloaking of the new Aston super sedan, which was just after an hourlong sermon from Speed Channel's Justin Bell about... well.... himself (typical Brit), which was just after gorging myself on whores -- check that... hors devours, I found myself instigating one of those Hollywood double takes you find in select Rob Schneider flicks and old Keystone Cops shorts. It was unbelievable. 12 hours later, as I write this, I STILL can't believe it.

Some fool let an 8 year old hooligan into the event, and a sparkling new $220,000 super sedan paid the price.

It was just after the cover came off the Rapide S, a 550 bhp quad door rocket ship, that the pint sized punk approached from the port side, whipped out what appeared to be a small pocket knife, blurted "Ireland!!!" and gutted the paint off the pig's right rear door. He then spat on it, and casually trotted off toward the yummies table to feast on tarts and pie.

Many people witnessed it. Nobody cared.

I honestly believed most thought it to be an inclusion of the proceedings. Some, who did not directly note the act, mentioned something about "shoddy British build quality". One woman even went so far as to point at the gouge, look at her sugar daddy, and ask, "What does that do?"

Later, I approach the child, apparent by this time to be a loner, as he whaled away at destroying the yummies kiosk of anything chocolate-based. I asked why he'd pull a stunt like that.

His response, which wasn't much of a response at all, after spitting on my shoes, "I'm covering my paws with melted chocolate. Then I'm hitting up the inside of that 350 grand Vanquish and ruining that bitch! And nobody's gonna care because I'm a kid and I know no better. Ain't that the tits an milk, ay!!!!"

The innocence of childhood. I miss those days.

A Man, a Shirt, a Producer, and a Cell Phone sit at a bar...

For nearly 30 posts. I have yet to squawk about my own projects and/or products, leaving the writing and cartooning on the side of pure entertainment. So please excuse my unabased rudeness for just a singular post, as to toot my own horn about something that's available at beelinemedia.com.

A Man, a Shirt, a Producer, and a Cell Phone sit at a bar...

It sounds like the beginning of a stupid joke.... and it would be, if YOU are the man (or woman), you're wearing the shirt, and that shirt ISN'T the "imdbme" tee.  Why?

How is the producer (with the cell phone) supposed to gain the knowledge that YOU are in the industry?  Unless you can read minds, can recognize each one of the thousands of faces in Hollywood of whom can hire you, love to speak about yourself to an imaginary friend, or play solitaire with copies of your resume (and if an actor, headshots as well), that big-time player might NEVER know who you are.  Instead of gain your big break, he (or she) is breaking for the exit -- especially if you're speaking to that imaginary person.  If that's the case, a $20 shirt ain't helping you much, I assure you.

With the imdbme shirt, this will no longer be an issue (the notice, not the insanity).  Just write you're name into the white box -- just like those ol' PhysEd shirts back in high school -- and let the shirt do the introducing.  In minutes, he or she is using their smartphone to better the world... by looking YOU up.

And, it's BLACK, so it matches your tight black jeans and white shoes perfectly.  

Here's where you go...

http://www.btoons.com/imdbme_shirt.html

This is what you do...

Pay money.

Here's what you'll receive...

A shiny new shirt (Sharpie not included)

Then you...

Write your name, project, or company on it.

And....

Awesome magic happens. You have to trust me on this last part.

Porn 'Staches, Prostate Cancer, and the "Stachebon"!

MEN... SEE EPIC PHOTO BELOW AND ASK YOURSELF THIS: ARE YOU IMPRESSED?

The answer, according to this morning's coffeeshop discussion is: Abso-frickin-loutely!!  The women, on the other hand.... hands in the air, baffled, asking aloud why we should care. After all, it's "just" facial hair.

No, ladies. It's more... much. much more!

Because it's a massive commitment to grow an awesome porn stache sans porn industry employment -- and THAT is something women DO understand, since "commitment" and "modern man" seemingly go together as seamlessly as "cozy blanket" and "high colonic".  Think about it: Each morning, you wake up and look at yourself in the mirror. The electric (or other) razor is RIGHT THERE.... and you muster enough positive affirmation NOT to turn that lip fuzz, and the swipe of a blade, into a pipe clog. That's will power right there! Some women love it, and some women hate it -- but dudes will always think it's cool.  It's also the closest thing us men have to getting a perm (unless you're a cat stuck in the '70's), freshly painted nails (unless you're Eddie Izzard), or a bikini wax (unless you're European).

The conversation soon found its way to a secondary reason as to WHY a man would grow a 'stache. During the month of November, a movement called Mo'vember rises to the forefront, It finds men growing moustaches in a quest to raise needed awareness for both Prostate and Testicular Cancer.  It's a more than worthy cause. These two killers are to us as Breast Cancer is to women, and funding is in desperate need to mitigate and combat these inflictions.

Unfortunately, the movement also points to an obvious discrepancy.

You see, for Breast Cancer awareness, most major sports --  from Major League Baseball to the NFL to the NBA -- celebrate Breast Cancer awareness by wearing pink. Pink cleats, pink gloves (football), pink sweatbands, pink towels,  pink socks, etc etc.. Even those crazy Europeans and that "sport" they have where they kick around what appears to be a spherical chessboard (very strange, indeed) find some way to recognize this movement, though they don't wear pink -- mainly since half the soccer clubs in man-purse toting Italy have pink as a team color... bizarre.  And, naturally, there's the iconic pink ribbon, of which we are all quite familiar.

And Testicular/Prostate Cancer has.... temporary porn 'staches?  Come on (pardon the pun).

So, I suggest a solution: If Breast cancer has pink ribbons, then why can't Testicular/Prostate Cancer have Fuzzy Stachebons? See below for visual representation of concept:

It's a brilliant idea... well, according to me, that is.  It's a fuzzy horizontal ribbon with, eh... dangling ornaments. Each "ornament" represents Testicular Cancer and Prostate Cancer (after all, can YOU definitively state what a prostate actually looks like?). And the ornaments can be blue, since we all know blue is the universal color of "man".  Men can wear the stachbon to work, on a jog, at the cafe, at sporting events -- everywhere!  People will turn to the bearer and exclaim "My God, what is that THING?!" The bearer can then either say, in kind: a) "It's my pet Himalayan Hairy Butterfly, dumbass!"; or b)  educate the inquisitive on the dangers of Prostate and Testicular Cancer, and need for additional research funding to fight these killers.

Who knows. I might be on to something here.

Late Night Talk Show Crap Photography Throwdown

Late Night TV has always fascinated me in all the wrong ways. Why on God's green Earth would you want to know ANYTHING about your favorite celebrity that might instantly vanquish your suspension of disbelief?  Example: I once had a mad crush on Alyssa Milano -- ONCE. That is, until she appeared on Leno one night and pleaded (half seriously, I think) if any man out there wanted to be her boyfriend.... this outburst coming subsequent to a discussion about being accidentally locked out on her Paris balcony, nude.  Truth be told, I wouldn't mind one bit to see Milano stranded au natural on some airy ledge, but one has to ponder the mental stability of a super hot, super rich, incredibly famous person who not only enjoys flashing her lady parts in a major metropolitan area, but would seemingly accept any male life form capable of sex as a boyfriend.  I haven't been capable of viewing her in the same light since. Whenever she appears on my television screen, I hear the terrible screaming of the Milano: "Does anybody wanna be my boyfriend?!"

Now, through the magic of Facebook, late night has taken this destructive power one step further-- finding the absolute WORST screen caps of guests and tossing them upon their Facebook pages sans any suspicion that these pics, apparently un-vetted by anyone with half a brain, just might be slightly compromising (see above).

And, see below...

Please explain to me how, under any circumstance, would a team of well-paid individuals post a pic of Olivia Wilde looking like a defender of the righteous, pointing her finger with verve, HOLDING CHEAT NOTES??!  (speaking of "notes" -- please note, the dialogue bubble was added later). Look, I don't have a problem with an incredibly sexy actress as an activist..... just don't show her holding a script while explaining to the unknowledged how children are starving in Africa.  It almost appears Ms. Wilde is pointing to one of Leno' cameras and exclaiming "Like, thaht cahmerah is, like, a super close up so it cahn't see the notes, like right?"

And some wonder why I hit the sack at 11 every night.

Handyman Torg SMASH

Everybody, please meet the handyman of my apartment complex. His name is Torg. 

Torg is a caveman. Torg likes to grunt... and make a shitload of noise. 

It amuses him.

Torg enjoys his daily workload of loudly smashing through walls with his club, disrupting the plumbing system without warning, and generally making more of a mess than a squirrel in a bucket of peanuts. Torg eats chicken for lunch -- a LIVE, whole chicken!!  Torg likes to poop along the side of the complex, and cover his dropping with rocks.  Management refuses to address the issue, despite residential complaints, due to Torg's very competitive rates: he's paid with fire.

For anybody out there who STILL believes prehistoric creature DO NOT walk amongst us, stop on by my building and be AMAZED!!!

Sticker Shock

Sometimes, you just HAVE to wonder. Let your creative mind solve a riddle too perplexing for simple logic to grasp and decipher.  Such was the case yesterday. A Cadillac Escalade cut me off, obviously en route to somewhere far more important than safety concerns would allow. Ahead of me, he honked and brights-tapped a slower vehicle traveling, like myself, well above the posted speed limit. No time for niceties, he cut to the left, on the WRONG side of the road, passed the Acura -- flipping him off in an amazing feat of multi-tasking -- and continued onward.

The first thing in my mind was: "late to a meeting", judging by the automobile driven. The second excuse was: "family emergency", judging by the "family line-up" stickers on his back window. Wherever he was headed, time MUST have been at the bare minimum.

El Pollo Loco.

No. I'm not saying he drives like a crazy chicken. THAT'S where he was going!

Perhaps he was dying of hunger. So, I followed him (I really had nothing better to do at that particular moment), my curiosity getting the best of me. He parked, leisurely exited his land yacht, and casually walked to the restaurant. Y'know, maybe it's just me, and I'm not 100% sure of this -- but I wouldn't think a man literally starving to death would've strolled nearly as nonchalantly.  And if he needed to use a restroom, the same.

Conclusion = Insufferable asshat!

And that family stick figure line-up... what kind of dad would one imagine him to be?  If he threatened the role of "car plow" to any vehicle between him and his delicious flame-grilled chicken, what if his son doesn't toss a perfect game in his little league debut, or his daughter wants to be a lesbian, or his wife cannot satisfy his every pleasure?

Unfortunately, people like this DO exist. Surrounded by Yes Men, the sole breadwinner of the household, and thus an important person in his mind. He owns that ride, he owns his family, he owns that road, and he owns that piece of flame-grilled chicken.

What he probably DOESN'T own is a vinyl cutter -- but I do! Wouldn't be a bad time to construct a little "family stick figure" set of my own, and keep it inside my vehicle, to be applied at the opportune moment.

Just in case.