Jul 23 2014

The watermelon transporter

(Click image for larger version.)

(Click image for larger version.)

I see three interpretations for this high-school-math-class doodle of an alligator:

  • This is Edgar Clayton, associate professor of circus performance. He worked his tail off to get his doctorate in circusery, but now he’s wondering if he should have stuck with bartending instead. (College students don’t tip very well.)
  • This is Julia French, scientific beach-ball tester. It’s really more of an art, actually, though she’ll never admit it.
  • This is Bubba Du Puis, watermelon transporter. Don’t you worry: Though this technique looks quite dangerous, Bubba hasn’t lost a melon yet.

May 28 2014

Track used to be about survival

(Click for larger version.)

(Click for larger version.)

Long, long ago, sometime in the late 1990s, the high school sport of track was brutal. Though written records from the time are sparse (humans had barely invented computers, much less the Internets), some details remain:

  • Hurdles were 10 feet tall. And those were for the middle schoolers.
  • Pole vaulting was more about construction than jumping over stuff. Competitors literally built vaults over poles.
  • An early form of dodgeball was present. It was the shot put.

Some praise the change that has come to track since then. The sport is safer, they claim. That means more fun for kids—and less debilitating injury. Whether that’s true or not, I’ll always look back fondly on those golden, horrifically reckless days of yesteryear.

Because I was at home, playing video games.

May 7 2014

Double back

(Click for larger version.)

(Click for larger version.)

Kushi was thirsty.

She shouldn’t have been. She just had a drink two weeks ago.

No Bactrian camel worth her salt would need more water for months.

It wasn’t the heat. Though the oversized, papier-mâché human head she wore certainly was hot, it was nothing compared to the heat of the Gobi, her homeland.

It also wasn’t the exercise. Though she had just scaled a 10-foot wall, that was a yawn when compared with her training.

It was her nerves. As she sat in the hall, shoulder to shoulder with her arch-enemies, the Shriners, myriad fears invaded her brain.

  • What if they asked for her backstory? She was a 65-year-old grandfather of three. Or was it four? She could never keep it straight.
  • What if they offered her food? She ate thorny vegetation, not crusty pies. But those couldn’t be any worse than that rope she ate once, she decided.
  • What if she was asked to drive one of those miniature cars? She was barely three years old. She hadn’t even gotten her drivers permit yet, much less her license.

Kushi started scheming. She would tell them all that she had to go buy presents for her three or four grandchildren. That’s something a human would have to do, she decided. Then she’d double back to the herd hiding at the zoo and deliver her findings. (The Islam connection was a red herring after all!)

Suddenly, the Shriners started to rise. Kushi froze.

“I’d like to take this opportunity to welcome our newest member,” the gray old man said. “Ziegfried, was it? Zanzibar? I can never keep everyone’s names straight. Anyhoo, let us lift our glasses and drink. To what’s-his-name!”

“To what’s-his-name!” the group rumbled.

To Kushi, no drink had ever tasted so sweet.