I found the brochure above when I was cleaning out my car before I had the guy come and tow it away so they could put a new battery in, make the tires shiny, and auction it off to a recent immigrant at 2-3 three times its actual value (not to my benefit, of course — I was just tired of the parking tickets) and I remember thinking, “Hey, I was in Colorado this one time and I thought this was funny so I grabbed it! Maybe I’ll save it for the day I have an all-in-one printer and a blog and a lack of material!”
Well, today’s that day.
But I can’t just let the irony stand on its own. Because I have questions, and they are, in roughly this order:
1. Why are Velma and Shaggy from Scooby-Doo in this scene? And where did Wilford Brimley come from?
2. Even if one chooses to believe that these are completely original characters not based on cartoon shows from your childhood, I don’t understand how they all fit together:
2a. WHOSE family? WHAT KIND of fun? I don’t like where this is going. Can you see where this is going?
3. Cats Are Not Purple.
4. Why are the little boy and the dog leering at each other? Why does the hippie wear his glasses over his hair? Who matches two shades of teal like that?
5. I am pretty sure Professor Salty’s eyes are fixated on the redhead’s rack, or what there is of it. Draw an arrow; see for yourself.
6. How are these people related? (see 2 and 2a). Why are cats? Who is up? What happens to when?
Focus on the Family, by the way, is that wonderful group that complains to the media every time something un-Christian-like happens in the world. Like right now they’re real mad at Brad and Angelina, because they dress up their 4-year-old girl like a tomboy.
“I was shocked,” the group’s spokesman, Glenn Stanton, told US Magazine. “I thought ‘What in the world are these parents thinking?’ It’s very possible they are living in a fantasy world, where gender is only an appearance. If so, it’s a very anemic view of what gender really is.”
I will repeat: CATS ARE NEVER PURPLE, Glenn Stanton.
So I’m back from a quick trip to the desert, which is where you do recreatin’, and I’ve picked up some kind of flu virus, probably cattle-borne and likely fatal, but you never know. My stomach hurts and I’m sleepy. Also: sore throat.
The main thing is that I flip the TV on right before I close my eyes and take another nap, and in some background part of my brain I can hear Bonnie Hunt going on about some kind of emotionally distraught Bonnie Hunt stuff, and survivors, and the bible, and. Drift forward. You’re stuck in baby-mama mid-afternoon TV hell and you’re not getting out of it, because the remote is an inch further away from you than your arm can reach.
So. Some kind of commercial for Huggie’s “Designer Diapers” comes on, and then this happens:
When it is a Number Two
I look like Number One
I poop in blue
This will live with you forever, you think, daring yourself to fall back asleep.
Outside, the postman continues to make his lonely rounds, but not for you.