Pickin’ Up Chicks With Wolfowitz

I was just going to have eight panels of “Spit on your comb. Comb your hair. Repeat.” Then I decided to go with a botched attempt at relevance. All I can add is that Wolfowitz is a terrible person who wouldn’t even be sympathetic if he was attacked by a rogue chimpanzee.

Next Week (for real): Rock n’ Roll’s Hall of Lame-o’s

Oh You Internet!

This week marks the most time I’ve voluntarily spent away from the world of wonder that exists within these marvelous intertubes. As a result, I have no idea what I should be angry about this week.

But I haven’t forsaken the internet entirely. Without it, I’d have no idea Peep Show started its fourth season and a fifth has already been ordered. And I certainly wouldn’t be able to watch it without my bestest buds: random nerds who encode and upload TV shows.

Fun With Physical Fitness

I’m not sure why I picked this topic. The Charlestonercise (Or Charlestoncise if you’re going for syllabic continuity) joke was bouncing around my head for a couple weeks. This was the best way to excise that demon from my head. Plus I also got to write a joke about balls.

It’s finally starting to warm up around here. While that’s great, I live right next to a well-trafficked pedestrian/bike path. It’s only a matter of time before my occipital lobes are bombarded with strangers’ balls bouncing to and fro. To AND fro I say.

Next Week: Pickin’ Up Chicks With Wolfowitz


I just found out that Davis Square is now even bettah than evah. And they’re serving Harpoon to boot. Of course, I have no desire to see any of their current slate of movies in a theater, but I’ll head over there if they’re showing Hot Fuzz sometime soon.

What? Were you expecting something about Virginia Tech or Partial Birth Abortion? I’m trying very hard not to be a Captain Bringdown on this here blog.

Friendly Fenway

The weather’s been miserable for what seems like weeks. I hate all of you who are gaining strength from the Earth’s yellow sun. So instead of trying and failing to be funny, here’s what made yesterday somewhat enjoyable for me:

As for actual baseball talk, they seem to be better than the team I was expecting this winter. Hopefully they’ll still be unshitty when I go to a game in July. And maybe, just maybe, the temperature will have cracked 70 by then.

Now I’m going to clean my bike whilst staring forlornly at the raindrops hitting the window.

The Mystery of the Honey Bee

I could go on and on about comedy theory or colony collapse disorder, but we all know I was just angling for a shocker reference. I’m a crass 12-year-old trapped in the body of a tiny, little man.

Part of me hoped the 300th BFW cartoon would be more hi-brow, but this is totally the most appropriate cartoon I could’ve done for such a momentous milestone.

Next Week:
Exercise – The Jazzercise of Tomorrow

A Visit From Frederick Krueger

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine plucked a lone white hair from my head. Angered by this act, my head decided to sprout a half dozen more. And who knows how many have already taken up residence on the back of my head.

I’m not troubled by this. Genetically, I knew this was going to start before my thirties. However, I would like the full changeover to white hair to happen as quickly as possible. This would only make my big, beautiful hair even better than ever. Thanks to Dash X from Eerie, Indiania, I think crazy white hair on a young-looking person is awesome.

So if you are a ghoul, please haunt my dreams. If it worked for Heather Langenkamp, it’ll work for me. And if you are a regular person, you have the go-ahead to try to scare me. But fair warning, I shriek like a wee little girl when startled.