The elderly are ushering in the end times.

Nothing is a more prescient warning of the impending apocalypse than the sight of a fragile octogenarian moving through the winding tunnels of the NYC subway system, confused, lost, and racist.

She is someone's bigot grandmother whose children have long since severed ties. He is the racist great uncle whose only son died in Vietnam and can no longer wear lace-ups because of his bigoty, arthritic hands. With each hateful, belabored step they slow down the progress of all the tolerant commuters. Their mere presence depresses the collective spirit of the youthful, enlightened passengers. Oh God! These old people are soul-crushing! I don’t know if my open-mindedness can take it!

Research has repeatedly shown that crow's feet and catheters, whether physically present or simply present as a barely-acknowledged yet troubling mental irritant, negatively impact the work ethic of the buoyant, optimistic Young Americans resulting in a loss of billions of dollars to American businesses each year. In fact, the extent of these financial losses dwarfs even those of sexual-harassment payouts and the under-the-table plastic surgery procedures for board members combined. This aggravation is so detrimental to American corporations that 80% of Fortune 500 companies have now established permanent young persons centers, or PDCs as they are referred to in-house (Pretty Damn Cool), to combat the mental anguish any association with America's elderly bigot population causes. Inside these PDCs are rooms specially constructed for Seven Minutes in Heaven sessions, private theatres in which The Colbert Report, That’s So Raven, and all seven seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer are played in a continuous loop, and dorm style duplexes complete with multiple refrigerators and pantries stocked with Pizzeria Pretzel Combos®, near beer, Juicy Juice®, ramen noodles, and condoms. These PDCs are intended to distract employees from their unceasing thoughts of dying and/or dying a bigot, from vomit-inducing nervousness brought on by fearful days spent wondering what embarrassing, un-PC, and inconveniently life-threatening situation their bigot mom, dad, grandparent, or even godparent is getting themselves into, and from the general discomfort felt after watching an old person cry.

It is this same population, the bigoted elderly, which is unable to find the acceptable humor in and acceptable setting for racist jokes. Their laughter is that of the ignorant - believing the joke to be funny and appropriate instead of funny and inappropriate. They simply are unaware that the correct environment for a tolerant, white person to tell a black joke is in the company of other tolerant, white people. And never forget that they are also closer to death.

It is also pertinent to consider the manner in which the racist elderly complain with clockwork precision about the general demise of things, about how the youth of today are disrespectful, lazy, going-nowhere, free-lovin’ whores. Excuse me, but who were our teachers? That’s right, our elders. Can you chide the burnt cookie when the inattentive baker is to blame? And I take offense at the notion that this nubile generation is burnt or even overly crisp. We are the Young America that popularized YouTube and gave you Paris, Britney, and *NSYNC. If anything, we are slightly doughy.

So what is their function? To make us sad? To make us less liberal-minded? If so, their success is comparable only to the astronomical ratings glory of American Idol, Season Six - off...the...charts. It is imperative that we sever ties with these hateful ghosts of America’s past and renew focus on the tween market and its hummingbird-like attention span and ever-more-revealing low-rise jeans. The sooner the members of AARP are placed out of sight, out of mind (feel free to read that both figuratively and literally), the better and funkier the lives of Young America will be. For ours is a new national anthem, one to supersede the hip-replacement dirge of yesteryear. Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the singing of the national anthem, "SexyBack." And ours is a new pledge of allegiance, a work of significance to erase from memory the bedpan ode of our forefathers. And remain standing for the pledge of allegiance, the lyrics to "SexyBack."
I’m bringing sexy back
Them other boys don’t know how to act
I think you're special, what's behind your back?
So turn around and I'll pick up the slack.


Jay Brannan is ushering in the end times.

While I was busy not posting anything, Brannan uploaded to YouTube a performance of the song I referenced in my January 8th entry, "Housewives are ushering in the end times." I've now included it as a link in that original post, but thought I'd add a special notice so those of who you don't methodically reread old posts for minor improvements/tinkerings (quite possibly not a word) could hear it as well. And the title, as it turns out - "Housewife."

UPDATE: So I've had difficulties keeping the video on my blog. It coyly disappeared when I added a new post. To listen to the song, click on the picture, and you'll be taken in a crystalline carriage to the magical kingdom of YouTube.


My doodles are ushering in the end times [1].

Now, don't worry. That title isn't scatological. (Sorry, Ashley.) Although, for those of you whose mind hadn't gone there, now it has. (Sorry, everyone else.)

If you know me, you know that I draw all the time or drew all the time - a frequent doodler. An eye here. A stiletto there. A lady adorned with tribal patterns (tribal patterns as stylized in the mind of a 21st century white boy) on the back of this English notebook. A bloated tableau of my high school classmates caught in various compromising positions and ridiculous constructions entitled "Physics Extravaganza" on the surface of that chalkboard. Do I remember the title correctly, Mr. Green?

Beginning my last year of undergrad I embarked on a somber series of single-pane cartoons which, for the most part, I alone found amusing. So encouraged by this tepid response was I that I continued to produce additional cartoons all through grad school until I had pieced together a trifling portfolio. With the scant adoration of my peers expanding the sails of my confidence, I submitted these cartoons to St. John's student-published weekly, The Gadfly. Here is
a rough draft of the cover letter:

Not exactly a confident sell, is it. But I still had hope that at least one undergraduate in the editorial staff would respond warmly, and I would open the paper on a Wednesday in the near future and view one of my published cartoons with pleasure (immense) and surprise (mild). Perhaps it was the wound-licking cover letter or the quality of the cartoons themselves. Or maybe it was the inclusion of full-frontal nudity or the consistent reliance on gallows humor. But my little gems were not published, and my submission was never acknowledged. (In case you're wondering - and why wouldn't you be - "GI" is Graduate Institute not Government Issue. Oorah!)

However, your first mistake was assuming the past lies dormant. Your second, pairing those pants with that top. And your third, believing him when he said, "I love you." I will now use the immense power given to me by this new medium to rectify the oversight, the injustice and post highlights from this brilliant collection (or the whole damn thing - you won't know the difference). Take this into consideration: the humor, if present, is inappropriate and slight, and some are more observational than funny. But I still like 'em, and you just might.