Monthly Archives: November 2009

The Oregon Trail Journals

April 2, 1848

Well, it’s official. Me, Martha, and the boys are headed West on the Oregon Trail. Apparently, God wants us to go out there and rape his bounty — or maybe it’s “reap.” Whatever; we can’t afford a Bible and our Pastor has a lisp. We’ve teamed up with a banker named Billy (odd name for a banker, but it takes all kinds, I guess), who’s decided to give us “fun” nicknames for the trip. I’m “Boogers,” the wife is “Big Boogers,” and the boys are “Michelangelo” and “Leonardo.”

A bit strange, but me and Big Boogers know our love will get us through anything.

April 3, 1848

Not so sure about this Billy character. Bit of a queer duck. Spent most of our money on bullets, then the rest on wagon tongues because they “sounded funny.” They must use bullets as currency out West, since the Lord will inevitably provide His people with many yet-unseen animals to strike down with our Holy Thunder.

Billy, we put our faith in you.

April 6, 1848

Three days. We’ve been on the road for three days and only put five miles behind us. Now, I like hunting as much as the next guy, but mowing down God’s Kingdom seems to be all Billy is interested in. Every 50 feet we stop, shoot a herd of buffalo, and carry only 100 pounds of meat back to the wagon. As I write this, Big Boogers and the kids are sitting next to 2000 pounds of raw buffalo packed in salt, and they’re none too happy about it. Leonardo looks a bit green around the gills, so only one glazed hoof for him tonight.

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Smug Hunter Comes To Dinner

Whoooaaaa! Whooaaaaaaaaa! You’re a vegetarian?! Really?

Eh heh heh heh… I don’t know if you heard, Mister, but I have a pretty “edgy” sense of humor. I’m a gun-shootin’ country boy who don’t play by “the rules.” I tell it “how it is.” I have, on occasion, written some South Park “fan fiction” that was very well received. I may have had “half a bottle of Southern Comfort” before dinner tonight.

So I’m sorry if I somehow OFFENDED you there, little vegetarian buddy. You see, the drippings from this DELICIOUS baby venison heart were just slipping down my chin like the promising kisses of a lover and I didn’t notice that you were built like a goddamn two-by-four. HAW! HAW! HAW! Bang! Score one for the master! Slap me five, Carol!

Come on, Carol, don’t make me look stupid here.

Oookay, then… Uh. Where was I?

No offense, Mister. No offense!

Heh. Because it’d be downright ELITIST of me to brag about how, while you’re snacking away on bean leaves like those African kids on daytime TV with the flies and shit all over them, I was eating something that was carved off the still-quivering body of Bambi or whatever the hell it is you guys pray to on the solstice.

Uhhhh Oh god. I think it’s the fear that makes this stuff so tender. I JUST HOPE I DON’T POP WOOD BEFORE I CAN SUCK THE MARROW OUT OF THIS T-BONE! Am I right?! Right!? Carol? Ah, forget you. HAW!

*Shhhhlllurrrrrp.*

Ah!

Hey, Mister. Since you’re so sensitive to the bodies of other things, maybe you can answer an anatomical question for me. Let me just get out my buck knife here…

Whoops! Sorry! This is the knife with all of the bunny fur stuck to it! Forgot to wash it! I was too busy doing sick wheelies on my ATV after totally fucking up some woodland creatures’ shit and also drinking. Let me get out my OTHER buck knife here…

There! This is the one! Okay! See the knife? See where it’s pointing?

OOhhhkhay. Shee what Iahm pointing ah here? Thith toof?

Yeah. You know what that tooth is called?

It’s an incisor, Mister. What do you think it’s made for? MEAT EATING!

Yeah. Deal. With. That. Hahaha. I’m precious.

In any case, thanks for having me over for dinner, Mister, and I promise that I’m going to make your daughter the happiest little wife this side of the County Rod and Gun Club. See ya later… Dad!

New Short: A Day of Thanksgiving

Having problems figuring out what to be thankful for on this special day? Let the Johnson family reach out of the 1950s and throttle you until it’s obvious that simply being alive in this great country is far better than any sort of happiness that comes with eating food on a regular basis.

See the Premiere of Our Fourth Riff!

This Wednesday night, you may be tempted to swallow handful after handful of sleeping pills in the hopes that you’ll wake up in 2010, safe from the clutches of visiting relatives. We suggest that you instead use this time to come to The Oakland and watch our newest Garbage Duck short — and don’t worry, you can still get obliterated to the point that you forget your creepy spinster aunt even exists!

But she does. And she’ll be judging you soon enough.

Located at The Oakland Center for the Performing Arts at 220 West Boardman Street in picturesque Youngstown, Ohio. If you’re coming from out of state, just follow the trail of shattered dreams!

We’ve cooked up a new Thanksgiving-based short in the hopes that you’ll appreciate the little things in life, like cheap, affordable newspapers, and your right to run laundry through a mangle without being beaten and carried away in a bag by some sort of secret police force. Join us, and try to forget that you’ll be kissing scratchy grandma cheeks for the majority of your tomorrow.

A Very Special 3rd Period Assembly

Hey, kids. We pulled you out of third period today so we could have a very special school assembly. Before you run off on your summer break and maybe get invited to some parties and maybe get offered some dope, weed, purp, white widow, AK-47, Adam and His Ant or Death Star, the Jake County Sheriff’s Department wants you to think twice. They want you to meet someone who can tell you from his first-hand experience about the dangers of marijuana use. Zeke is here in handcuffs and leg shackles with armed deputies straight from the county lockup to tell you to pass on grass.

Sup, kids?

I’m going to say I’m sorry in advance here if this shit sucks. I can’t talk good in public and I haven’t been in this school since coach kicked me off the football team in ’87 and I got pissed and tore off the field on my badass Harley. Go Cougars!

I’m also not really sure what I can tell you about weed. Those officers just kicked me out of bed half an hour ago and they said, “Zeke, as part of your plea bargain, you gotta go down to the school today and ‘rap’ with them kids about how bad pot is for them.”

I told them that pot wasn’t really my thing. My thing had more to do with getting Tased by the cops while sprinting out of Rite Aid with an armful of household cleaners, Sudafed and matchbooks. But what the hell, ya know? I can tell you some shit.

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A Study in Goro Part II: Kano (Use Your Might)

A Study in Goro is an ongoing attempt to dissect the rich symbolism present in The Immortals’ Mortal Kombat: The Album, which is generally regarded as the culmination of all human creativity. We at Garbage Duck suggest that you do not try this at home, unless you have a BA in English and your parents’ permission.

kanoThe first lyric of “Kano (Use Your Might)” is the rather prosaic “Kano wins;” and we, the listeners, are misled into thinking what follows will be a ballad of triumph, glory, and the spoils of war. But this simple introduction is wrapped in the same gentle irony that accompanies nearly all of The Immortals’ legendary work — for in the art of Mortal Kombat, there are no winners. It is here that we realize Kano is nothing more than a heartbreakingly tragic symbol of the human condition.

Pain. Sadness. Fear. Hatred. These are the forces that drive us. Our joy is predicated on the pain of others.

We are all Kano.

“Use your might:” a simple command, and what some would call the prevalent theme of all human history. The downside, of course, is touched upon with The Immortals’ ever present theme of man’s inhumanity against man. Not since Thomas Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Church-yard” has the futility of physical conflict been depicted so beautifully:

You are wanted, and you’re haunted.
You’re the Bad Guy, but I feel for you.
You’re the danger, a fallen angel,
but I like you.
You’re the strongest of them all.

There is a certain perverse appeal in being a first-world aggressor, and The Immortals know this; but though we are wanted, we are also haunted — haunted by a lifestyle that bleeds the world of resources. The Immortals hold the mirror up to society and ask, “Who is the real monster? You, or the cyborg who regularly rips people’s still-beating hearts from their chests?” After listening to “(Use Your Might),” you may be surprised to find you and Kano are not all that different. Yes, you may not be taking part in a multidimensional fighting tournament, but your own conquests in life are undoubtedly stripping away your humanity.

Sometimes The Immortals tell us things we don’t want to hear. And I thank them for this.

A Study in Goro Part I

Westboro Baptist Church Jumps The Shark

phelpsWhile most Americans — like those in Maine, for example — practice their bigotry from the privacy of a voting booth, only one organization has consistently shown that they pride their doughy, white, tractor-pulling heritage so much that they’re willing to parade it through the streets of America. The Westboro Baptist Church, believing that the United States is cursed by God for accepting gay people, has protested plays, movies, Mr. Rogers, soldiers’ funerals and anything else that might result in someone paying attention to them.

The church is led by Fred Phelps, the cranky id of a 350-year-old man made manifest in a tracksuit. Through sites like godhatesfags.com, Phelps took the blase Midwest attitude of “God hates everyone who isn’t me,” and rode it to international fame like the dirty, dirty, closeted submissive it is.

But every legacy must end and lately there has been trouble for the Westboro Baptist Church. The group has faced recent setbacks in protesting funerals and today it seems like they’re really reaching for the attention that once came so easily. It also can’t be ignored that Phelps himself is now older than most of the Biblical patriarchs and every year his resemblance to the Crypt Keeper becomes more pronounced. However, long before Phelps dies and sees – just before he steps into the void – a fabulous vision of all the saints wearing leather assless chaps, his church will end with more of a whimper than a bang. We predict that they’ll protest stupider and stupider things until people stop paying attention altogether.

Divine Wrath after the jump!
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