Monday, August 31, 2015

You Don't Have To Go Home, But You Can't Eat Here

The other day while drinking (as all good stories start) we were reminiscing about the craziest mom we ever met (get your mind out of the gutters).

See, when the two of us were growing up, we had a mutual friend named Brian. And Brian was a cool guy, but his mother was, for lack of a better term, batshit crazy. For starters, she hated us. I mean, absolutely loathed us, and only for the simple reason that we existed.


Yes, you can be furious at someone quietly holding a book or a Rubik's cube. No, it doesn't make sense.

And yet this was a stark contrast to how she treated her son.




Fun fact: she really did call him Bry-Bry, and we gave him endless shit for it
Fun fact#2: if you call me Bry-Bry, I will murder your face

We'd never actually seen a mother smother her child as much as she did without someone needing a body bag.

She wasn't so much a mother as a butler. If he went outside, she gave him a sweater to make sure he wasn't cold, even if it was 95 degrees. She checked in on him every 10 minutes, just to make sure he was okay and to ask him if he needed anything. She fed him lobster, and lamb, and shrimp cocktail, because she wanted nothing but the best for her son... Even if he hated it and just wanted to eat mac and cheese and chicken nuggets like the rest of us.

That, however, was not how she treated his friends, aka us. No, Brian's mom had quite an interesting policy regarding having friends over for lunch or dinner.




Yes, she absolutely refused to feed any of her son's friends, even something as simple as cereal or a sandwich. So if we played over at Brian's all day long, come lunch time, sure enough, Brian's mom would make him a bologna sandwich or pour him a bowl of cereal... and then she'd shoo us outside to wait while Brian ate. Because SHE WAS NOT A GODDAMN CHARITY.

We'd invariably walk to someone else's house, have a quick lunch there, and then return. You know, because our parents didn't mind providing an extra sandwich or two for one of their kid's friends.

That wasn't the craziest part, though. No, her not wanting to share 50 cents worth of cereal was only a funny anecdote, but what made her truly crazy was her indifference toward our injuries. In particular, one day Brian got a brand new swing set that his parents very poorly installed in the backyard.

The day after it was installed, Brian had me (Bryan) over to try it out. Within minutes of swinging, my head went back into a solid iron pole that probably should not have been positioned directly behind a wobbly swing set. I slammed into that thing so hard I probably smashed out a few IQ points.



Brian, being a good friend, got me a towel to put over the back of my head to stop the bleeding. But Brian's mom, not too keen on her "good towels" being used to absorb head wounds, quickly took it back and scolded me. Not only that, but she said I needed to leave.

No, seriously, she kicked me out. And that does not mean she gave me a ride home, either.




So, with a gushing head wound and quite possibly a concussion, 9 year old me walked by myself to the school nurse's house, where I knocked on her door and woozily explained my situation as only a concussed child can.

The nurse patched me up and then drove me home. In fact, she had even offered to make me a quick sandwich, which I politely declined. Go figure, even the nurse would have been willing to part with two slices of bread, a piece of bologna, and a Kraft single.

But it's funny, because as a kid I really didn't think much of it. To me, adults knew everything, so when they told you to do something, you did it, because that was the correct thing to do. Therefore when I had a gushing head wound and Brian's mom told me to walk half a mile to the school nurse's house, I thought that was just kinda what you did in that particular situation.

Now that I'm older, though, I realize that may have been a bit, um, I believe "fucked up" is the technical term.

Which is great, because I saw Brian's mom in the grocery store about a year ago. And she wasn't exactly what you would have called "warm".


It's just nice to know she still holds a grudge against us nasty, asshole kids after all these years.

Cheers and stay classy, friends,
B&B

Beer: Breckenridge SummerBright Ale
Music: Neon Indian






Monday, August 24, 2015

Closed for Editing This Week

Hey all! Good news/bad news.

The good news: we just finished our newest novel, which we personally think is the greatest piece of literature we've ever collaborated on. It's gut-bustingly hysterical, it's dripping with political satire, and it's brimming with action the likes of which you've never seen before (such as a sex-fight, a Segway chase, and assassination by way of taco... just to name a few).

The bad news: we need to divert our attention from drawing silly comics while we polish it up and send it off to our agent. So we got nuthin' for you this week.









Comments will be closed for this week's post. No need to tell us we suck. We already know. But we can either bring you a half-assed comic we didn't have time to slap together anyway or we can focus on finishing up the best novel we've ever written. Yeah, we pick door #2.

We'll see you next week with an especially awesome post about our childhood pal's batshit crazy, negligent mom who hated us with a fiery passion... for no reason whatsoever. Be here or... don't be here. But preferably be here.

~B&B

Monday, August 17, 2015

Please Stop Telling Me About That Weird Dream You Had

Today's post is a very important public service announcement, in which we ask all of you to please stop trying to explain your dreams to us. I know they make complete sense to you, but when said aloud and with no context, we can assure you that the description of that weird dream you just had sounds like nothing more than the delirious ramblings of an insane person.


I mean, how many times has someone tried to explain to you the weird dream they had, where they were back in grade school and they were taking a very tough exam but they didn't have any pants on. Also, the teacher was Jeff Goldblum. And the school was a school but it was also an airport that sold exotic fish. Then they were suddenly somewhere else doing something else and they didn't know why.

What the hell does any of that mean? Imagine if someone tried to explain that same thing, except they didn't clarify it was a dream. They would be declared mentally unstable.







And perhaps most insane is the inevitable description of someone who was not themselves. You know: "You were you but you weren't you. You were someone else, but I knew it was still you."

What the hell does that mean? We know that you're mentally insane, but do you have to project your insanity onto us by extension?

How can someone be themselves without actually being them?





Trust us, we truly believe you when you say you had a crazy dream last night, and it was just too bizarre for words. So please, take your own advice and don't put it into words. Because you can't. There's just no way to explain a dream like that without coming off like someone who escaped from the insane asylum.

Also, it saves us the huge hassle of having to smile and nod while silently wondering where your caretakers are and if they brought your pills. Because there's certainly a time and a place to talk about you and Donald Trump bathing in a tub full of butter while your dead grandmother beats you with a wooden spoon. And that place is a mental ward.

Cheers and stay lucid, friends,
B&B

Music: Malpas 
Beer: Lagunitas IPA

Monday, August 10, 2015

Every Warning Label Has a (Moronic) Story

Have you ever wondered about the origin of stupidity? Sure, there are plenty of stupid people doing stupid things even as we post this, but it all had to start somewhere, right? You know, 50,000 years ago Grog the caveman was feeling cold, and decided he might sleep in the campfire to keep warm for the night. And after doing so (RIP Grog), the village made sure to warn everyone else: "Don't sleep in fire."

So today's post is about the almighty warning label. Specifically, we wonder what had to have happened to a person to merit some of these warning labels that point out the most idiotic, common sense things.

Like, we all know that plastic bags contain warnings about being huge choking hazards. But just imagine the first time someone discovered this, and then decided we needed to create a label to point out to everyone else that a plastic shopping bag can kill you, as a way of preventing more people from following in those very idiotic footsteps.





How many lives has that warning saved? Frankly, we don't want to know. Whatever that number is, if it's greater than one it's highly depressing.

And it's not just grocery bags. It's the food we put inside of those bags, which now has to be vigorously labeled so we don't send ourselves to an early grave by way of tasty snack.

Imagine what had to have happened to create the need for a warning label on a bag of peanuts.






"This bag of peanuts may contain peanuts? As someone with severe peanut allergies, I'm glad I read that, because it just saved my life!"

You might laugh, but we're pretty sure someone has said that across the course of history.

Worse yet, stupid people breed. A lot. Like, when have you not seen a really stupid person at Wal-mart dragging 8 screaming kids behind them? Well, since they do breed like rabbits, they need a slew of warning labels not just to protect them from themselves, but to stop them from inadvertently killing their offspring as well.






Because if you can't store your baby in a tupperware bin, where the hell can you put them when not in use?

Okay, let's face it. We know this is a legal decision made to protect the asses of corporations and businessmen, but dammit, what a world we live in, right? The laws of Natural Selection have backfired, and if you're stupid enough to be weeded from the gene pool but somehow manage to survive your own idiocy, you're going to be one rich son-of-a-bitch thanks to a lawsuit. So now we have to protect stupid people from themselves, or face the risk of turning them and their families into multimillionaires.

All it takes is this: "Well, the package didn't say I shouldn't do that."

And really, it's only begun. Just think: one day we'll get to create a warning for personal spaceships, because some idiot will have flown into the sun. Or maybe we'll have to put warning labels on robots that say "WARNING: do not put genitals inside of robot", because some idiot will invariably try to get a robo-hummer from Rosie the Maid-Bot 3000 and will end up getting his goodies mauled off by the garbage disposal embedded in her head unit. Or maybe we'll even have to slap huge warning stickers on the sides of laser cannons that say, "WARNING: do not stare directly into laser opening and squeeze trigger to test if laser is working", because some moron... well, that's pretty self explanatory.

We've seen plenty of stupid, but sadly, we feel that the dumbest is yet to come.

What's the dumbest warning label you've ever seen?

Cheers and stay intelligent, friends,
B&B

Music: The Wombats
Beer: Red Stripe