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!!!