Wednesday, December 12, 2007

The Price Of Eggs In China

In elementary school, my class used to get semi-regular visits from the Desk Fairy. The Desk Fairy, we were told, would stop by our classroom from time to time and inspect each student's desk for cleanliness and organization. The students who made the cut would come to class on Monday to find some sort of treat or classroom currency waiting for them. Suffice it to say that no one in elementary school was very impressed by this idea. Come on. By then we knew most every cuss word, Offspring song, and "ha ha you're gay" joke in existence. Rolos and raffle tickets were fine, but a fairy? I guess it all served a purpose, though, because it made what can now be understood as an invasion of privacy into something that conjured up images of our teacher prancing from boogery desk to boogery desk wearing a tutu and carrying a bucket of candy (and if you knew Mr. Stoneman, this would be hilarious to you, too). Most kids by default kept their desks clean enough to make the grade, possibly driven by a normal human desire to stay organized. I never got anything from the Desk Fairy, though. In fact, my desk might have been the reason the Desk Fairy started drinking.

Anyone who knows me knows this about me: I do not have my shit together. I never have. My desk used to be so dirty it wouldn't fully close. I dropped out of high school before I finished a semester. I leave things on the floor in front of my bed, then wake up every day and promptly trip over them (which is actually fine, because it turns out that screaming "fuck" or "cocksucker" is a good vocal cord exercise). Every time I take a test, I have to borrow a pencil from someone around me, then that person finishes first and I lose their pencil before I see them again. Basically, anything in life that involves even a modicum of organization or foresight is beyond me.

I've always envied people who somehow manage to stay on top of their responsibilities. If you've ever started a paper more than 8 hours before it's due, or made plans to go to a movie with friends like a week in advance and then honored those plans, or stayed on a consistent sleep schedule, then you're a better person than I am, and I hate you. I even envy those little everyday rituals that people develop, like doing the Jumble, or going for a jog, or hitting up Starbucks on the way to work. I guess it's just the level of comfort and rhythm that daily rituals seem to provide. I also realize that to be mystified by something so simple makes me sound like a robot from an '80s made-for-TV movie who becomes fascinated by a child's capacity to love unconditionally. I'm OK with it.

Recently, I've tried to develop some of these daily placeholders. By far the most successful of my efforts has been to drink some sort of hot beverage every morning. It's a pretty simple thing (which is why I can do it), but somehow it makes me feel like everything is right in the world. For 8 minutes or so a day, my shit is together, and not in diaspora. I'm not sure why or how it works, but I'm going to contend that it's the mug. Something about the act of sipping from a mug with a handle slows everything down and puts your metaphorical ducks in a row. Or it might just be my mug, because I found the stupidest/baddest-ass mug in the world. Just looking at it makes me unexplainably happy. Behold - Christmas Dogs!




This makes me laugh every time I see it. The picture is low-quality, but I'll take you through it. The dogs are posing in front of a Christmas tree, and in front of them are cookies and milk. There is a note affixed to the mug in the bottom-right, which I've blown up below.



First, I just have to point out that the artist missed a chance to be very meta by making the mug in the picture a Christmas Dogs mug, as well (kind of like writing an annoying blog post about blogging...shit). But anyway, did I mention that the puppies supposedly wrote a motherfucking note? At first glance you might just think that some lame asshole decided to pose some dogs with Santa hats in front of a tree. But no, this is a universe in which puppies are capable of writing. All of a sudden, the rules have changed. Then the letter reveals that these are not just adorable little puppies who can miraculously read and write. These are naughty little scamps, caught in the act of incorrigible superpuppy rascaldom. The one on the left has a candy cane in his mouth, the one in the middle a cookie, and the one on the right clearly just drank some of Santa's milk. And the puppies aren't just apologizing after the fact. They wrote the note ahead of time, then proceeded to keep eating Santa's goddamn food. There is no remorse here. These are cold, calculating, cuddly puppy bastards. Also, notice that the "e"s in "Dear" and "We" are backwards, but the "e" in "explain" is normal. They are getting smarter by the second. From the beginning of a one-sentence note to the end, you can detect improvement. Humanity is fucked. Armed with the knowledge that these puppies are capable of more planning and cunning than I am, we can start looking at the individual dogs in a new light.

Benoit
The streetwise and devious leader of the group. I think it goes without saying that Benoit is the leader here. I mean, come on, he looks like Wishbone - you know he's the brains of the outfit. But there's just a certain je ne sais quoi about the guy. He's got style. I mean, there's wearing a hat, and there's wearing a hat, knowhati'msayin'? Also, Benoit is a ladies' man. While his lackies greedily devour their ill-gotten food, Benoit carries around a candy cane like it's a rose. But there's something menacing about the guy. The left side of his face is bathed in darkness like he's Vito Corleone, and there's something cold and detached in his eyes. You just get the idea that Benoit will murder you with the pointy end of that candy cane if you so much as look at him funny. Maybe his bark is worse than his bite, who knows. But don't you fucking dare make fun of his "Joy" sweater. Joy is his mother's name, and through years of painstaking research I know exactly two things about dogs: 1. They love their moms, and 2. They are too hairy to get tattoos.

Carbuncle

The group's enforcer/chameleon. Carbuncle is a soi-disant moron. He is known for his general loutishness and poor conjugation skills, but this is all a ruse. Carbuncle knows how to manage expectations and make them work to his own benefit. He could have been a successful businessdog, if he hadn't grown up on Benoit's side of the tracks. He lacks Benoit's natural charisma and leadership skills, and is more comfortable when he's pretending to be someone else.

Percy
Poor Percy. Yeah, he's greedily drinking Santa's milk, but you know he doesn't feel good about it. There is a quiet desperation in his eyes that lets you know that he never thought he'd end up here. But way leads on to way, and here he is, debasing himself and depriving St. Nick a hard-earned swig of cow lactation. Benoit and Carbuncle are his childhood pals, and he's always tagged along and put up with their abuse because they're the closest thing he has to family. But the eyes don't lie: he can't take it anymore. I like to think that this is Percy's last job; he's getting out. He has dreams of opening an eponymous bistro and settling down. If this were a ridiculous movie, and not a ridiculous mug (and why can't it be? Those stupid Geico caveman commercials became a stupid TV series), Percy would never get his chance. His last job would go horribly awry, and he'd be killed by a vengeful Santa Claus. Benoit and Carbuncle would be crushed. Sure, they often treated him poorly, but he was like their kid brother. He was innocent. Cue the badass third act, where Benoit and Carbuncle regroup and devise an elaborate revenge plot, which involves Carbuncle dressing up like a woman and seducing Santa while Benoit leads Mrs. Claus to the scene, leading to Santa's ultimate fall from grace and a high building. Then, cut to sixth months later. Carbuncle has opened up Percy's Bistro, and it's a resounding success. The kitchen is staffed by Santa's elves, and Benoit saunters on in with the newly liberated Jessica Claus, and orders a scone. Benoit couldn't give up the life of crime. He's bummed that Carbuncle dropped out, but at least he's got his lady with him. After exchanging a few pleasantries, they head out the door, and through the window we see them take off in Santa's sleigh. "Merry Christmas" writes itself across the screen in big red cursive. The end.

Anyway, I love this mug. It is so unbelievably stupid and lame that it's impossible not to love it. If the person who painted this was being completely sarcastic and tongue-in-cheek, I would call that person a genius. I'm guessing, though, that this painter truly believes in that special magic that can only result when Christmas and puppy scampishness collide. According to the bottom of the mug, that artist is one J. Newland. I am afraid for J. Newland. Anyone who could envision a universe this over-the-top, this nauseatingly adorable, is going through a pretty bleak time. I want to reach out and help, but I'm scared that to do so might deny repressed and sad WASP mothers everywhere the seminal voice of their generation. If someone had cured Van Gogh's depression, we wouldn't have Starry Night. J. Newland might live a desperate, lonely, ephemeral life, but Christmas Dogs will be loved forever. Of course, you might say that to question J. Newland's sanity so soon after crafting elaborate backstories for painted dogs might be akin to Carlos Mencia telling someone they're not funny. Fuck you.