Rabbit Hole or Rebirth 1: Hope for the Future?

Da-da rarely, if ever, reposts anything, but he so wants all this stuff to be true. Besides, it's almost Easter, which is all about rebirth and falling down rabbit holes, both of which can be initially painful, but eventually enlightening, so...  give it a try. It's weird, but also weirdly satisfying, in a Fascination of the Abomination kinda way. As a 20+ year researcher into all things arcania, Da-da can vouch for the accuracy of the micro and macro, and all the links are real links to legitimate news sources. This from David Wilcock over at Divine Cosmos. Go Dave:

DIVINE INTERVENTION: Section I -- Defeating Financial Tyranny

Like The Professor says in one of Da-da's books: "To Hope! Without it, we're all just mass without gravity."

It'll feel really good when you hit bottom.


Forget It Jake, It's Bunnytown II: Mastering Your Inner Psycho Bunny

It's hard being The Easter Bunny.

Da-da was sitting in his stinky wondrous Easter Bunny costume at the park de la amusement the other day, sitting alone on a break amidst a lovely Japanese garden tucked behind a building full of of greasy alien machinery, its grind blissfully muted by a blustery storm. All was quiet... well, as quiet as an amusement park in a storm can be. However, Inner Peace was within Da-da's bunny grasp... but it's kinda tough to achieve Inner Peace when you're wearing a odiferous 60-pound bunny costume in a storm in an amusement park. Regardless, Da-da exerted a firm, superbunny superhuman control of his inner psycho-bunny giant vegetable Da-da and was enjoying the sound of the wind, the scent of the rain, when a pubescent voice from beyond cleaved Da-da's rabbit reverie...


So much for Inner Peace. Inner Psycho Bunny Activated.

You are officially hosed. (This is by one of Da-da's fav artists, Michael Sowa.)


Forget It, Jake. It's Bunnytown.

That's right, Da-da's currently portraying the most foul, cruel and bad-tempered rodent you ever set eyes on. He's into that kinda thing, so just go with it. Jeez, LOOK AT THE BONES. (Good costume, huh?) Next stop, a remake of "NIGHT OF THE LEPUS," called, "LATE AFTERNOON OF THE LEPUS." Brrrrrr.

That Absquatulating, Pre-Tax Look of Parenthood

Run, Timmy... RUN.

It's usually around Thursday when the run-like-hell urge jells in taxpayers. Absquatulation does no good, however, because they put chips in your head and can find you anywhere (esp. if you use a microwave or put aluminum foil in your hat). Feels good to run, though -- and that aluminum foil breeds confidence! Aaaand at least you get that $50-off coupon for kids; you'd think it'd be more, as They (who are they, anyway?) need all of us to breed more taxpayers. Da-da himself is merely a eugenics/taxation experiment, yay. Parents will note that the powers that be won't let you leave the hospital without first securing for your newly minted little taxpayer what used to be called a, "social security number," but has denigrated into the damnable rubric: "taxpayer ID number." Didn't someone already fight a war over taxation without representation?

Da-da must flee this, "Global Force for Peace." He can't afford it. No one can.


Da-da Bun-Bun is Inbound: ENERGIZE THE BARRIER

Da-da Bun-bun is coming for you, Barbara.

Grab your linoleum lizards yard monkeys kids, folks, 'cause Da-da Bun-bun is inbound for his lapine giganticus amusement park shiftage. Might wanna run your kids through the metal detector this time, lady. The Easter Bunny doesn't take kindly to being poked with blades of the switch. Besides, it's tough to get blood out of Da-da's fur. He'll stay on his side of the electric barrier, thank you.

Apocalypse Parenting 101: Taking Care of Da-da

Da-da often uses alien tai chi to unwind. The alien cooperates... most of the time.


Forget It, Jake. It's Bunnytown (or, "Bizarro Easter Bunny Q+A")

GAP SOCKS?? Like that's gonna save you, BWAAHHHHAHAAAA!

Because of Da-da's awesome work as BAD MALL SANTA DA-DA, Da-da's been sentenced to being the Easter Bunny at a local amusement park, virtually guaranteeing that Da-da will have a long and lame career sweating inside humiliating costumes, listening to Generation WAH. For this latest gig, Da-da Bun-bun had to show up for "training and motion repatterning," so he could learn how to be the Easter Bunny. (Seriously.) Da-da is now an expert at wiggling his nose and fuzzy butt and hopping in a less-than-deleterious fashion -- hopefully one that makes you spend more money in the gift shop.

Now, the Easter Bunny is basically a bizarre creation, which is a prime reason for Da-da to emulate him. (Da-da's guessing it's a he, even though he's now technically an "it," if you can figure that one out.) But a rabbit that delivers painted eggs is so nonsensical that it begins to make perfect sense. What doesn't make sense is WHY children feel compelled to KICK and PUNCH the freakin' Easter Bunny.


Apocalypse Parenting 101: Special WAKE-UP Edition

After a typical Apocalypse Parenting morning of stimulating activity-like enrichment, be sure to take a break...

...then perhaps a quick return to the action...


Why Nurses Should Run the World (or, YOUR THORAZINE DRIP IS READY, SENATOR)

Like Vegas waitresses, nurses have seen it all. Unlike Vegas waitresses, nurses are too practical for wigs.

Nurses should run the world. Think about it. Nurses are like Super Parents: they have all the necessary parenting skills, PLUS they know how to fix (or sedate) you if you get into trouble. So many people need sedation before they get themselves (or any of us) into any more trouble. They can clean up things and see things that would make most people run screaming into the night AND they do it with calm and poise and efficiency. No one in the White House or Congress or Wall Street or in either political party have any of those qualities. AND, bet you never thought about how the capabilities of nurses today are whole orders of magnitude greater than those of doctors just 100 years ago.

Speaking of 100 years ago... Da-da would be a nurse in a second, as blood spurting in his eyes and brains in his cereal bowl are no problem for Da-da... but the smell of barf and Grape Nuts put him right over the edge.

Nurses are more powerful than manly men in boxes -- or even Grape Nuts. And they certainly
wouldn't put up with this kind of nonsense. Coffee enemas for everyone in Sector 7.
All political candidates are officially on 1000 cc thorazine drips for the duration.

Apocalypse Parenting 101: Keeping Things CLEAN

Ex. 8: Cleanliness is next to impossible, so roll with it.

Why Da-da Only Does Roadtrips (or OLD SCHOOL DA-DA IS COMING FOR YOU, BARBARA)

Da-da likes to keep things as light as possible, as life is simply TOO lifelike these days, but some subjects are unavoidable. Da-da admittedly doesn't get out much, as he's... you know, Da-da, to 4 and 6YO crazed wombats... so the above video may not reflect current conditions (it's from 2010), but Da-da doubts it. Anyway, the Daily Mail just covered this story about a toddler with a broken leg in a wheelchair who was forced to endure a physical assault by a TSA stooge. There's precedent for this as all terrorists are three years old and rolling around in bomb-laden wheelchairs. Spooky, huh? But touching without permission? That's assault in civilized countries. And touching a child without permission? That's a little old felony, not that anyone pays any attention to "the law" anymore. Speaking of The Law, touching Da-da's children without permission of course results in Da-da's 6' 1" 265 lb.-bulk being coincident in space-time with offending object X at slightly less-than-terminal velocity, yielding a happy amount of kinetic energy. BAM! Da-da tries (he really does) to be human half some most of the time, but reason takes a backseat when his children are involved and Da-da basically becomes...


...James Harrison of the Pittsburgh Steelers, only Da-da's bigger. And meaner. And has lasers coming out of his eyes. Truthfully, the above image is pretty darn close to how Da-da looks 24/7 -- especially in the morning when he's forced to cook breakfast for 92 genius mental patients who are really only two in quantity, but seem like 92. Da-da also looks like this if he steps on Bakugans in the middle of the night. Barefoot. On the stairs. And yes, this homicidal protective urge is the main reason why Da-da goes on roadtrips and refrains from flying with children (anyone's children), as he'd no doubt be on CNN the next day as a cautionary tale. But Da-da isn't some mindless brute, even if he really is one. No, he's a WHACKO PROTECTOR. Of all children. That means all of you, as you all used to be (and still are) innocent children, too.


Yet Another Firewalking St. Patty's Day Memory Lane Extravaganza (Special Xirag Ed.)


In honor of St. Patrick bribing all the snakes into leaving Ireland (he used a CostCo dinosaur sheet cake laced with Guinness), Da-da has stolen someone else's cake recipe and made a multi-level green monstrocity not unlike the one pictured above, but a lot less attractive and flavorful and with tons more green food coloring and... ok, the cake has at least nine pints of Guinness in it... and more in Da-da... but this is just to ensure that the cake sings that sing-y drunkie sing-y song that drunk sing-y Irish-wannabes sing when they're... uh, making Irish Guinness cakes... hic.

In light of this Hoobah Incident, Da-da would also like to throw out a jaunty HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Xirag, another Mr. Mom and fellow alien construct, THE ONE WHO TALKED DA-DA INTO DOING THIS BREEDING THING IN THE FIRST PLACE, the rat bastard. Xirag must be something like THIRTY TWO YEARS OLD, today. Krikey. That's old. Da-da throws rocks at anyone over 30, so this chunk of chalcedony is for YOU, Xirag. Time to firewalk, guy!

In a bizarro segue that you cosmic Da-da readers have come to expect, it was another long ago March 17th that Da-da once actually yelled, "TIME TO FIREWALK, GUY!" at a drunk guy named, oddly enough, "GUY."


Apocalypse Parenting 101: Goin' to the Mall

Ex. 7. Malls are exciting places. But if you must go, maintain forward momentum... preferably with extreme pastel prejudice.

Apocalypse Parenting 101: Remembering to Laugh

Ex. 6. Parental LAUGH prompts, installed throughout your house, really help -- AND they double as night lights!

Apocalypse Parenting 101: Keeping an Open Mind

Ex. 5. Maintaining an open mind is easy... provided you keep trying to open it.


"Da-da, Why Does Pteranodon Start With 'P' "?

OK, who left 'P' on the chair?   [P available here.]

Da-da takes great some small pride in flexing his wide-ranging, near-worthless education and capacious swiss-cheese memory before his minions children, answering most any question they ask without resorting to Google. (This makes Da-da oh so valuable in power blackout situations, in elevators, camping, etc.)

So, when Da-da's oldest, Nagurski, asked, "Da-da, why does, 'pteranodon' start with 'p'?" Da-da was ready. He was ready to give up and look online, as he could not recall what the Greek word, "ptera" meant. Then Da-da's mommy brain fog (replete with homicidal ghost pirates seeking revenge) parted for a brief moment, allowing Da-da to spot the necessary info tidbit next to that rusty pirate scabbard.

"Ptera" (really, "pteryga") is Ancient Greek for, "wing-y," with "-nodon" meaning, "giant vending machine with teeth." Da-da remembered this because, "ftera" means feathers, and lots of bird names have ftera in there someplace; "ftero-" is Greek for "winged"... but that could make said reptile a, "fteranodon," which involved so much potential flying spit that the powers that were opted for "ptera." Aren't you glad you asked?

But Da-da... why does pteranodon it start with P? Who knows, kid. Go ask an Ancient Greek. Perhaps it begins with P because it had to go to the bathroom all the time. (That's what Da-da told Bronko and Nagurski and they died laughing. It's good to be king.)

Hey! Put that sword away and go sweep out Da-da's corpus callosum!
Lousy cranial fog pirates.

Pi Illustrated

For your consideration... the best animated illustration of Pi that Da-da's ever seen.


Apocalypse Parenting 101: Regular Percussive Maintenance

Ex. 4. Regular cranial percussive maintenance maintains keen parental fashion sense.

Da-da Wins Two Blogger's Choice Awards: Best Parenting Blog and "HOTTEST DADDY BLOGGER"

Huh. It's not been announced yet, but Da-da just discovered that he's won two Blogger's Choice Awards: "Best Parenting Blog," and, "HOTTEST DADDY BLOGGER" for 2011-2012. That's pretty nutty, but after people figured it out, the line to TOUCH Da-da stretched around the block... that is, until Da-da made an appearance in his boxer shorts. Currently in line are a dog (and ugly dog) and a bill collector (who's not half-bad) -- AND NEITHER OF THEM WANT A KISS. Da-da will just have to drink and polish his 17-foot trophies alone. [sniff] Many thanks to all who voted for Da-da in the finals. This is all a complete surprise to Da-da, as he didn't even know he was a finalist!

Apocalypse Parenting 101: Survival Tactics That Work

Ex. 3. Keep track of things important to survival.

Apocalypse Parenting 101: Visualizing Inner Pieces

Ex. 2. Roll with the punches, esp. those inside your head.


Archaeo-Da-da: The Toltec Man in the Moon?

Da-da was looking at the full moon last night, thinking of how the French see a rabbit in the moon (see the ears?), while other cultures see a wombat (mmm, no), a chicken fighting a rabbit, the Ali/Frazier fight, a MAN in the moon, etc. Then Da-da's archeological studies kicked in and he saw something familiar. Could that classic pre-Columbian, Central Mexican statue known as, "Chac-Mool," be the ancient Olmec/Toltec/Mayan, "Man in the Moon"? Sure looks like it.

By the way, this is Science... er, Archaeo-Da-da's theory (Indy Da-da?), so if you're going to propagate the above, please credit Da-da. Don't make Da-da use his trowel as a weapon.

Da-da's Patented Jelly Belly Flavors You'll Probably Never Taste. Probably.

Photo: Michele Humes

Da-da would say he doesn't like candy much, but perhaps the flavors he likes have yet to be invented. Someone get right on that.

After being forced to tour one of the Jelly Belly factories, Da-da was of course intrigued by the "disgusting" flavors offered at the tasting counter. You've probably already read about these, but the very real flavors are:
Black Pepper (Da-da liked this one)
Booger (Da-da's booger or someone else's?)
Candyfloss (meh)
Dirt (tasted like dirt, sweet dirt; mmm... dirt)
Earthworm (ew)
Earwax (uh uh)
Grass (grassy)
Rotten Egg (nope)
Sausage (yum)
Soap (bleah)
Barf (nope)
Canned Dog Food (tasted exactly like canned dog food; don't ask)
Skunk Spray (nope)
Centipede (yup, tasted like centipede: minerals and... well, purple)
Baby Wipes (gag)
Moldy Cheese (meh)
Pencil Shavings (not bad)
Toothpaste (ok, if you like toothpaste; def. one you turn to after centipede)

These little bites of horror can be ordered here: Jelly Belly Roulette.

The one flavor everyone raved about -- Buttered Popcorn -- was so revolting that Da-da spit it out immediately. Bronko and Nagurski and Ma-ma had similar reactions. However, all agreed that Kiwi was incredible, fresh and vibrant.

Now that that's over with, please allow Da-da to think outside the candy box. What you don't know is that Da-da has an eidetic sensory memory, AND he's also what's known as a "supertaster." That is, his taste apparatus can dissect air, food, drink, sauces, etc. to determine source flavors (or in some cases, contaminants), which is kinda handy if you're trying to steal some saucier's mojo -- but it's terribly annoying if you're just trying to be a human on the surface of Monsantoville. So, what does this have to do with jelly beans?

All of the above, when coupled with Da-da's Improbability Memory Drive, provides Da-da with a fairly massive internal catalog of dynamic taste sensations -- all of which are real flavors experienced by Da-da (like centipede... bleah), or in some cases extrapolated (e.g., "cubicle"). Anyway, here are some new Jelly Belly flavors floating around Da-da's head. Some will be obvious, while others require more in the way of a combined taste description (in parentheses), as you'll see.



Chili Cookoff -- (Mild, Spicy, Omigod, Verde, Bowl of Red, etc.)
BBQ Cookoff -- (Memphis, Kansas City, Texas, Louisiana, S. Carolina, N. Carolina, E. Carolina, W. Carolina, Alabama White, Kentucky Black, Tennessee Whiskey, Korean, Chinese, etc.)
Garlic Festival -- (Tastes like Gilroy)


Cornish Pasty
Airplane Air
Paris Train Station Ham + Cheese-on-Baguette Sandwich
Asian Breakfast
Tibetan Butter Tea


Kentucky Derby -- (Tastes like Mint Julep + Old Money)
Indy 500 -- (Milk + Methanol)
Nascar -- (Tequila, Gatorade, Methanol, Red Bull, Lip Gloss, and Cheetos)
Formula 1 -- (Champagne + Caviar + L'Oreal)


Arnold Palmer -- (Sweet Iced Tea + Lemon)
Minty Arnold Palmer -- (Sweet Iced Tea + Mint)
Nine Iron -- (Steel, Grass, Hot Dog, Pilsner, Frustration)
The Rough -- (Grass, Leaves, Bark, Dirt, Anger, Resignation)
19th Hole -- (Dewar's, Ashtray, Steak Sandwich, Fries)


Jr. High

Trash can
Jock strap
Old Spice
Lip Gloss

High School

Backseat -- (Vinyl, Saliva, Pheromone, Cherry Coca Cola)
Band Room -- (Valve Oil, Cheeseburgers, Fear)


Stale Beer
Fish Taco
Tequila/Fish Taco Barf
Cold Pizza
Clove Cigarette
"Special" Brownie
Wholesome Girlfriend -- (Soap + Corn + Philosophy)
Art School Girlfriend -- (Cloves + Ashtray + Vodka + Titanium White)
Chemistry Dept. -- (Acetone, Sulfur, Bunsen Burner)
Engineering Dept. -- (Corn Nuts, Pizza, Burnt Circuitry, Linoleum, Sexual Frustration)
Physics Dept. -- (Other Dimension)
Dorm -- (Socks, Pizza, Stale Beer, Marijuana, Playing Cards, Bleach)
OPB -- (Other People's Barf)


Drive-in -- (Dusk, Popcorn, Snickers, Chili Dog, Exhaust)
Cubicle -- (Pepto Bismol, Vodka, Mint, Dread)
Chinese Factory -- (Sweet-n-sour, Sodium Bisulphate, Monkey's Paw, Firecracker)

The '60s

JP-5/Jet Fuel
Pan Am  -- (Ashtray, JP-5 Jet Fuel, Vodka)
Frank Sinatra -- (Bourbon, Ashtray, Self-doubt)
Vespers Martini (gin + vodka + Lillet + lemon)

The '70s

Shag Carpeting (GREEN)
Brut by Faberge
High Karate
Hostess Cupcake

The '80s

Greed -- (Money, Sour Lime, Mint, Flint)

The '90s

Greed -- (Money, Sour Lime, Mint, Flint)

The Zeroes

Greed -- (Money, Sour Lime, Mint, Flint)


Genmaicha -- (Green Tea, Toasted Brown Rice)
Sushi Bar -- (Maguro, Rice, Soy Sauce, Wasabi, Sake)
Tofu -- (Absolutely Nothing)
BBQ pork chow mein
Manchurian Beef
Pork Fried Rice
Sweet and Sour Pork
Karoake (Sushi, Soy Sauce, Wasabi, Sake, Embarrassment)


Mu -- (Sea Water, Flowers)
Atlantis -- (Sea Water, Burnt Technology, Power Crystals, Incense, Hubris)
Mummy -- (Mummy Powder, Natron, Sweat, Sand)
Hobnail Boot -- (Leather, Brass, Sweat, Toejam)
Marble Statue -- (Stone, Rope, Donkey, Sweat)
Roman Emperor -- (Untempered Red Wine, Anise, Blood, Power)
Castle -- (Stone, Boiling Oil, Anthrax, Heather)
D-Day -- (Fear, Saltwater, Gunpowder, Cordite, Diesel Fuel, Blood)
Ganges -- (Water, Incense, Burned Bodies, Flowers, Sewage)

And of course...


Cheerios -- (Cheerios)
Old Coffee -- (Old Coffee)
Sippy Cup -- (Stale Juice, Mold, Plastic)
Fatigue -- (Old Coffee, Ashtray, Mac-n-cheese, Baby Wipes)
Insanity -- (Licorice, Old Coffee, Ashtray, Baby Wipes, Plastic, Concrete, Nylon Strap)

Yes, "Insanity" is the Patron Flavor of Parenthood 2.0! You heard it here, first.

LOOK at all those flavor moments.



Ohh, Garmonbozia. A-ha.

Don't Ask, Don't Dwell (UPDATED)

Bronco's breath is fresh and minty. Go ahead, lean in and give a sniff.

Whenever anyone asks how his four- and six-year-old boys -- Bronko and Nagurski -- are, Da-da usually says the same thing: "LOUD." Dangerously loud. Jeez, look at the bones. The decibel level flenses meat right off. But that doesn't begin to illustrate the preternaturally unrestrained CLAWING, wrestling, shouting and hooliganism at our domestic gulag. The boys vacillate from brief moments (lasting about two seconds) of cute and happy and wondrous -- and sometimes shockingly obedient, gasp -- to looooong toothy geologic epochs of chewing on each other like rabid badgers, but in a CUTE way. Therein lay the child's main survival tactic.

Besides love (cast aside so easily? Da-da thinks not), CUTENESS is a child's main line of defense. Without it... well. If children acted the way they act while looking like fangy, miniature Ernest Borgnines, we as parents would chuck them out the air-lock posthaste -- provided of course we weren't, as Cervantes said, blindfolded as to their defects by that pesky L word that ostensibly permeates every square inch of existence. Damn. As Da-da's mentioned before, parenthood is somewhere between Christmas and being roasted alive, and WE NEED A LITTLE CHRISTMAS, even if it lasts five minutes. Without that little cherubian cuteness Christmas window, all human life on earth would probably cease to be... which might be a good thing if you looked at it from the earth's perspective.

When Da-da clears the streets, he calls it what it is: "Community Service."



That 10:44 pm Look of Parenthood

Being a parent is like hitting yourself in the head with a ball peen hammer: it feels so good when it stops.

The TERROR of the Two-Boy House

Yes. It's like this. 24/7/365. Twice on Sundays.

Whenever Da-da sees bloodshot-eyed, baggy-eyed, bleary eyed parents (who must live next to power plants with all those eyes), Da-da ventures, "Two boys?" To which they nod and lay upon Da-da a funereal regard that tips the ontological/parenting scales at 900 lbs. Commiserating was never so important. These folks typically have two boys, born anywhere from 2 to 23 months apart. Besides those families with special kids (that's the toughest, this side of illness) and quintuplets, two-boy families are the most difficult of all nominal parenting incarnations. Living in a two-boy house is like living a non-stop running, yelling, biting, scratching, touching, screaming, wrestling, eating, bus-station ninja death match -- on a treadmill -- but without all the sleeping and internal reflection.

Sure, some families have more boys, but this seems to work better, as the older boys police (er, put the pain on) the younger miscreants and the screaming pressure is ostensibly lessened. All-girl families... well, this is just nirvana... until they start dating at 11, then boom for Vegas at 14. Best to be a U. S. Marshall, then. But there's just something intolerably intolerable and redundantly LOUD about a two-boy house. It's the main reason why Da-da writes this incomprehensible blog. If he had nine girls, he'd be lounging in the sun and eating bon bons while discussing Proust's influence on... well, on somebody. And mixed boy-girl families are, of course, a suburban paradise. Of course. Would you stop touching Da-da? SHE KEEPS TOUCHING ME.

Older boys help the younger boys. See?

Now, Da-da's neighborhood alone features nine such two-boy families -- and his town seems to have something like a thousand -- all of the kids born too close together. More than a few times, Da-da's seen such parents leave their houses around nine at night, after the screaming has died down; they walk to the center of their darkened streets and apparently await UFOs to zap them into nothingness (or perhaps somethingness), or anticipate some texting teen driver to run them down and hurry them on their way to Myrna's Discount Funeral Parlor and House-O-Donut Love. (Why they embalm bodies AND sell donuts tells you how good the donuts are.) Or maybe they go out in the street because they're numb. 

Those of us who survive the 24/7 onslaught are forced to laugh. To cry. To be on the edge of our seats. Then we die. To die, to sleep... perchance to sleep someplace better. Five stars would be nice. ALONE. On the Moors. Wandering. Looking for Mrs. Rochester. (No, not MISTER Rochester. Don't make it weird.) Gotta find someone to take up the slack at the Two-Boy House.

Well, technically you wander the Moors AFTER you're done screaming. It's a process.


The Aquabats...

Why are they all dressed like Da-da?? THAT'S COPYRIGHT VIOLATION.

...are incredibly stupid, make little sense, feature ludicrous plots, schizoidy punky rocky music, an ugly recreational vehicle, cheesy rubberoid monsters, cheesy shots, horrid acting and embarrassingly bad production value... THREE THUMBS UP FROM DA-DA! And from Bronko and Nagurski, The Fearless Monster Hunters... NINE STAKES! Or tentacles. Or something gooey. Whatever.

The Aquabats Supershow, now on The Hub, if you get that channel (yes, it's geared toward kids), is an extension of the Aquabats' already awesome musical stage act (where monsters invade every song) from the Roaring '90s. Da-da has already started writing their next season scriptage!

Listen for the voice of Plankton from Sponge Bob, and... Da-da's laser ears are detecting either an uncredited Danny Elfman singing the title track, or the uncanny Elfmanesque stylings of the MC Bat Commander channeling the Oingo and the Boingo. What Da-da can't figure out is how they these dorks figured out how to DRESS LIKE DA-DA. Anyway, Da-da says check it out. (Great site, too.)

They even eat like Da-da. SHOCKING.

UPDATE: The show seems to be losing proton spin as of this pre-apocalyptic writing (5/19/12), perhaps due to other directors smoking too much latex. The first few episodes showed great promise, but the latter ones are not as well written/directed -- except for the Pilgrim Boy non sequitur one. Simply awesome.

What Parents Do All Day

"Blah blah blah blah bwah bnah blah bla blah blah BLAH! Are you listening to me?!"


Grampa Scotty vs. The Pepper Monsters

It's Grampa Scotty's birthday (wow, THIRTY... million years... wait, that's Da-da), so Da-da thought he'd dredge up some terrible, painful memory and make fun of it -- painful for Grampa Scotty, that is.

The scene: the bleak green shag of the Seventies. Grampa Scotty was wearing some open-collared disco shirt (and yeah, gold chains, chest hair). He's tan, and he's makin' GAZPACHO. (For those of you in Nebraska, gazpacho is a cold, andalusian/portuguese soup made from fresh tomatoes, cukes, onions, peppers, lime or lemon, parsley or cilantro, S&P, etc. It's refreshing, especially in the summer, and especially if it's summer in the desert where Da-da grew up.) Grandma Scotty, still hot and yes, tan, wearing some '70s floral shirt-caftan thing, was making something else, Da-da can't remember what. Coffee maybe, knowing her. Young Master Da-da was using G.I. Joes and duct tape and a rubber chicken to contain a radioactive leak from... well, from something.

As it turned out, Grampa Scotty was also wearing his glasses, but he'd just bought some of the new (at the time) soft lens contacts. His glasses were falling down his nose while trying to chop hot peppers, so he went to put in his contacts, located in a bathroom on the other side of the house. Can you see where this train's gonna wreck?

Thirty seconds later...

Grampa Scotty's horrible screams sounded from the far side of the house, the screams leaking through the windows and echoing off the surrounding scrubby hills.

Da-da looked up in alarm... but Grandma Scotty wasn't freaking out. No. She was laughing, despite the howls of pain coming from the other side of the house.

Grampa Scotty soon returned, still wearing his glasses. His eyes were horribly, horribly red. He was not happy.

Yes, Grandma Scotty already called it: Grampa Scotty failed to wash his hands before putting in his contacts, so his eyes were basically bathed in hot pepper oil. Poor guy couldn't see for the rest of the day.

Anyway, Happy Birthday Grampa Scotty. Here's hoping you've either learned your lesson, or secured some meds for Grandma Scotty, who always seemed to be laughing whenever you're gravely injured.

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