1/02/06
Feliz Ano Neuvo, chums! New Year's resolution: start changing the cat box on time.



12/23
Fah who for-aze, little Internet Whos! Merry Christmas and a joyous Chakkakahn to you all! Enjoy my Christmas gift to you, the Terror Express (I'm sorry! Electronics Boutique was sold out of Call of Duty 2) and may Allah bring us victory over the infidels in the new year!

12/18
Today's chapter of revisionist history comes via Tom Tomorrow by way of Reuters. Said one George W. Bush last Friday:

"There was no evidence that Saddam Hussein was involved with the attack of 9/11," Bush said. "I've never said that and never made that case prior to going into Iraq."

Your honor, I would like to introduce prosecutor's exhibit A, a passage from page 32 of Against All Enemies by Richard Clarke:

"Later, on the evening of the 12th, I left the Video Conferencing Center and there, wandering alone around the Situation Room, was the President. He looked like he wanted something to do. He grabbed a few of us and closed the door to the conference room. "Look," he told us, "I know you have a lot to do and all...but I want you, as soon as you can, to go back over everything, everything. See if Saddam did this. See if he's linked in any way.."

I was once again taken aback, incredulous, and it showed. "But, Mr. President, al Qaeda did this..."

"I know, I know, but...see if Saddam was involved. Just look. I want to know any shred..."

"Absolutely. We will look...again." I was trying to be more respectful, more responsive. "But, you know we have looked several times for state sponsorship of al Qaeda and not found any real linkages to Iraq. Iran plays a little, as does Pakistan, and Saudi Arabia, Yemen."

"Look into Iraq, Saddam," the President said testily and left us.

Ooo! Can I give the Republican talking points response, too? (Summons the voice of the harpy from The Last Unicorn): "What does that prove, other than that the President wanted to know everything about who violated us on 9/11, and that his own White House was staffed with Islamo fifth columnists?!?"

Prosecution rests.

12/15
Ten days left until the birth of our savior and I still haven't gotten Jesus a gift. What do you think the Lord of Hosts would like this year? I'd love to give him my soul (he's been dropping little hints all month) but I went and sold it to buy a hairbrush for my sweetheart. Funny thing is...well, I won't get into it. Suffice to say I'll be re-gifting a watch fob. As for Haysoos, I'm thinking he'd like one of those UFO vacuum cleaners. Gotta be a pain, cleaning crumbs offa cloud.

But I sure know what syndicated whisker farmer Michael Medved wants this year: a foreskin! That's because it seems that no Christian pundit, politician or publicist can pass within three kilometers of Medved, the Republicans' #2 heeb (Joe Lieberman retains his pole position) without Mike falling to his knees and offering to wash their feet with his mustache.

Medved: Dark Flanders

Michael's Semitic credentials have long been suspect. Consider his glowing praise for The Passion, in which the (admittedly exaggerated) cries of antisemitism from the Jewish community were fiercely batted away by Medved, Israel's goodwill ambassador to America's Christian Imperium. Wrote Medved,"If the film becomes a hit, the overwrought Jewish critics of the film will have succeeded only in demonstrating their irrelevance", and "contrary to the fears and expectations of some Jewish leaders, an agnostic, left-leaning college professor at an Ivy League university is much more likely than a Southern Baptist preacher to harbor anti-Jewish attitudes."

Of course, Medved exercises a typically selective interpretation of what constitutes "anti-Jewish" sentiment.The prevailing mood in the South is that Jews are convenient allies towards getting Jerusalem's Dome of the Rock rezoned to make way for the Temple, and then a big "Welcome Home" party for JC. The Jews will be honored to cater it of course, 'cuz the schism between hebrew and gentile is little more than a tiff over wallpaper patterns at this point, right? As one evangelical grinningly put it a couple of years ago on 60 Minutes, in a segment concerning the breeding of a sacred red heifer that will serve as a holy pinãta on Judgment Day, "When Christ arrives [in Israel] we will simply ask him if he has been here before."

Fair enough! And then Jews and Christians will settle the implications raised by Christ's Millennial answer over a warm cup of Gramma's Tummy Mint tea and a plate of lemon squares. Then, like two Little League baseball teams, they will slap hands and head to Putt Putt for pizza.

Frankly, I suspect that reviewing the two parties' stock portfolios on Armageddon Sunday will reveal them both to be heavily invested in timber and nails.

Medved is no Chicken Little when it comes to shoes dropping. I'm sure in the privacy of his home he chuckles at the sweet earnestness of his born again, non-denominational, nothing-to-see-here-folks-we're-just-rooting-for-fucking-doomsday allies, confident that at this unique moment in history the 12 tribes have hitched their star to the one walrus who hates the taste of oysters. It is the sense of security that could only belong to one who thinks he sees his own face reflected in that of his benefactor's, when he is really looking into an over-polished boot.

And so it is to be expected that Medved would jump, as one wearing flubber-soled Keds might, upon the Narnia express chugging its way through the conservosphere this month. As with all phenomenon that bears a whiff of the New Testament, Medved can't wait to give it props and remind any Jew who will listen that what's good for the evangelists is good for the chosen people.

Consider Medved's recent editorial in USA Today, a stunning example of a minority's nose augering for gold in the Man's ass. In " Faith in film: Why not? ", Medved alleges to defend religion in entertainment in the broadest sense. But read it and you will find little evidence that Medved's own faith involves more than a crumb of unleavened bread. Instead, he goes through spinal contortions in defense of Christian preeminence so supple that it ought to land him the lead in Zumanity.

"If a Christian family watches its neighbors joyously, meticulously celebrating Hanukkah — or Ramadan or Kwanzaa, for that matter — it doesn't detract from their enjoyment of Christmas. (...) By the same token, those of us in minority faith communities (or those who reject organized faith altogether) need not feel threatened by the 94% of our fellow citizens (according to recent polls) who celebrate Christmas."

(...)

"If my office co-worker insists on saying "Merry Christmas" (instead of the bland, politically correct "Happy Holidays"), or if the guy across the street installs an elaborate manger scene and a lighted cross on his front lawn, it doesn't interfere with my Hanukkah observance. In fact, it contributes to the kindly, soulful seasonal atmosphere that encourages all people to take their traditions and commitments more seriously."

(...)

"If many movie-goers pick up the New Testament resonance in the latest Disney spectacular, or if fervent believers otherwise succeed in their efforts at "putting Christ back into Christmas," we needn't fret nor fear. This republic has always led the world in religious tolerance and pluralism, recognizing that faith is hardly a zero-sum game. In this festive season, there's enough cheer to go around, and the affirmation of one faith in no way threatens any other."

If a man in jodhpurs wants to see your papers...well, that may not be fair. It is true that America does offer a fair shake to most religions not involving feathers and peyote, but this is less relevant than the fact that Medved once again puts his bookwormy deference towards the country's Christian quarterbacks front and center. If Mike feels the need to spread a little brotherly salve on the wound between Christians and nons, that is one thing. But where is there even a hint of a need for reciprocity? It is, after all, his fellow right-winger Bill O'Reilly who has made attacking the term "Happy Holidays" a moral crusade for two years running. Why is there no recognition that O'Reilly's War on the Holidays is targeted more at those minorities who would deign to have their holiday acknowledged than those who have a bug up their ass about manger scenes? What kind of bizarro algebra does Michael Medved use to calculate that America's 1% population of Hanukkah celebrants need to relax their throat for a few more inches of Christmas?

Medved's other Christmas gift to his favorite faith is this nauseating apologia for Wal-Mart (a chain owned, of course, by an evangelical Texan). There are plenty of horse chestnuts there for the roasting, but these speak volumes:

"Intellectuals have always despised the "bourgeoisie" (In the '20s, H.L. Mencken ceaselessly derided the "boob-oisie") for its hard-headed practicality, refusing to recognize that most people simply don't have the luxury to look beyond narrow notions of self-interest and affordability." (emphasis mine)

(...)

"It's true that thousands of (mostly well-heeled) liberals may find hours and dollars to sponsor showings of a new documentary looking down on Wal-Mart, but few of their fellow citizens have the inclination to join them. Most of us work too hard and save too little, struggling to pay credit-card minimums and hoping, some day, to finance braces for the kids."

I won't posit how many of those citizens are Wal-Mart's employees, but the thought of a syndicated columnist and national talk show host lumping himself in with those who can't put braces on their kids teeth truly cramps my colon. Let me also add that as someone who is losing the credit card fight (see this page's banner), I still find ways to avoid spending my dimes at Wal-Mart's ugly, gray, non-unionized Borg cubes.

Call it my Jewish duty.

12/4
Let me begin this entry by doing what I always do: Getting up and finding something to eat. It's time you realized that what I put forth here as a graceful flow of insightful wit is actually a drawn out session of noodling and snacking. Be back in three dots.

...

AHHHH! Now I am refreshed! Wafting like a leaf upon the brisk, upstate air to the local pizza dispensary, I have been borne back with two slices of American pizza, fresh from the oven. Fuck the Italians, by the way. They may have invented sauce on bread, but there is no way they invented pizza. Pillowy, half cooked dough slathered with a sea of molten cheese upon which sail crispy little refugee rafts of meat laden with aqueous fat? There is no way that could be other than an American innovation. Our entire culture is represented in each mellifluous triangle.

But then, wasn't it the media's endless blathering on about America, her delusions and woes, that prompted me to abandon news, and indeed my precious .com which suckles from the info teat, for near a month?

T'was! But now I have returned, and having gorged myself at the trough of sensationalism I am ready to reinsert myself into the Matrix of our common nonsense.

It wasn't easy to pull off my news fast. I am a junkie for the rollercoaster of anger and hopeless dread that are the twin poles of the media spectrum. My head desperately needed an enema, however. For months my mind has been swimming with Alitos and Children Left Behind and Iraq's millennial death toll. Something had to give.

Accomplishing the blackout required some stern measures. I had to delete bookmarks to avoid the temptation of a quick fix over at CNN.com (and damn them for having such an easy URL to type. There's a reason why I don't frequent littlegreenfootballs). I had to assiduously avert my eyes from the news rack during trips to the grocery store (once I was not quick enough, and I unwittingly learned that Condoleeza Rice had brokered something, though I forced myself to forget with what country). I had to unplug my clock radio and stash it in my closet, refuse to watch TV at 11 o'clock, and, in desperation, strangle a small, crippled newsboy who was relentless in his efforts to have me "read all about " something.

But, I did it! With only a few unavoidable instances of news-seep I managed to remain uninformed about the world around me in any manner that did not involve physical interaction with my species. I return to you now, my palm turned outwards like Logan 5, to declare the coming of a new way! A way free of obsessive devotion to irrelevant flotsam which only exists to burn your britches, with no one reaping any dividends except the britches corporations! Free your mind, people, and the rest will follow! Have no fear for atomic energy! None of them can stop the time!

(But first, eight paragraphs on why Scott McClellan can suck John Murtha's sack!)

So, what did I do with my free time? First, a trip to visit my brother, his wife and their often naked three-year-old in Charlotte, North Carolina. I had a good time hanging out with my dad, who was also visiting on a vacation from the sunshiney hell of his home in San Miguel, Mexico. Absentee father guilt landed me some festive Mexican juggling balls and a wooden Felix the Cat head, but really all I wanted was to have a catch with the old man and heal a lifetime of wounds that only superficially have to do with Shoeless Joe Jackson. My father walked back into the corn field before I could ask him though. Snurf. Sure hope he wasn't eaten by He Who Walks Behind the Rows.

Charlotte has very little to recommend it culturally, just one strip mall bleeding into another. For this reason I demanded to be taken to a local megachurch so I could experience first hand the phenomenon that is gnawing at the edges of our Constitution. I was driven to the Calvary Baptist Church, which is made to resemble a giant pink crown emerging from a small prairie along the highway. It was indeed mega, though I'd guess it was medium-mega at best. Inside I was given a tour by Ralph, a man with white, swept back hair, a purple shirt and copious dandruff. I was shown the sanctuary, which seats 6000 and features a 9000-pipe pipe organ, then the Crown Room, a dining and lecture hall for showing off the celebrity parishioners (lotta sports figures). The building also featured class rooms, a dining hall and a coffee shop. The place resembled a mall for Jesus.

It was a Friday, so there was no service, but I would desperately liked to have seen the faithful in attendance and getting it on, hissing the devil and His servants in Hollyweird. I inquired about the unusual cross Ralph wore, and he told me it was a Crusaders cross, which in those days was like an "American Express card", opening doors for the hungry Christian soldier in faraway lands (with a little help from his boots, I'd wager). I looked around Charlotte to see if this was the new trend in crucifix wear, seeing as how we're at war with the barbarians and all. I am pleased to report that it is not. Yet.

Next on my news-free adventure, it was off to New York City (yes, I know that you just flashed on a commercial for taco sauce. I know everything about you, Richard). There I attended a cramped, unevenly attended comic book convention across from Penn Station. I was set up within spitting distance of American Splendor's Harvey Pekar (and proved it by hocking a loogie in his eye). The featured guests were a visibly tranquilized Carrie Fisher and a bunch of punks from Hogwarts, one of whom was wearing sunglasses like some tween Argentine dictator. I think in the movie he gets eaten by unicorns.

I also managed, through my lucrative connections (i.e., my girl Eva) to attend the Burning Man decompression party at a sugar factory in Brooklyn. My crew and I arrived towards the end of the festivities after an adventure steering our Haitian taxi cab driver this way and that, so it was perhaps not as rocking as if we'd come earlier. There was no shortage of fire dancers and other kooky oddballs however, all freezing their tits off on the roof. Eva and I decided to take our chances smoking up in a tent labeled "Fort Blunt", but our revelry was interrupted by an organizer who spooked us with warnings of an undercover cop somewhere in attendance. She told us to knock it off.

Now, I gotta tell ya, if you're holding the premier "outsider" event of the week in New York City, and you've set up a pavilion called "Fort Blunt", shitting your pants over the passing of the peace pipe seems like a bit of a bait and switch. Suffice to say, as I'd already started to blaze on some of the greenest nuggets this side of Krypton, I felt less than decompressed.

Aside from my inability to procure a coffee maker for my room in the outrageously not worth it New Yorker hotel, the trip went well for me. The con turned out to be profitable and I had some productive meetings at the offices of Cracked magazine and DC comics before leaving NYC, and all this without worrying a drop about the Summit of the Americas or whatsherpuss, the murdered girl in Aruba or Tobago or Saskatchestan. Who cares? I have won the victory over myself.

I hate Big Media.


11/15
For a guy who promised no updates I sure am cranking out the bloggage. This one is purely out of self interest however, as I want to give you folks a taste of the goods you could own if only you were to visit me at the National Comic Book Expo in NYC this weekend!

In addition to my fine comic books you can also chow down on tons of my original art! For instance, there are pages from the comic book, such as this timeless number from Deep Fried volume 1, issue 3:



Roadkill really embodies the spirit of '69, don't he? And There will also be muchos Deep Fried web strips to buy (got a favorite? Lemmee know!) The gems, however, will be some of my lesser known work, like this full-color cartoon that ran in Starlog:



(Get it? It's "Boo Boo Fett".)

And then there is the real pirate booty, and I mean booty, such as this sexy number I drew for the comic book Wicked Universe:



That ain't Cheetara, but my Sword of Omens just thundered up. Anyway, there's lots more where that came from, so if you live in the Rotten Apple or one of its outlying provinces, come to the Penn Plaza Pavilion this Friday, Saturday or Sunday Sunday Sunday! and we'll talk and do some Irish car bombs at my table. Bring some mac salad too. I'll be hungry.
...
Okay, political shit for a change. I'm talking about the conflict that is raging right now in this nation we call Freedomtopia. There are those who say the country is not behind Operation Dead End, so bring the troops home already so Nana McGoogin can see little Stevie one last time before emphysema finishes ripping up her lungs like a wolverine locked in a bacon warehouse.

Then there are those who say Fuck that! This country is all about the war like R. Kelly is all about giving golden shampoos! How much Thai stick you smokin', Wavy Gravy?

This gulf between opinions can at times seem wider than a larger than average canyon. I submit, however, that America's real feelings towards the war are best expressed in the following picture, taken on my street:



























This flag probably went up, like so many of it's star spangled brethren, not long after 9/11. Remember when neighborhoods were like laundry lines of red, white and blue washing, hanging out to dry in national solidarity? This was before the war's symbol became a magnet, and our pride turned to yellow.

A few years on though, having waved as hard as she could, Old Glory is starting to look like some torch song singer performing for two whiskey's a night at a club called the Pink Eye. It takes a leader to get people to change their flag every 3000 miles (or 2000 soldiers), and there is only so much quicksand you can march people into before you start feeling that Yankee Doodle Dandy is just a jingle for a macaroni ad.

I'm sure there are those who would like to take out each of this flag's wounds upon its owner. The flag's keeper is not unpatriotic, however. Their flag is a thermometer, letting passersby know the temperature that America's bullshit has reached. Its running a bit cool I'd say.

And anyway, the owner is Thomas Jefferson compared to his neighbor.



11/12
Sorry for the expired milk my site has been for the last coupla weeks. I was unable to upload to my server because of major bandwidth issues caused by our friends the Cocksucking Spam Faggots.

Spammers. With them on the scene cancer might finally have a chance to rehabilitate its image. Do you remember when spammers were touted as society's digital Abbie Hoffmans? Poindexter skate punks just looking to twist authority's nipple with no more malignant a jones than to maybe run a dirty joke across the Jumbotron during Super Bowl XXIX?

No? Maybe it's because back then these mouse-clicking intestinal amoebas went by another, more renegade title: hackers (or "people of hack"). Yes, those cuddly, anarchical, 56kbs Calvins of dial-up, those John Blutarsky's to the Pentagon's Dean Wormer, seemed like a gas when Hollywood portrayed them bringing the world to the brink of Armageddon or thwarting the machinations of renegade oil companies with nothing but a keyboard and a headful of Paul Mitchell Action Mousse.

Well, in real life those guys grew up, unplugged their Nintendo Power Gloves and put their talents to work for telemarketing firms. Rather than wreak havoc in the name of exploited Rwandan emerald miners by taking control of corporate executives' On Stars and driving their Audis into lagoons of factory farm pig shit, they instead ply their trade finding innovative ways to break through your PC's firewall so that you can find out how a formulation of Ester C and ginko can make you Ron Jeremy for a day.

May their children all have extra chromosomes.

Anyway, I can't blame spammers for everything. Computer glitchiness and a severe case of artistic constipation have provided a perfect storm of excuses for me to take a break from this website for a bit. Frankly, a typhoid patient could cough up something funnier than what has been flowing from my pen into my notebook lately. Jason needs a vacation-ette.

So, I am going to take the rest of November off to recharge my batteries and squeegee the bugs from my brainshield. See you in December, and Happy pre-Turkeyfest!

UPDATE-

Alright, I may not be able to come up with my own humor at the moment, but I can sure shit all over someone else's.

Here is a recent example of Day by Day, a web strip drawn by cartoonist (and secret architect of the the Project for a New American Century) Chris Muir, as well as my detourned comment on it. The subject of my pissery was his cheesy use of a ® after the name "Halo", which he repeated in another strip, indicating to me that he thought he was obligated to do so by some law of corporate subserviance. I decided to zing him, and by God he would have been zung--had his e-mail worked.

Having failed in my effort to send this vandalized bit of mirth to its creator, I thought I'd share it with you instead. Bonnie appetite!

The original:



And my improved version:




Understood? Damn straight. Do yourself a favor and read Achewood instead.


10/25
Once again my oracular buddha eye has prognosticated current events before they became current! For the real story behind Harriet Miers' withdrawl of her nomination, see last week's strip!

And what does the future hold? As I cast my transdimensional gaze past the horizon, I see a helicopter lifting American staffers from the roof of the presidential palace in Baghdad, rainbow toe socks taking the nation by storm, and the emergence of a young guitar phenomenon named Eric Clapton!

Spooky? You bet! As Yogi Bear will one day say, "It's De La Soul all over again!"

UPDATE-

I would be derelict in my duty as a shaker of the ol' cyberfist at the Pharisees of modern America if I didn't request that we all pause to remember the passing of Rosa Parks, real deal. Her death will doubtless be remembered in countless political cartoons portraying her riding in the front seat of the bus to heaven. Sorry Rosa, you deserve better.

10/22
From the AP:

HICKAM AIR FORCE BASE, Hawaii - The well-preserved remains of a World War II airman found frozen in the Sierra Nevada arrived at a military laboratory for identification.

The airman, apparently a Caucasian with fair hair, was flown to Hawaii in a blue body bag inside a U.S. flag-draped metal casket. It was transported to the lab in a military van and unloaded by four soldiers.

You...you don't think...?



10/21
A few people have inquired about my producing "Zogg" T-shirts, perhaps through Cafepress. Although I would have to tread lightly so as not to violate any copyrights, I'd be interested to know what kind of appetite there is for Zogg wear. Interested peeps should drop me a line (or beam me a telepathic data burst.)

10/18
Mea maxima culpa for my late cartoonage. Opportunity came knocking with a rush assignment this weekend and, as usual, making the world laugh had to take a back seat to making the world safe for mozzarella cheese adverts. I will have this week's strip up by Friday.

I'm tempted to weigh in on Harriet Miers at this point, since what kind of self-important blogojournalist would I be if I didn't squeeze a droplet of my own rancor into the fully saturated sponge that is the coverage of her nomination?

Frankly, however, I have nothing to add of import. Sure, I can state the obvious--secret backrubs given by this White House to the evangelist snake handlers that make up Bush's base? Sounds accurate. But I must confess that unlike the various high-profile investigative X-Pundits of the "blogosphere" (a name which only grows stupider with each repetition) I do not have a crack squad of Columbia grad students at my disposal, tracking down white-hot leads that the corporate media has buried in its landfills. I am but one man with a clock radio tuned to NPR, not a digital anarchist meeting with parking garage informants to receive coded clues regarding Miers' secret induction into Texas' rumored Shadow Bar Association, where initiates must cut the throat of an un-Mirandized black motorist who has had the Fourteenth Amendment ritually tattooed onto his forehead.

Ha ha! Perhaps you detected my jest! The blogosphere only has one source for its' information: other bloggers! The blogosphere is nothing but a bunch of hyperlinks from one Geocities web page to another, all eventually tracking back to MSNBC, which gifts them with the information they could never scratch together for themselves like a Soviet food pantry portioning out beets.

To listen to bloggers deride "MSM" you'd think each one began their day snorting Edward R. Murrow's powdered pituitary gland through Walter Winchell's hollowed-out tibia. Sure, one upstart among them tarred CNN's Eason Jordan for stating publicly that U.S. soldiers in Iraq were targeting journalists, after which the multitudes picked up the baton, finally embarrassing Jordan into resigning. The thunder clap that followed was the collective sound of a thousand arms breaking as a horde of basement-bound lardasses patted themselves on the back.

And their encore? A coup d'etat against the "elite" journalists they attach themselves to like lampreys by breaking the story that Newsweek's cover photos in Japan aren't always the same as in they are in U.S. Pulitzers all around!

This kind of journalism is to the real thing what flash mobs are to the March on Washington. So, wake me up when Instapundit ditches Google and sets up a bureau in Baghdad. In the meantime, I declare myself to be the blogozone layer. Thin of content and full of holes, but at least my neck won't hurt from blowing myself.

So, okay: Miers (didn't really think I was going to let that drop, did you?). Making the conservatives squirm. Glad to hear it. Who wouldn't be? Loathing the President is our national pastime. Again, I claim no deep insight into the peculiarities of her nomination or the perplexing way in which Bush has alienated his base, except for the obvious: he's a fuck-up. This is only news to the residents of East Bushfield RFD in Bush County, Bushissippi at this point, but even they had to come around eventually.

Some right-wingers complain that Bush should lead as though his party were, um... in control of the government? After all, Bush's 1% margin of victory means they've earned the right to stack the Supreme Court with justices who, while not having not had any litmus test applied to them--perish the thought!--are guaranteed to serve in the mold of Thomas and Scalia (the MOTAS test). And by Baby Jesus, we know what that means!

But that was before Iraq, and Katrina, and Frist, and DeLay, and the special prosecutor, and Iraq, and well...if it looks like a lame duck, and it quacks like a lame duck....

I wouldn't go so far as to push a cart up to the White House and start shouting "bring out your dead"--Bush is nothing if not canny. But his real Achilles Heel is that wascally Gang of 14 in the Senate, the last stand of the endangered Reagan Republicans who, I suspect, are the real bulwark against the kind of nominee the Christians want. The trade winds are blowing against a fight on ideological grounds since it is more and more obvious, even to conservatives, where Bush's inner circle jerk is leading the country. But hey, if the time isn't right to give Bork another try then a bootlick like Miers is the next best thing, right?

My prtediction: Bush takes the heat and does not withdraw Miers. That would only lead to speculation that he was capable of doing the same thing in Iraq. Nope, he will not accept any outcome but total victory. Some Republicans will abandon ship and vote against her, hastening Bush's spiral into irrelevancy, and the Democrats, happy that they don't have a smart, qualified contender to deal with, will happily anoint her.

And after she's donned her black robe...well then, out comes the Lok-Nar!!


10/11
Check out the new Megoplex section! And this new cartoon! And what about this week's strip, huh? What about that??

And if you love me and want to slip me some tongue, vote for Six Chamber Discount on Newgrounds!

10/01
Hurricane Thirty-four has made landfall on my life. I don't know what it was about this birthday that had me facing it with such joyless regret--I am not usually a big birthday celebrator under any circumstances, but at least I look forward to the cake. Frosting.

Maybe it is because the dawn of thirty-four finds me financially ruined, professionally adrift and spiritually confounded. Here I sit in Rochester, floundering like a beached Coelacanth, trying to balance myself on my half-evolved fins. Where I'm going, what I'm doing and why I should be trying has never seemed more unfocused, if only because I've never gotten up into the eyebrows of all my omnipresent yet unrealized ambitions before. When I step back even a little from my familiar self, as one must do once in a while, especially when one sees 40 peeking over the horizon, I see a kaleidoscope of hopes, half-efforts and fantasies swirling like spin art. If they stay in motion, at least, they all appear to be heading towards a common singularity. If they stop however...

(consults Google Image to see if metaphor holds up)

Yes! They appear as a divine mess! Such is the state of being in which I begin my big, new, evenly divisible age.

Hope is not lost, however. My birthday itself was celebrated in grand fashion, courtesy of my best girl Eva, who has recently relocated to my home town after more than a year spent in the blight of Scranton, PA. For the big 3-4 she cooked my an outrageously tasty meal, lavished me with presents, carted me to one entertainment venue after another, and afterwards...

Well, I don't kiss and tell. I will simply refer to our nocturnal activities as "naked slippery rabbit mambo " so as to maintain a discreet blogger/lurker relationship with you, my invisible surf monkeys.

I am out of the crucifixion year, Eva tells me, so onwards to the resurrection. But is the world ready for what crawls out of the cave three days later in my story? We shall see.

And speaking of crawling, look what crawled out from under a rock the other day! Bill Bennet!

Calling the Kettle Black

Bennet, the moralizing gambler and retro Bush's oh-so-successful drug czar, has a radio program called Morning in America. On September 28, responding to a caller's comments about the economic effects of abortion, Bennet said this:

"Well, I don't think it is either, I don't think it is either, because first of all, there is just too much that you don't know. But I do know that it's true that if you wanted to reduce crime, you could -- if that were your sole purpose, you could abort every black baby in this country, and your crime rate would go down. That would be an impossible, ridiculous, and morally reprehensible thing to do, but your crime rate would go down. So these far-out, these far-reaching, extensive extrapolations are, I think, tricky." (listen to the audio here)

That sucking sound you hear is the collective Republican sphincter collapsing in on itself in preparation for one week of damage control lockdown. Somewhere an assassin screws a silencer onto his rifle and waits for Bill Bennet to come down his driveway and fetch his paper.

Naturally, a six course meal of denunciations has been served up by the Right. And just as predictably, they are against those who find fault with Bennet. Rush Limbaugh was apoplectic with rage at those who chose to misinterpret Bennet's healing dialogue with Big Money's favorite cheap labor source. Said he:

"He's (Bennet) just saying, let's not get sidetracked on debating abortion on whether it will do this for the economy or that for the crime rate or -- it's silly. It's a matter of morality and life. Folks, what he said should have been applauded. What he said should reverberate."

Between repeated accusations that the media ComIntern had pulled Bennet's quote out of context, Rush made the point again and again that Bennet should be "applauded" for what was, apparently, the seminal dialectic on abortion of this generation.

Sean Hannity's site has a picture book example of the context in which Republicans want Bennet's damning quote to be considered. To them, the former White House cabinet member's call for proactive genocide pales next to Robert Kennedy's bugging of Martin Luther King, who George Bush lights a votive candle for every February, or Robert Byrd's segregation era participation in the KKK (he sold the gun that they shot Medgar Evers with. You just know that he did). And of course, what smoke screen would be complete without Chapequidick?

What's truly rich is the means with which Republicans hope to place the issue in its most defensible, and irrelevant, context. Obviously Bennet, a pro-lifer, is not calling for the death of every black fetus in America, even those with lamb's blood painted on their home's lintels. The Right, however, would like it that the Left appear to be outraged by this suggestion, and therefor deflect attention from the grotesque sentiments Bennet actually expressed. That is, to lower crime--I mean, if that's what you want, irrespective of touchy racial issues--we're just talking man to man, right?--If crime is the problem, well the solution, I mean...it's obvious right?

Get rid of the blacks.

And there you have it. No matter what they say, no matter how many tokens are advanced to positions of authority, Republicans remain unchanged by the advance of history. No trickle down theory, no calls for the disenfranchised to pull themselves up by their bootstraps will ever overcome the objective philosophy that is the kernel of all Republican thought, and the core of their economic priorities. Blacks are the Other, and therefor, the problem.

Conservatives aren't scandalized because of what Bill Bennet said, but because of what he meant, because it is not outrageous to them. The wistful dream of a purge of the undesirable, of race-based leprosy, puts Bill Bennet squarely in the mainstream of Republican thought. After Katrina, after a genuine catastrophe affecting tens of thousands of blacks at once and requiring a dedicated effort on the part of the wealthy to help set things right, we should all be concerned about what Bennet has revealed, but grateful that he doesn't have the intelligence to disguise it.

9/24
Re: My last post

Jason Yungbluth wrote:

Let's hope for a speedy acquittal for the St. Patrick's four and a brain aneurysm for the prick responsible for these bullshit charges.

And now today's news:

Cheney in surgery for aneurysms.

Getting warmer, God!

9/19

Protestpalooza!

Just because a certain show-off city has been hogging the headlines by demonstrating how long it can hold its breath underwater doesn't mean that Operation Iraqi Quicksand has disappeared! No no no! The Neverending Story continues, as do the under reported protests it has spawned.

Cindy Sheehan has taken her roadshow to NYC, where on Monday the Man had enough and unplugged her sound system, and would have taken away the crowd's beachballs had not the Holy Rockin' Spirit galvanized the protesters, causing them to erupt into a completely spontaneous rendition of "We Built This City On Rock And Roll", causing the fuzz to flee like vampire ants from a garlic aardvark.

Meanwhile, a federal conspiracy trial has begun in Binghamton, NY against four Catholic Worker protesters who splashed blood (their own) around an army recruitment center two years ago, and who have already been tried once in local court, which resulted in a hung jury. Protests were held around the courthouse in Binghamton, both pro and anti-war, which were monitored by undercover police officers mingling in the crowd and recording the activities from a snipers' nest on a nearby rooftop.

If convicted, the protesters could face up to six years in jail. Once they get out, however, they can be certain that the war will still be waiting for them, piping hot.

It is always gratifying to hear that Authority is still afraid of the people. Let's hope for a speedy acquittal for the St. Patrick's four and a brain aneurysm for the prick responsible for these bullshit charges.

9/12
Welcome, welcome to the Christ-like resurrection of Whatisdeepfried.com. Wipe away your September 11 tragiversary tears, because it is this day, not it's predecessor, that will from now on be remembered as America's biggest catastrophe.

After my long semi-detachment from my website and having long boasted of bold new directions and refreshing new flavors, I had hoped to have a carnival of bells and whistles to enchant you with today, seeing as how I took my semi-hiatus around the Triassic period . Behold! My site remains its same old bohemian self! Consider it my homage to the suffering Gulf Coasters who have not even a pot to piss in, much less a stylin' Internet living room like this one with coffee table content spread out all over the fine virtual sofa. Next to them, what I have is a cornucopia filled with little bitty cornucopias, each dispensing diamond-encrusted veal cutlets. How can I rub their noses in it?

So the new "Megoplex" and "characters" pages will have to wait a bit longer. Meanwhile, the "revitalized" Whatisdeepfried is pretty much the same old one, with the exception of my nuclear hot new portfolio section ! No longer am I a mere one man band with a revolving cartoon head to represent me. I am now DEATH RAY MEDIA, Lord of all creative arts! Click to see the birth of a sensation.

Having taken time off to develop a regular animated feature, I have come to realize that it will be impractical for me to get these out more than once monthly, at least for now. That said, I think you will enjoy what I've been working on. The animations will synch up more closely with the feel of the comic , and feature more characters from it. In addition, I am...(Drum roll? Anyone? No?)...bringing back the weekly strip! I miss the format, and there's just too much happening for me not to be barfing out my two cents worth in comic form every week.

So, click those links on the right and enjoy this week's dose of high octane ha-has (please swipe your credit card and expect a $75 hold so that you don't drive off with a full tank without paying). Next week: MORE!


9/6
Right wing dragon lady Michelle Malkin posted a link to this article on her blog, saying that author Chris Roach "speaks for me." Read it, and you will be stunned as I was to find that Katrina has accomplished the impossible, turning wealthy conservatives against the labor class, who they now see as little more than ringworm fungus infecting our nation's productive tissue. Who could have expected such a sea change??

If you follow the coverage carefully Katrina would appear to be an equal opportunity football, providing the pathos of abandoned morlocks for the Left to milk, and for the Right: reckless disregard of our Judeo-Christian tradition of the citizen's obligation to a polite and orderly starvation while the fine gentlemen of the polity hold hearings to decide whether Power Bar Inc. should be awarded a no-bid contract to feed the refugees.

A few notable excerpts from Roach's piece:

This month is National Preparedness Month. Preparation for disasters begins with one self, precisely because the usual social services we've become accustomed to are lacking. Even in the days immediatley (sic) before Katrina, one must wonder if the stranded folks staying in soon-to-be-flooded New Orleans bought batteries, small radios, food, water, etc. Since it was an ongoing joke in New Orleans that such a flood was inevitable, one must consider how many had no plan whatsoever on what to do in the event of a flood. Instead, like children, they've complained that they're not being saved quick enough. Only actual children and the elderly have excuses to complain about their lot in the wake of Katrina, as their responsibility for evacuation and self-preservation for responsible adults begins with oneself.

(Chris pauses, plucks a piece of lint from the sleeve of his varsity sweater, considers the ferocity with which Brianna fellated him in the boat house the evening before, and continues)

It's been said in the way of excuses that many of these people were poor and had not resources with which to escape. This can't be true. (emphasis mine) Most of the city is poor and black, yet only 20% or so remained behind. Somehow, someway the others got out. The actual number of incapable leave-behind should have been closer to 10,000 not 100,000. The problem with this excuse is that it dodges the issue, namely, that the qualities that have made people remain poor also makes them not evacuate. These include short time horizons, dependence on others, and shiftlessness. Accomodating (sic) these qualities with cradle-to-grave government assistance, conspiracy theories about racism, and pandering political leadership only exacerbates these qualities in individuals.

Having already acknowledged that the idea that the city could flood was a joke, we are left to draw one of two conclusions from Roach's tennis club, Bacaradi-with-a-twist analysis. Either he is correct, and tens of thousands of incapable parasites were waiting for the day when they could squeeze the government for that sweetest of all welfare plums, a helicopter evacuation, and so stayed behind, forsaking all limousine and Hanson cab rides offered them by the landed gentry, instead swarming for the nearest Best Buy, each with a brick and a dream...

Or else they did evacuate: to the SuperDome, to ride out a hurricane. Because incredibly, even in the twenty-first century, some people cannot afford a car or a weekend stay at the Baton Rouge Ramada. Unfortunately, their time horizon for a cozy, completely voluntary stay in a giant concrete sweat lodge was extended due to the fact that the city administrators, the Army Corps of Engineers and Congress, who the dregs had foolishly come to rely on for an anachronistic Great Society program called government, had not taken note that this was National Preparedness month and forgot to improve the fucking levies!!

So Chris, stick it up your pin-hole sized anus. And fuck you and love me long time, Malkin. (By the way, stop using your old driver's license photos on Jewish World Review. What's the matter, they don't have a Glamour Shots at your local Galleria?)














9/4
Sometimes it is good to take stock of what you hold dear philosophically, if only to see if you don't have more in common with those you consider your adversaries than you think. Yesterday's NPR coverage of Operation New Orleans Freedom provided a ready example.

In an audio essay, reporter John Burnett reflected on the acts of selfless humanity he had witnessed, and pondered the why of it all. "Perhaps it is evolutionary," he said. "Our chance of survival increases when the tribe pulls together to counter a threat. Whatever the reason, the unfolding tragedy of Hurricane Katrina was filled with moments of grace."

Notice how while only paying lip service to the materialistic explanation, John can't help marrying it to the divine. I found this rather telling.

The idea that evolution is a religion is a red herring tossed out by fundamentalists to congregations of red dolphins who then swim over to their local school boards and complain that religion isn't being taught in schools. To ask that the irony of this should be grasped by folks who think that the moral of the Garden of Eden story is "beware of talking snakes" would be asking too much.

Fortunately, I am willing to see the point of view of the 10% of that crowd (ask my family why I'm not this generous at Christmas) who see the pernicious effects of giving scientific rationale for all mortal phenomenon, including our interactions, which John Burnett's observation is emblematic of.

The "selfish gene" explanation of human virtue is just one example of the kind of science-think that rankles those who see a divine hand behind the human condition. It is in these kind of cold, mathematical accreditations that the worth of humanity seems to dissolve. If our response to human suffering is based on self-interest, then even our decency is a low, selfish, chemical thing.

Fundamentalists see this kind of diminution of human nobility as the intent, rather than a side effect, of evolution in our daily lives. It cannot be overstated, though, that for the most part fundies are aggrieved, as are all extremists, merely by their lack of pull in the modern culture. If Congress required that a Surgeon General's warning be printed on all underwear stating that "premarital sex opens the gates of Hell", fundamentalists would next demand that underwear be worn with belts so it would be harder to get off.

However, It would be disingenuous to deny the degree to which evolutionist rhetoric jumps categories and inflicts itself on our thinking about a great many topics, in a way which simply supplants previously held philosophical concepts while reducing idealistic notions to motiveless, impersonal actions and reactions. In this way, free will takes a bigger hit under science than under religion. At least with religion " to sin or not to sin" is an individual's choice. The culture of science, with it's formulae for every occasion and detachment from purpose, may open the mind to knowledge but reduces the individual's responsibility, their ineffable spirit, in the process.

"Tough genomes", say society's Vulcans. "You can't measure ineffability. Show us the quanta! And if you can't, don't blame us if we connect the dots between a bonobo's social ass grooming and a corporate golf retreat."

This is true of course. And before I come off like Ned Flanders, who famously complained that "Science is like the guy in the movie theater who gives away the ending", let me reaffirm that I sure as shootin' do appreciate all the fidgets and doo-dorks that scientific progress has given us. I do not believe common ground exists between those who think the earth is billions of years old and those who think that Wotan clapped his hands, made the heavens and earth, and dubbed the event "Wednesday (in the ancient Hebrew, "Humpeth Day"), only 6000 years ago. There is truth and there is falsehood, or else what is the point of science or religion?

But in seeking to express all social and cultural "whys" through science, or rather, through sciencey-sounding pseudo theory, the same error is being made by modern secularists as those myna birds who spout the wisdom of cheek-turning and Sabbath-honoring without ever grasping the substance of the words they are repeating.

The reason that people help each other is called empathy. The nuts and bolts of it is less material than the fact of its existence. Whether you think it is mutual self interest manifesting as divine virtue, or that the Holy Spirit wraps itself in DNA to get its work done, the truth is that one explanation is very like the other. Humans see other humans as themselves. We either recognize two eyes, two legs and an opposable thumb as meaning we are the same species, or we recognize that the act of recognizing means we are the same mind. Either way, we understand that "sucks to be you" also means "sucks to be me," so we might as well lend a helping thumb.

Knowing we are all in the same boat is more profound than knowing who built it, and chalking everything up to the holy double helix can sound a little bit like you-know-what.

9/2
Give.

American Red Cross
Salvation Army

8/31
I've gotten multiple hairs up my ass the last few days every time I've heard a media pundit (usually some tooth-grinding Republican) referring to August as a "slow news month" as an excuse for why Cindy Sheehan has caught the public's attention.

What does that mean? "Slow news month?" Are reporters twirling upside down in their children's tire swings for want of a shuttle crisis? Does a hurricane that rips apart a modern American coliseum, nature itself delivering a Bronx cheer to humanity's progress, not constitute news if it happens in August? Does a constitutional calamity in an occupied desert province not move the needle of newsworthiness when it occurs during the dregs of Summer?

Hell, there's news taking place outside my house even as I type these words. A college age Stanley Kowalski, (who I gather was recently acquainted with one or more of the finer ales available for purchase from the corner green grocer) was just raising a ruckus on the street below. Hearing voices raised and property damage transpiring I went to my living room window just in time to hear uttered these vintage lines of OC worthy dialogue:

Boy: "I slammed my car door...I hurt my hand, I punched my car..."
Girl: "Why did you punch the car?"
Boy:" Because I love you!"

Californiaaaaaa! Califorrrrrrrrrrnnniaaaaaa!

Anyway, Cindy Sheehan is not in the headlines because of some August time warp. News networks are never at a loss for irrelevant puff pieces to overflow our brain boxes with during the "newsworthy" months (I'm sure some Kentucky station still has a van camped outside of the Runaway Bride's double-wide). Cindy is in the news because, lacking a better way to drive home the reality of the President's unpopularity (that other way being an opposition party that didn't smell like a medicated douche), Cindy and her peripatetic Jonestown are the best game going.

Which is a shame since, having heard her speak several times now, I must say Cindy Sheehan sounds like a real asshole.

Honestly, I'd love to get behind Cindigo Montoya and her revenge quest against the six-fingered President. I might even have been able to, had I not heard her short-tempered, two minute interview on Talk of the Nation yesterday, which she doled out as if she were King Abdullah tossing a bag of dates to some Bedouin goat herder who needed a dowry for his daughter's marriage.

Although I rub my hands in sinister joy at the spectacle of the aloof, cornered spongebrain president having his vacation hobbled by actual voters who would like a moment of his time, and who aren't willing to buy it through a $2000 plate of beef tenderloin, I wish this effort was being led by anyone but Cindy Sheehan.

Cindy's grief for her dead son is, I'm sure, genuine. But the more I listen to her the more I hear strains of the world's tiniest violin playing in the background. Her call for the troops to be withdrawn yesterday plays well to the rubes and gives the Democrats (and lately, some Republicans) the veneer of a movement of their own to counter the nationalism which got us into this mess, but it's a crock of shit. Of course the troops can't just be pulled out! The only thing stupider would be the invasion itself. I swear this nation has only two political moods: gung-ho retard and gun shy retard. There is nothing quite so pussy as throwing in the towel the moment you realize that yes, you lit the fuse of a civil war. Iraq is like some antimatter Vietnam. Federalism now! That country can't fracture fast enough for us!

But hey, at least our own civil war seems to be ending. Red and Blue are healing the wounds that divided us in mutual recognition of the fact that we are a nation of Veruca Salts, and proud of it. Baby wants a war? Baby gets a war! Baby wants out? Name your price, Mister Wonka!

What if Cindy got her meeting? What fucking good would it do the nation to have a summit between the world's two stupidest strategists?

Cindy: "At last we meet. You are a fool, Mister President. Clearly you have not anticipated the moral authority granted a grieving mother. I assure you it is quite absolute."
Dubya: 10 When The Iraqi's stand up
Cindy:" My ultimatum is this: withdraw the troops now, or I will demand another meeting. The country will not stand by while you deny a third sit-down with its most revered citizen. Are you prepared to watch the Capitol burn? "
Dubya: 20 We will stand down
Cindy:" "Defy me at your peril, Mister President! Christ couldn't have lifted my cross with a construction crane!"
Dubya: 30 Goto 10

In this "Roger and Me" confrontation we see the manifest flaws of the entire country laid out before us. Two sides of an issue, both armed with nothing more than worthless cant. If Cindy Sheehan was demanding something that could be done, like firing Donald Rumsfeld (the only thing we should all be demanding), her cause would be worthy of her son's sacrifice. As such she is simply a poster child for the Left's political vacuum. Michael Moore without the wit or the weight.
...

When I called my girlfriend to tell her about flying spaghetti monster, she stunned me by saying she had already heard of it. How does this kind of information travel so fast? It's as if there were a web of interconnected, high-speed machines informing people around the world about superfluous nonsense.

What prompted me to notify her about my find was the similarity of FSM to a xoomorphic oddity that I had come across in an old issue of Thor. That issue (volume 1, #257) found ye Olde English-spouting Norwegian aboard a space ark battling a mysterious creature whose tentacles prowled the ship's corridors seeking Japanese middle school girls but settling for any blue-skinned space refugee they could ensnare. When the creature is finally revealed in it's full horror however, a new benchmark in exaggeration is established forever. We can only call this monument to Marvel's lousy page rate...SPORR!



















































It is obvious from the accompanying text that writer Len Wein wanted his audience to glimpse something worthy of what Moses was denied by God on Mount Sinai -- "FOR NONE SHALL SEE ME AND LIVE!" What he got was a pile of au gratin potatoes and $.35 worth of live bait.

Sporr's kind must have dealt with the indifference of crestfallen teenage readers for millions of years. It has evolved a unique defense mechanism, like that of a puffer fish. Caption boxes filled with hyperbolic narrative orbit the monster as a protective shield against the reader's inevitable disappointment, declaring "To call it grotesque would be ridiculously inadequate!... To call it repulsive would be an obvious understatement!...To call it a living nightmare spawned in the darkest pits of hell would be poetic, but still insufficient by far!...No, in all honesty, we can only call it what so many others have called it--and let it go at that!...We can only call it...SPORR!"

The intent is that instead of seeing Sporr as a product of artist John Buscema's Smirnoff-dulled imagination, you will take Sporr's word that he is indeed Satan's own monocular afterbirth and adopt his name as the final word in resplendent abomination.

Sorry Sporr, but I've seen scarier than you at Bath & Body Works.



















8/19
In case you are wondering, I have been enjoying caviar and watercress sandwiches daily for the past month, as the E-Bay auction went so swimmingly that I am now able to indulge my every culinary want, no matter how vulgar. Thanks to all the bidders!

And speaking of vulgar, I was so thrown and overblown by the auction's success that I am having another one right now, for you "erotica" connossieurs out there (although I don't mean for my newly refined vocabulary to scare off you plain ol' porn aficianados and garden variety meat beaters. All are welcome!).

This is another of my famous "commissioned art" auctions, were the victor wins the right to have anything they want drawn for them that can be crammed onto an 11 x 14 piece of paper. This particular auction is for a piece of naughtylicious "adult" art. Let your fantasies run wild, gents and gentesses! If you don't mind the wickedness of the offer, bid today! Only five days left before the sex ship sales!

...

For those who still don't know, the sparseness of new material on this site in the past couple of months is not due to the degeneration of my frontal cortex due to massive ingestion of narcotics, nor even to the fact that my left eyebrow keeps distracting me with its incessant Gregorian chants. Rather, I have been taking time off from the weekly grind to backlog a bit of material for Whatisdeepfried before bringing the engines back up to full steam in September.

In the meantime, news cycle after news cycle passes without my vitriol dissolving the day's headlines so that you may safely slurk them up, predigested, like Seth Brundle. I apologize for this change in your diet, especially since it makes it seem as if daily events no longer make my blood boil, which they most certainly do. My apparent malaise may also be fueling rumors that I have lost my edge, which may be what's keeping me off of Entertainment Weekly's "Must List".

The fact that the Iraq war seems to have become part of the background noise of our daily lives, minus a few muffled screams in the media that occur whenever the monthly soldier tally rises above two score and five, has been a real bamboo splinter under my thumbnail. Expect to hear a lot more about that when I take this site back to warp ten.

It's good to see that the media has finally found a darling to speak for the anti-war movement, though. Actually, I believe that Cindy Sheehan is the entire anti-war movement itself (aside from a few graying post-hippies waving cardboard "Bush Lied" signs on Elmwood Avenue. in Buffalo, NY every week, making me long for the days when it was just Operation Rescue that flaunted their futility along Buffalo's thoroughfares.)

Apparently Cindy has had to break her vigil today and return home to tend an ailing mother, which means that I got this piece of multimedia fluffernutter done just in time (and not only because the wave of the web craze I am capitalizing on probably crested while I was lathering my crotch in the shower this morning.)

I've got a major rant against Intelligent Design inside me, but it will have to wait. ID is another phenomenon which may simply be enjoying its fifteen minutes of fame, or may be insidiously disintegrating the pillars of objective empiricism. Which is true won't become apparent until we are confronted with a self-aware swarm of South Korean nanoengines which we won't be able to neutralize because a generation of scientists trained at James Dobson University was taught to believe that the irreducible complexity of life means that the nanites cannot have evolved intelligence without God's divine hand. And God certainly would not manifest His will be handing a technological edge to a bunch of rice-eaters who don't worship our Lord, so obviously the nano-swarm must be a figment...

Waitaminit. South Korea is Roman Catholic?

Nah. Doesn't count.

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