Superman Likes to Eat

22 September 2022

He doesn’t need to, but he likes to. He particularly likes beef bourguignon. However, he DOES need to sleep.

correspondent Jypup Kojor wonders why he should need to sleep as he seems to lack other normal human weaknesses.

But Superman’s need for sleep is psychological rather than organic, and therefore not covered by his Kryptonian immunity. In Action Comics #409 (February 1972), Shalox, Superman’s alien therapist, explains that Superman’s recent psychosis (“Who Is Clark Kent’s Killer and Why Is He Doing Those Terrible Things to Me?“) was a result of his not having satisfied his subconscious need to dream. While he has no physical need to rest, his mind needs time to sort things out now and then, and since his hectic period beginning with the emergencies in Liberty City, he had passed on sleeping for three weeks until he cracked. Since then, he’s resolved to get at least a couple of hours a week.

Return of the Angry Fan

22 September 2022

“How do you remain so cheerful,” ask many a customer at the QuikkStopp®, “with all these jerks giving you a hard time?”

“It’s because I know that life is harsh, people are stupid, work sucks, and that making things worse doesn’t make them any better.”

Like many of my quick quips on the job, that usually elicits a laugh.
Humor is truth.

One of the things that make my job bearable is the opportunity to interact with customers and to get them to laugh at important truths (and to get them to stop blaming US for constantly rising prices.) When customers are ready to settle up, and they haul out their bank cards I will often advise them to: “Check in with our cybernetic overlords and give them a chance to gossip about your credit,” or “Report to our robot rulers and entreat their mercies,” or “Deliver your number up unto the Beast and let Leviathan look you over.” Most will then slide or insert their card, tickle the keypad, and otherwise not overtly react to my riff. Others will laugh, and many will comment something on the order of “Isn’t that the fuckin’ truth,” or “You got that right!”

Like Tom Joad, the Angry Fan can appear anywhere and anytime. Whenever individualist rhetoric, proper English, precise speech, colorful metaphors, or accurate descriptions are employed, he is there to piss on your picnic.

It was near the end of my shift a couple of months back, and a customer finished perusing our aisles and brought his purchase to my till. I added it all up and bagged it, then quoted our price. He whipped out his card and I reflexively went into my routine. I don’t remember specifically which schtick I used, but his reaction was odd.

“Do you always talk like that?” he asked, though maybe not in so many words. I wasn’t taking notes.

“Speaking English and telling the truth? I hope so.”

Again, paraphrasing from imperfect memory, “I don’t need to hear about any goddam machine masters (or robot rulers?). I saw my buddies killed in combat, and for you to just sit there…” And he trailed off. There were other details that I forget, but that was his apparent gist. As he seemed to channel Sean Hannity or Keith Olberman or some other sage pontificator in his vigorous denunciation, he stopped. Perhaps he realized that he would actually have had no opportunity to see me sitting. I get very little sit-down time on this job and have zero guaranteed uninterrupted breaks. Maybe he was embarrassed, which I doubt; entitled children are rarely embarrassed by their misbehavior, they just don’t like getting caught. And it sounded like he’d caught himself, so he wandered off leaving me to puzzle over what had set him off, or what made him think that citing his combat experience would sway such a rigid peacenik as I. Eventually, like most other ephemeral nuisances, I put him out of my head.

Last night he returned. I guess. I didn’t recognize him from our previous encounter, but I’m retarded, so I don’t remember people’s faces, voices, names, or proclivities until after I’ve dealt with them three or four times. Or it may have been an equally cranky ex-GI with similar issues. At any rate, not being forewarned to tiptoe around his delicate little feelings, I simply continued the same routine I’d been practicing all night. So I added up his stuff, quoted the price, and upon seeing his card, encouraged him to “Go ahead and slide it, plug it in, or tap it, whatever it takes to activate your account, and give the computers a moment to discuss your credit with their electric friends.”

“Stop that!” he said.

“I would so love to,” I answered.

“I served in Iraq and Afghanistan, and I know they’re always watching us! I don’t need you to remind me! What’s your problem?”

I love questions more than statements at times like these, because questions (if taken one at a time rather than multiply as a rhetorical assault) at least offer some direction. I attempted to answer him by way of listing my problems. I started: “Caries and presbyopia…” and before I could get to pointing out that former arch nemeses (aka ex-wives), among others, also thought I had Asperger’s, he interrupted. Loudly.

“Fuhfuh fuhfuhfuhfuhfuh!” he said. (If that’s how he heard “caries and presbyopia” then perhaps he also misheard “report to our robot rulers” as “I will fuck your mother until she’s dead and then I’ll murder your children.” Or something. I don’t understand elective anger.

But he wasn’t finished with me yet, or so he thought. He began to escalate when the assistant manager of the shop, with whom I was working last night, suddenly appeared at my shoulder and said, “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the store.” As AssMan led him out he continued loudly spewing his anger and distress to the world and I attended to the next customer in line, quivering and shaking inside from the encounter, but not affecting my customary good humor externally. AssMan returned to the shop and asked me if I was okeh, and I assured him that I was. “I can’t tell what set him off,” said AssMan. “Maybe PTSD.”

“You’re very generous,” I said. “GIs tend to be less sympathetic than civilians are about such things. We’re supposed to be trained better.”

“Roger that!” said a customer who’d witnessed the ugly episode. “In fact,” she continued, “I’m just the person you wanted on the scene in case that asshole went sideways on us. I was an MP in Iraq, and I had to deal with a lot of jerks like that.”

AssMan nodded, and said, “Yeah, well, we just can’t have that kind of noise in the shop. I’m sorry if you feel I interrupted.”

“Nah, I get it,” I answered. “I think maybe I’ve got a higher tolerance for noise than you have. I’ve raised three children, and sometimes you just have to let baby cry it out. But thanks anyway. He was a putz.”

“You need to take a break or something?”

“Uh… yeah. It’s about time I took a stab at lunch anyway.” I closed up my till and fetched my poke out of the cooler. After managing to get a few bites down I gave up on the attempt and returned to my station. “I’m not always as calm as I appear on the outside,” I told AssMan. “My guts are still too clenched up for me to eat anything right now, so I might as well get back to work.” After a while, and several customers later, I said, “You know, not everybody who uses a crutch is a pathetic loser. But if that crutch is ‘I’m a vet’ and is being brandished as a license to be a jerk, he almost certainly is.”

update 221019: AssMan reports that the Angry Fan returned to our shop a few days ago and apologized, describing his own behavior as buffoonish. As AssMan was only one of several of us exposed to that passionate tirade, he thought that the one apology was insufficient. I pointed out that it was a good start and a wholesome sign. I like to be optimistic about people, and I am particularly pleased when such hopes are vindicated, even if only in part.

thoughts on 230312: It’s possible that none of this is true. It could just be some deep subconscious allegory for the smoldering resentment one feels for other angry fans. While “the Angry Fan” may have been intended as a generic construct to embody a variety of irrational and over-wrought emotional responses to innocuous “offenses” (kneeling for the anthem, spitting on the sidewalk, disrespecting the troops, not being as a-scared of the latest popular terror as we should) I’m beginning lately to discern the talents of the eagerly aggrieved and their understanding that it is at all times always about them.

230611 — Are Angry Fans still “feelin’ (bomp bomp) [mad] all over (bomp bomp) [mad] all over, now that [I’m gah-ah-ah, ah-ahne]?”

Most Agreeable and Most Reviled

14 October 2019

I’ve mentioned elsewhere that I am a multi-threat deviant. I am polyamorous in a world ruled by binary bigots. I am an ardent fan of four-color super-heroic fantasy in a “them funny books is fer kids” world. I am a sci-fi geek who is not thrilled when Star Trek is pre-empted by a tape-delayed pre-season pro football game.
And I speak English in ‘Merica.

And more to the point today, I am an atheist in Mystic-World and an anarchist in Statist-World. And it’s funny. Those two philosophies are probably the most amenable to all others, and yet ours are probably the most universally despised of all “faiths.” Other points of view tend to agree more with ours than any of them do with each other.
For numerous example…

Leftie Statist: The regressive consumption tax hurts the poor.
Anarchist: It certainly does! Cut that tax!

Rightie Statist: The progressive income tax is destructive of industry, of thrift, of innovation, and of civil society.
Anarchist: Right on all counts! Cut that tax!

Leftie Statist: The War on Drugs is an assault on our civil rights.
Anarchist: Absolutely right. Let‘s end it!

Righie Statist: An armed society is a safer and more polite society.
Anarchist: It sure is! Self-defense is a human right, and a responsible Militia takes it upon itself to be as well-armed as the Occupation.

Leftie Statist: Since many see war as mass-murder it is cruel to compel those who object on grounds of conscience to support it through taxation.
Anarchist: Absolutely right. Let‘s end the practice!

Rightie Statist: Since many see abortion as homicide it is cruel to compel those who object on grounds of conscience to support it through taxation.
Anarchist: Absolutely right. Let‘s end the practice!

Christian: I do not believe in the divinity of Thor.
Atheist: Yep! Me too.

Druid: I do not believe in the divinity of Jesus.
Atheist: Roger that.

Buddhist: I do not believe in the divinity of Zeus.
Atheist: Ditto.

Shinto: I do not believe in the divinity of Ishtar.
Atheist: Me neither.

Muslim: There is no god but Allah.
Atheist: Oh dude! I was with you all the way to “but.”

Jew: I do not believe in paying retail.
Me: Man, I wish I had your connections!

Okeh, I get why am hated, but atheists in general?
And why anarchists at all?

Organic Chicken Milk

13 September 2022

correspondent Yogup Vigowloves that such progress has been made with GMOs, and can’t wait for low-fat carrots.”

I attempted to cackle at the actual photograph, captured in the wild, but only guffawed. Still, it piqued some thoughts.

Chickens are omnivores, and free ranging often provides the best eggs, whereas cattle are herbivores, so “vegetarian based” milk is stupid and redundant, but probably stupid intentionally for purposes of marketing, which leads me to…

The words “organic,” “natural,” or “non-GMO” often appear on products that I buy, but only incidentally, as I don’t care. As a genetically modified organism myself (thanks evolution!) I appreciate the bounty that human interference has wrought! I read the labels for amusement, and the listed ingredients for guidance.

“Tichelle’s Bogus Journey”


3 September 2022

chapter one: Monsters in the Nest

It’s bad enough He’s been up all night, wasting perfectly good boxes by putting useless stuff in them and closing them up. He didn’t even come to bed, and come daylight He’s still up wasting boxes and then, MONSTERS show up and suddenly they’re rampaging through the nest trying to kill and eat me, but He lets me out the back so I can hide under the shed when EVEN MORE monsters show up and they start hauling our stuff out and putting it into their big box in the front. During the morning’s assault, He comes down a couple of times, offering me a little kibble and faucet juice, but no egg slop or milk lickin’s. Jerk.

chapter two: The Bad Bottle Smell

Later in the day the monsters finally gave up and left, taking their giant box with them. He called me up from the shed, offering food, proper scritches, and apologies on the back deck, none of which were nearly adequate to compensate me for this latest offense. I decided it was safe enough to check out the damage inside, so I told Him, and He let me in. It stank. It stank like some of those bottles that He and That Woman sometimes brandish when they’re running around the nest. And ALL OF MY STUFF WAS GONE! He opened the Door That Never Opens, and it seemed to smell a little better in there. It smelled a bit more like Him, and That Woman, and a few other strange animals, but not nearly so much like the bad bottles.

He fell across the emergency back-up bed and stayed there until the next morning. I slept with Him off and on, ate a bit of what He left for me, visited the Dirt Patch (which at least didn’t smell like any other cats!), and looked for our stuff, but the rest of the nest just continued to stink, so mostly I slept with Him. That’s not so bad. The bed smells like us, and it has our quilt on it. He may have let most of our stuff get away, but at least we’ve still got our nest, food, faucet juice, a Dirt Patch that smells like my butt, and our own quilt. And Him. I guess we can get along.

chapter three: The Big Bouncing Box

Daylight again, and He’s up already and feeding me and now it looks like He’s going to lock me in for days again. His arms are full of stuff as he goes out, and I can hear Him opening and closing the Big Box outside. After a while He takes away my food and faucet juice and my Dirt Patch and then He picks me up and carries me out and puts me in the big box on top of our quilt, then He gets in and stares out the window while the box bounces around. I don’t know what He’s thinking. We just sit in that box and bounce, and He’s got that stinking Dirt Patch in here with us. And not two steps away are my food dishes. What does He expect me to do? Eat and drink right next to that? Or use it while this stupid box keeps bouncing? What’s wrong with Him!?

After a while, the box stops bouncing, and He gets out and it smells different. I crawl into a nice dark place and try to ignore him, but he comes back and starts talking to me and moving stuff around back here until He finally stares at me and makes noise with His face. Then He gets back in, and we start bouncing again. He does this several times during the day, and I always try to relocate so He can’t bug me, but He always stares me in the face and makes noise until He gets tired of it and sits back down and stares out the window and we go back to bouncing.

chapter four: The Evil One

FINALLY the box stops bouncing for good, and He drags me out of it into a new world that smells too strange, and then into a nest that smells of monsters and CAT! Because He wouldn’t stop that bouncing box long enough for me to crawl out and pee in piece, as He hoists me into that strange stinking nest I piss down His leg and onto the floor in an attempt to counter all of the foreign smells and make it a little homier. He doesn’t seem to notice, offering not a word of thanks for my contribution, but deposits me on the floor of this strange nest and I quickly find refuge in a dark place. While I’m sheltered, the Evil One comes to talk to me and tells me to get out of her nest and I try to explain that I would love to, but she doesn’t seem to care what I have to say.

Eventually she goes away. Then He comes back with our quilt and lays it beside my hiding place where He so rudely saw me while I was being invisible! Then He puts down a little food and water. The quilt smells better than the rest of the nest, so that helps a little, but I am still not happy, and not about to eat any of that kibble. I watch as the Evil One eats it, then licks herself just a step or two away from my safe place. In addition to the Evil One, the nest is full of other monsters and He and they spend the night laughing and shouting and just making me miserable. After a while it quiets down, and as I hear Him snoring in the distance, I go to sleep too.

chapter five: Back in the Bouncing Box

After making me endure this horror all night, He takes away my dishes and our quilt, then He scoops me back up and puts me back in the big box with the Dirt Patch still in it. I haven’t shit all night, or all day yesterday, nor eaten. But while he’s back in that other nest shouting with the monsters, I think I can manage a token protest turd right in the middle of our quilt. THAT’ll show ‘im! When He came back He picked it up, got rid of it, and then got into the box and stared out the window some more while we resumed bouncing. All day. Again. Sure, with occasional breaks when He’d get out into a different smelling world. But mostly, we just sat in the box. He must have gone insane. It seemed, as it was getting dark again, and we were STILL in the box, that this might be what our lives would be from there on out.

After the dark had settled firmly outside, He started to get out more, shout for a while, get back in and we’d bounce a little, but very soon He’d get back out and shout some more. So I started shouting too, trying to explain to Him that I was getting fed up with this whole situation and we should just get out and run around for a while. Maybe kill some string or sticks. This box is boring. And the Dirt Patch is too close to my dishes! I must have gotten through to Him, because He finally did stop, and he carried me into yet another strange nest, but at least this one didn’t smell of cat, only of the monsters who were already there. He deposited me in a corner of the nest and soon had brought in my dishes and our quilt and the Dirt Patch, but at least everything was properly separated and not all crowded together like they were when we were in the big box.

chapter six: The New Monsters and Biggins, Beef Biggins

Things seem to be settling down a little. He’s been feeding me regularly again, and the Dirt Patch doesn’t constantly bounce like it did in the big box outside, so that’s no longer an issue, and our quilt still smells like us, and this nest has new dark corners to explore. We’ve been here for days, and the new monsters mostly leave me alone. The quiet one is nice. I’ve brushed against his leg a couple times and he properly scritched me between the ears, but mostly I try to keep my distance. The other one is loud and shrieky, and she’s lunged at me a couple of times, but lately she’s been a bit quieter, but can still get a little shrieky sometimes. He and the quiet one and the shrieky one often gather in the center of the nest to make noise and clouds, and sometimes He gives me a little dry grass, which is nice to roll in. And sometimes, when He is gone all night, the shrieky one gives me food.

When He and the monsters are gone, I like to sit on the back of the couch and watch out the window. There are cats and other animals and monsters living just outside, a short sprint from this nest. Sometimes He catches me looking. He spoofs me as I watch the handsome cat. “Biggins, Beef Biggins,” he says as I watch the agile tom stalking his prey and I imagine that I am hunting with him. “Biggins, Beef Biggins,” He laughs and scritches my head and goes away.

chapter seven: The New Nest

I don’t know what His problem is. It seems we were all getting along fine. The new monsters turned out to be not so bad. Never once did either of them ever attempt to kill me or eat me, and they even scritch and feed me now and then. But one night, for no reason, He and the shrieky one take away my dishes and our quilt and the Dirt Patch and then put me in the big box. They both get in and stare out the front window while we bounce for actually not very long, then we’re getting out and he’s carrying me down this strange corridor smelling of monsters and cats and other animals and into this weird box, then down another stinking corridor and finally into ANOTHER NEW NEST, but again, this one doesn’t smell like any cats at all, barely a trace of monster, with yet a comforting whiff of Him. And the Dirt Patch.

Day after day He brings back more of our stuff that He had hidden somewhere, and the new nest smells more and more like us and our stuff, and I’ve got more secret caves all the time. Eventually even our bed returns, and I can sleep on top of it, with or without him, or hide underneath it from monsters. Because He still lets monsters in, but not very often, except mostly that shrieky monster, and sometimes the quiet one, too, but generally it’s just Him and me.

And about time, too!

17 November 2022
Au revoir, Tichelle LaBelle.  Bon voyage, mon pauvre petit chat.

The Ups

24 December 2017

As long as I can remember I’ve been beset by The Ups.

Because I am lazy and averse to confrontation, I tend to let small offenses slide. Since many nuisances are ephemeral, there’s often no practical benefit to correcting the thoughtless and the discourteous. Rather than SPEAKING UP about a small issue, I’ll blow it off. Unfortunately, to the commonest form of ignorant savage, such a demeanor is oft taken as approval of their misbehavior, so they “think” that “it don’t matter.”

Then, once I’ve reached my saturation point, I will elaborate over what I see as an accumulation of offenses, and what the malefactor feels is an isolated incident. So I’ll go on and on and on to the point of hectoring tedium. In short, I have a hard time, once I get started, with SHUTTING UP.

Finally, as a frequently stubborn monomaniac, I can immerse myself in a puzzle or problem or project, often to the point of oblivious unconcern for other pressing issues. Once I get my teeth into a problem I am disinclined to let it go. As an engineer or an accountant, I understand that we will reach an “optimum solution” to a problem, or a realization that said problem is not really worth pursuing, but as an up-challenged fellow, I still have a very hard time GIVING UP.

I rarely quit, and if it appears from the outside that I have, I would caution observers against mistaking giving up for chickening out. I’m no quitter, but I am a coward. And that explains my relationship with tobacco. I love tobacco. I love the smell, the taste, and the psychoactive effect. It’s a wonder drug! I did not love the rattle in my chest when, as a much younger man, I had simply trotted up two flights of stairs. I have not tasted it since 1989, and, like Killer, what I miss most about it is blowing smoke in the faces of people who tell me I should quit. But I’m no longer a practicing butthead, so I don’t get to do that anymore.

above, Killer and his pal Beetle Bailey hitting on an Italian babe.
by Mort Walker

Nature’s Balm

21 June 2021 — According to the friend of a guy* my cousin knows:
“Narcissists have no capacity for context or proportion.  Either you see things their way or you must be crushed into the ground.  You cannot respectfully agree to disagree with them.  Any criticism or difference of opinion is a challenge to their ‘authority, power, and control’ and is seen as a threat and will be treated with as such and you will be demeaned, debased, dehumanized and distrusted.”
And: “Such is the case with bating.  The narcissist knows how to push your buttons to get you to engage in his or her game.  Don’t engage!” ( * Greg Zafuto? )

14 November 2021
(meter stolen from David Frizzel)
The more I learn what bugs you, the less there’s left to say.
It seems that I get on your nerves a little more each day.
And though you say that’s not the case, and we still need to share,
While you insist we tell the truth, I know that I don’t dare.
They say that tears are Nature’s Balm, and not to be deplored,
But when they spring from cruelty, they’re more of a reward.
I’ll cherish my sweet anguish, so there’s no need to grieve.
If I can keep my lips shut tight, you need not disbelieve.

230601 — “So glad we’re done with that ass”
We won’t see Lehr every morning, we won’t have Lehr overnight.
He’s the guy who doesn’t know he’s never right, never right.
He’s abrasive and offensive; it’s like he doesn’t care,
So from now on, we’ll have no more Lehr, have no more Lehr.

A Cost/Benefit Analysis

4 September 2022

correspondents Jizeg and Ffjigh wish to make it known that it costs only $0.00 to remind someone that they are not alone in the world.

I’m not convinced about that figure.
Not knowing the exchange rate, the fact that it requires finite time and effort is still not sufficient information, but it seems likely to be over $0.00.
Unless it is being suggested that that is the net cost, in which case it’s still amazing that the costs and benefits would so exactly match each other!

Frankly, I think I’m actually getting the better end of the deal.

Because, at least in the philosophical all mankind sense,
I love Jizeg and Ffjigh and you.
And I derive benefit from sharing that.