Vintage Batman Farce Comic Sketch

This is a very old sketch outline for a comic (obviously never finished) I did many, many years ago. It was drawn / written very roughly, with the intent to refine and finish it. In the end, I never had time. This is one of many comics I drew out when I was younger.

It was a dark time in Bantam. A string of robberies seemingly endlessly plagued the good people of the city. What could be done? Who could restore order and Peace of mind to a city submerged in the dark, dank, smelly sludge of mobocracy and its evil, maniacal treachery?

Meanwhile, in another part of town ....

 

Vocab Lessons

When I was in middle school and even early high school, I ... I was a fool. That's about all there is to say. These real "answers" on my vocab tests are prime examples. I always knew the definitions (well, usually) but honestly cared more about having fun and being sarcastic and annoying than getting a good score (Yes, most all of these were marked wrong). Vocab words are underlined.

1. I was amazed to see my dog, Popo, made the pilgrimage to Mecca of his own volition.
2. "Billy the Cop" made a scrutiny of the case, but only succeeded in making a fool of himself by finding it had already been solved.
3. I was surprised that Filipe had the temerity to flip off the president during his speech.
4. The cow finally relented, and decided to let farmer Perry milk her. But by that time, it was too late; she had already knocked him out cold.
5. The apprehension in the fly's voice indicated to the other flies that the Jones' had bought a brand new "Norelco® Fly Demise-O-Lator" electronic fly swatting system.
6. The star-nosed mole's vulnerability made him vulnerable to the evil squirrel's deceit.
7. The old man's eccentricity, which seemed to be connected to his strange nightly visits to the neighbor's rain barrel (in which he bathes and plays with "rubber ducky") caused his wife to wonder about his well-being.
8. The tyrant who called himself king, commanded that every peasant in the land had to donate 98.7% of their total yearly income to him.
9. The gaunt little peasant boy who looked like he hadn't had food in ages, was forced to cut his penny into 98.7 tiny little pieces and give them to the king as his yearly taxes.
10. The scientist thought he had empirical evidence that pot-guts could read Shakespeare, but he was proved wrong about his evidence being empirical, when his evidence was proved wrong.

Choir Practice at Riviera Apartments

**** Written in Provo, Approximately 1999 ****

Today we had choir practice. Choir is always fun because it is a place where you can sing loudly, in your usual raspy, out-of-tune manner, and feel as though you're doing well, because you can't hear yourself sing.

We sang "Where Can I Turn For Peace". Well I observed several interesting things. As we sang, I noted to myself with great alarm this fact: "Something is dreadfully wrong." I think the choir director just maybe might have also noted the fact that we all sang the notes with about as much accuracy, harmony, and beauty as a group of 90 year old deaf men with those electronic voice boxes you get when you smoke too much. Our singing was a mess. Physicists have noted that there is an interesting phenomenon that occurs when sounds of all frequencies occur at once, such as radio static or say, a session of congress. Acousticians have called this "white noise." Well, our choir was essentially one large, white glob of noise.

I noted the director's distress as she decided to try an experiment. We all knew full well that we did not create with our combined voices what you would rightfully call "music." Thus, we were all concerned, and wanted to find out who was singing off key, because dang it, we each knew for sure it wasn't ourselves. Due to the fact that some of us felt we were more on key than the others, we sang louder, attempting to act as a sort of harmonious guide to those around us. But each time, everyone else would then place their notes up as beacons as well, until the resulting sound was, simply put, about as pleasing as a Mack truck in a honking war with a Union Pacific Freight engine.

Thus, our director thought it wise to attempt to isolate the problem. "Ok sopranos and altos let's have you sing without the other parts." The girls then proceeded to sing. We heard harmony; it was almost as shocking as turning on a bright light early in the morning, while your eyes are still partially glued shut. All of us guys in the back row were astounded — "So THAT'S what a choir sounds like!"

"Ok, boys, let's have you take it from the top." The piano began playing, also resulting in what you would call "music," thus it was obviously not the piano that was causing the problem. Suddenly, coinciding exactly with the moment we were to begin singing, a horrible noise resembling the sound of 10 or 20 dying camels completely covered the sound of our singing. My note, of course, was right on, I'm sure of it. Or at least, it was at several instances throughout the song, much in the same way a stopped clock is accurate twice a day. Analyzing our spectrum of voices, we noted that one or two of us were singing a completely randomized variation of 3 notes, while others of us apparently have the belief that singing bass consists of basically talking at different pitches, much like rap. Meanwhile, one of us especially (and I don't mean to be rude, but this is true) sang the very loudest, usually changing between 3 or 4 random notes, changing pitch much like one of those slide whistle things, and apparently just hoping that somehow he would get the right note, which, I will add, he never did. When somebody sings so loudly like that, it is very hard not to follow him.

Anyway, as we finished singing, the bleating camels also ceased. We all stood, some shaking their heads, the director with a look of disturbed hopelessness, and the girls mostly holding their ears or laughing quietly.

"Brethren," we all conceded silently, "I believe the problem lies with us."

A Strange Effervescent Sensation

I had a cold a while ago, bad enough that I decided to try one of those Airborne brand ultra vitamins at the recommendation of Emily. That morning, she was careless enough to leave the Airborne bottle out where I could get it, unsupervised. I popped off the top, tipped it, and let one giant tablet topple out onto my hand. It was big and thick; appropriate for a super-vitamin. Anything this big was bound to be not just effective, but ultra-effective; it would probably literally beat off the little viruses with sheer brute strength. Anyway, I was really sick. Anything would help at that moment. The tablet lying heavily in my hand looked very similar to the vitamin C chewable tablets my mom would give us when we were little kids. I remember those tablets tasted good too – usually cherry or orange flavored, with a pleasant sour zing. According to the bottle, this one was lemon lime. Hmm – odd flavor, but sure to be tasty. I popped it in my mouth. As a kid, I would hold off from biting on these delectable little vitamin tablets and just let it dissolve in my mouth until my face puckered from the sour-sweet taste. Then I’d finally bite into it. I let this Airborne tablet sit on my tongue, awaiting the same nostalgic experience. Strangely, I noticed a slight tingle, and I became conscious of a mellow bubbling sensation. “Oh! How cool! Just like Pop Rocks!” I thought to myself. They’re effervescent! What a fun little twist on what could be just a boring old vitamin! Soon enough, the fun little bubbling sensation became more and more vigorous, eventually rising to the level of “violent”. I could hear what sounded like a recently poured glass of root beer echoing heavily in my closed mouth. I opened my lips – almost out of necessity – and a sound vaguely reminiscent of fireworks blasted out like a geyser. I picked up the bottle. “I don’t remember reading that these things are like Pop Rocks … and this is definitely what I would consider “Adult Strength” Pop-Rockiness … I’m hoping this is not recommended for kids or anything …”. I searched the label for any hint of effervescent-ness. By then, I had quickly chewed up the rest and swallowed it; all that remained was a vaguely lemon-lime flavored cloud of leftover carbonation. It was then I saw it: Place one tablet in 8 ounces of water until tablet is completely dissolved. "OOOOH. That explains a lot. For one thing, it explains the gathering tightness in my stomach, and the strange swelling I can see around my waistline." Moments later, a belch that could have blown over trees relieved the tension instantaneously (though temporarily). More moderate belches continued, as the tablet dissolved. And let’s just say, the gaseous emanations found other outlets as well as the day went on. I’ll say this: Airborne works pretty well, although I wonder if it’s more psychologically comforting than literally effective. But if you really want an experience, don’t do it the wussy way. Skip the water.

My Thanksgiving 5K

On Thanksgiving morning, I ran a 5K. Not far, really. Especially when everybody else in my family runs, heck, I don't know, like 750K's or something. Anyhow, I promised a friend of mine I'd run it with him. This Thanksgiving season was unseasonably cold. I was hoping desperately the weather would break Thanksgiving morning. I checked the weather, and kept hoping to see temperatures in the low 90's possibly. I was disappointed to wake up and find temperatures in the range of, according to the more reputable weather sources, 600 degrees below zero.

Not wanting to die, I started the race wearing a pair of bike shorts, a T-shirt, a pair of thermal underwear, a pair of thermal underwear, some thermals, a cashmere sweater (they're warm), some thermal underwear, six pairs of gloves, a beanie, a construction hat, two pairs of ski goggles, a ski mask (because they look awesome, mostly), a down jacket, two pairs of snow pants, 17 more beanies, an electric blanket and generator, and a sub-arctic-tested 30-degree-below-down-insulated-expedition-level-sleeping bag. I couldn't technically see or hear the starting gun, but I knew we started because I could feel the pavement just slightly as I hit it, and felt the faint pressure of hundreds of feet pounding atop my back through my layers. About fifteen minutes into the race, after the winners finished (wearing--literally--speedos), I finally managed to stand. Or at least I thought I was standing. I couldn't really tell. After the fire department removed my outer 23 layers, I was able to see well enough to run. I was still at the starting line. By then, we were at the 30 minute mark. Most of the strollers had crossed the line, as had most of the 2-year-and-under age category and even the small goldfish category. So eventually, I emerged, like a small, skinny, half-naked caterpillar from a big, thick, nylon-covered, down-insulated cocoon. I tried to run the rest of the race in my bike shorts. I say "tried" because I had been sweating so bad inside there that my sweat instantly froze into a 1-inch thick shell around my body and I couldn't budge. By then, I had progressed six inches, and my elapsed time was a whopping 47 minutes. At that rate, it goes without saying that I didn't do so hot on the race, but it I gave it the ol' college try, as they say.

In reality, I finished in 25 minutes. 8 minute miles. I would have felt awesome about it, except I was too busy feeling like I'd just about died, and was so hot in my arctic explorer suit I had to immediately rip all of it off (I still wore shorts and a fleece vest and a T-shirt and a beanie) in order to keep from throwing up, or (embarrassingly) dieing.

Other than that, I was pretty excited, and really, it was an accomplishment, and really helped me feel qualified to eat a heck of a lot of Thanksgiving food.

A Day in the Life of a Parent

Originally Written November 2006

Today began well enough. The air was cool and brisk, birds were chirping, rays of golden sunshine floated into our living room like little amber-colored butterflies. Angels sang. Beautiful orchestral music played in the background. Humming and singing, Emily and I prepared for church. Little did we know, the golden sunbeams and singing choirs would give way to some of the most dark, foreboding storm clouds of despair and utter darkness our lives had yet experienced. And one of us would need to change our clothes at least once.

Alright, I’ll cut the drama here. As I said, it started well enough. Emily had to sing in a six person choir today, and was rather frantic about getting ready. We practiced together, in the sense that I hit various keys on the piano trying to find the right notes, and she attempted to guess which ones were the real notes. Almost like a game. (This was the “angels singing” part). When she felt sufficiently confused, she grabbed her things, and rushed to church.

I followed shortly behind, getting Abbie ready calmly, and sweetly. I chose the dress and the little accessories that would make her appear the absolute darlingest and sweetest and cutest possible, (OK, I grabbed whatever I saw first) and prepared to head for church. However, I was stopped in my tracks as I heard the ominous sound of a dirty diaper.

Diaper Change Number 1.

I was then late. I tried to run the couple hundred yards to church, but I had played football on Thursday, and had played much harder than I should have. Thus, today, due to tight muscles in every part of my body from the arches of my feet to my neck (I’m not kidding here), I ran as would an old woman in an ankle length pencil skirt, giving me a range of motion of about three inches. I ran in this manner as fast as I could, my feet never technically leaving the ground as I shuffled along.

I made it in time for the sacrament hymn. Emily and I were able to enjoy the meeting together, reveling in the deep thoughts and the wonderful feelings of the day. Up until about 5 minutes after the sacrament was finished. Abbie pooped and was being very fussy, and since Emily had to sing with the choir in a couple minutes, I stepped out to change:

Diaper Number 2.

She sat calmly on the changing table, at least calmly compared to say, a chimpanzee. She kicked and wiggled like some sort of motorized toy. After setting up the arsenal of equipment I would need for the ensuing three minute battle, I removed the dirty diaper. She kicked and wiggled as I reached for the wipes. She looked up at me and smiled quietly. Cute, normally, but as most parents know, this is the urgent signal that she more than likely … yup … peed all over herself.

The changing tables in our church sort of dip in from the edges, like a soap dish, apparently in order to collect every bit of pee into one giant pool, in which she lay smack-dab in the middle of, like a little pink island. Needless to say, she was soaked. I burst out laughing, hopelessly.

Let me give you a little background. Despite my appearances, and despite most rumors I tend to hear, I am not necessarily the, quote, “Rambo” of germs as some are wont to believe. More accurately, when it comes to diaper changes, I tend to approach them as though I were disarming a heat-sensitive nuclear warhead. Needless to say, this presented a bit of a predicament. How does one deal with a pee-covered baby without touching pee?

She continued to kick, and when I sat her up, she instantaneously grabbed the dirty diaper and pulled it straight toward her mouth. Sensing the danger in this, I grabbed her and whipped the diaper into the garbage before she had the chance.

How the heck do you carry a baby who’s soaked in pee, you’re probably asking? Coincidentally, I pondered the same question. “How?” I queried out loud. “What?” the guy behind me asked. Ignoring his question, I whisked her up, avoiding her pee-soaked clothing with surgical precision. Had I been thinking, I would have ejected all 25 feet of paper towels from the dispenser, and wrapped her up like a little paper papoose.

The real trick was this: she was soaked, halfway up her back, right? So how the heck do I get her home, 300 yards away in the cold, without getting her coat and blanket and stroller soaked in pee? Not knowing the answer to such a difficult question, and having too little time to figure it out, I simply threw it all in the stroller on top of her and ran (you may remember what an effective measure this was.)

Obviously, this story is getting out of hand. The edited version now begins: I changed her, and went to church. 15 minutes later, she pooped again, loud enough for everyone within eight feet to hear, turn, and laugh. I stood, not believing it was possible. She had not eaten this much! There’s no way!! Then, I noticed she had somehow managed to get poop on my shirt, as well as all up her back. Amazing, considering that I was holding her upright.

Diaper Change Number 3.

To make a long story short, I believe today, I took the sacrament, listened to five minutes of a talk, went to 15 minutes of Sunday School, and witnessed half the prayer of Priesthood, and as of 5:30 pm, have changed in the range of 6 or 7 diapers, counting this morning. Man, being a Dad is awesome.

The Pluses (Pli) and Minuses (Mini) of English

Recently, I was rooting all over through my backpack looking for several of my danged class syllabuses that were mysteriously missing, when it occurred to me what the problem was: I was in fact looking for several syllabi. This is based on the fact that words ending in “us,” when there are more than one of them, quite logically have their “us’es” replaced with “i’s,” as is clearly illustrated by the words cacti, octopi, fungi, multipli and Fung Schuei. (Our sources can’t fully verify that last one). Let’s illustrate this further with a little exercise:

When you are out catching the bus, and there is more than one bus, you would logically not be catching several buses, right? You would in fact be catching several bi. (The only problem with that is, obviously, one cannot physically catch several bi, but would only catch one bus.) But the point is made. And if it’s all of us catching the bi, and there’s more than one of us, then it would not be us at all: but rather i! So the correct grammar in this instance is “all seven of i were catching the bi, and we dun missed every derned one of em. All of i then had to walk, through miles of cacti, fungi, octopi, mooses, and wallri. To top it all off, we were each named Russ, making us a group of Ri.”

In summary, English is definitely not a language for wusses. I mean wi.