CSotD: Monday Short Takes
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Let's start with the silly and work our way down to the Meaningful.
I think the joke in today's Buckets is that Greg Cravens draws the two characters as eight-year-olds, but the people actually having this conversation are 50 and older, and work in the front offices of Marvel and DC.
Which, as I understand it, is a different kind of sandbox entirely.
And speaking of ridiculous conversations that probably possibly more or less might or may have taken place:
At least he didn't charge him for gas
I need to stop bothering to check Peter Mann's outrageous ideas to see if they have any basis in the real world.
Of course, the rides happened. I should have known.
In fact, Box Brown also depicts a conversation between Andre and Beckett, but Brown was focusing on Andre and I think Mann has a closer grip on Beckett.
Molloy was published in 1951. So it's not history, or, at least, I hope Beckett didn't still have it on his mind seven years later.
Though, if he did, it could explain why the name of the character in the piece he was working on at the moment was "Krapp."
Like I said, I've got to quit looking Mann's stuff up and just go with the flow.
Conciliation
Meanwhile, today's Zits reminds me of an entry in a "Design An Ad" activity some years ago at a Newspapers-in-Education program.
"Design an Ad" was a common fundraiser/crowd pleaser in which local businesses would contribute to the paper's educational program and, in return, kids would draw ads for them and they'd pick one to run in a special supplement.
One that wasn't chosen for publication in the paper but was widely circulated within NIE circles was for an insurance company and showed a happy mother and kids in a car, with the text reading "Sure, you're sad that he died. But at least you got a new car and a place in the country!"
I just want to say one word for you, Jeremy. One word.
Are you listening?
Term.
Reconciliation
Finally, here's one that provokes some serious thought: Francis spotlights the crux (so to speak) of why I'm not particularly interested in "reconciliation."
The Church keeps saying it wants to welcome me back and forgive me, and the problem with that is that I'm not real clear on what anybody needs to forgive me for.
I mean, I can think of a lot of things, but none that rise to the level that they seem to have in mind.
Or, at least, none that rise above the level that they always seem to have in mind.
There was, and perhaps still is, a joke among divorced Catholics that, if you have insoluable marital problems, you should shoot your spouse.
For committing murder, you only have to go to confession. Being forgiven for divorce is much more complicated and involves filling out forms and submitting to a tribunal.
And the best part of murder is that, not only is there less paperwork involved, but, if you get the chair, a priest will come give you communion before they strap you in.
National Catholic Reporter carries quite a few more Francis strips than appear at GoComics. This is the current strip there, while today's GoComics strip appeared there a month ago, at about the time that previously linked article did.
If I were Pat Marrin, I'd go ahead and post them all at GoComics, too, but I suppose it's like when Richard Pryor first broke out of doing "nice people standard TV standup" routines, or when Boondocks was fresh and new: There is some discomfort in sharing the sort of jokes outside that we once kept inside.
Here's another one from NCR, and maybe this is a little too inside for others to get, but it busted me up (including the picture of the Pope in the background, which reminds me of the portrait on Major Major's wall in the film version of Catch-22).
The ex and I went through the annulment process post-divorce, and it was very cleansing: This heartless, intrusive, bureaucratic judgmental process cleansed me of any illusions about wanting to be "forgiven," and made me think of the words of St. Groucho of Marx about wanting to belong to clubs who would have me as a member.
The twist being that I wouldn't want to become the type of person they would accept.
It would be like being permitted to join a country club with a restricted membership.
I don't really believe in heaven, but, if it's real, that's not how you get there.
A song no-one on the divorce tribunal will ever understand:
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