|
2005
~
I'll love you with all
the madness in my soul
~
|
notes from the
resistance
|
Jan something, 2007
So I go to Little Tokyo in downtown and get me a $12 bag of green tea. First time ever
I got the premium stash. The thing looks like a brick of weed and the cashier lady
gave me this look like, "Ho HO, big spender! Woo woo." When I got home to try it
out, I realized I had no strainer. I'd been slumming on Lipton style tea for so long
I was ill equipped for the authentic shit. Green tea, as you all know, is hardcore
ceremonial zen stuff for us Orientals.
There's a whole ritual to it, gotta have the right
mindset, the right posture, sound a gong, chant, shave your head, show
humility and respect for the sacred herbal tea. So what do I do?
I grab me one of them little plastic salsa containers from El Pollo Loco, punch some
holes in it with a needle, and stick a fork through the side as a handle. I felt like
MacGuyver. Surviving on my wits alone.
But the holes were too small and too few so that when I poured the hot water
it overflowed on me, spilling precious tea leaves into the cup. I was all, "Fuck!
Shit! Goddamn holes!" So I go back to punching more holes, thinking, What the fuck am
I doing? Why don't I
just go buy a strainer? I just spent twelve damn dollars on tea, how expensive can a
strainer be? But once I set my mind on something I just won't let go, so after
several false starts, I perfect my
makeshift homemade ghetto strainer, and have myself some piping hot gourmet ocha in
what turned out to be an
expletive-filled, profane, not at all sacred tea ceremony.
-T.
|
~
There's definitely no logic
to human behavior
~
|
Februrary 21, 2007
I don't know if this is a universal thing or not, but when you eat a Cool Ranch Dorito
chip, do you sometimes lick the flavoring off of them before you bite into it? I
do that. I don't know why. It's just this compulsion to suck the zesty spicy stuff off the
chip, then
bite into wet flavorless tortilla strip. It's like a shot of flavor, followed by a
bland but crunchy chaser. And the relative bulk and heft of a Dorito
allows for this process of moisturization. You couldn't do this with, say, a Ruffles potato chip. The thing
would disentegrate in your mouth. Plus, I get a perverse joy out of sucking the thing
dry, like a vampire draining its lifeblood, then devouring the emaciated treat,
once taut and proud with flavor. Same with nachos. Don't you kinda like the ones that
are sorta squishy and softened by the cheese, but still a little bit crunchy? It's like
a transitional state between the hard tortilla chip and the soft tortilla wrap. I suspect they
did a focus group study on this and that's how Taco Bell came up with that gordita
thing, with the hard and soft taco shell in one package. Those marketing guys do their
homework.
These, my friends,
are the sort of things I'm thinking when I got that deep, philosophical look on my face.
-T.
|
~
She moves in
mysterious ways
~
|
March 12 or so, 2007
So I've decided to become sexy.
I've deprived the world for far too long of my
erotic energy and it's
time to let my mad sexiness shine on through. It'll be like Picasso's "blue" period, only
instead of painting it's my life and instead of "blue" it's "sexy."
I've been practicing my come hither look
and my pimp strut, I've sat through several viewings of Zoolander,
honing my moves, perfecting my craft of sexy.
I've even taken courses on dirty dancing, which many of you know, was my
first true love before I got caught up in all this cartooning stuff. Also, I've grown my
hair out, because you need long locks if you're serious about bringing sexy back--or, in
my case, bringing sexy anywhere for the first time ever. Problem is, I don't have silky
smooth wavy hair
like Fabio. I've got more of a coarse, wiry Yoko Ono thing going on
that looks like a kabuki doll that got electrocuted. In dim light
I look like that spooky kid from The
Grudge on a really bad day. So perhaps sexy is not my thing. Maybe I'm bringing silly back. It ain't exactly
Futuresex we're dealing with here. More like Retrosad. But whatever it is I'm sure as shit bringing it, so
watch out, ladies!
-T.
|
~
They paved paradise and
put up a parking lot
~
|
May 28, 2007
On knowledge. When I was a kid I wanted to know everything. My reasoning was,
if I knew everything, then I could make bets with other kids that I knew everything,
and when they'd throw a curveball at me like What's their mom's maiden name or some
bullshit like that, I'd know it and I'd take their money. Even at a young age
it was clear I was no good, what with my fondness for gambling, forbidden knowledge,
and hucksterism. Knowledge for me, apparently, was a useful way to cheat others of their money.
As a youth I would also spend hours pondering how I would bargain with a genie if he
were to grant me one wish. The wish for a thousand more wishes, a popular idea
circulating among my grade school colleagues at the time, would, in my thinking, violate
some pre-established genie wish ordinance. I mean, genies aren't idiots. They know
they're dealing with a bunch of avaricious, devious little fuckers. And anything we can come up
with, they surely can too. There must be all sorts of limitations and stipulations and
contingencies you have to keep in mind when finalizing your official wish. They probably
give you a whole booklet on it and it must take several meetings of long negotiations
between your attorney and the genie's attorney to iron out the details. I suspect this is
why it doesn't seem to happen so much these days. Most people get sick of the paperwork and
bureaucratic legalese and they give up. Not me, Jack. I'll be in there with a fine-tooth
comb picking over the most obscure statutes to find some loophole, some
precedent, to make the Faustian deal of a lifetime:
To know everything. Cuz you see, if I knew everything, I could make bets with...
-T.
|
~
If only I could I'd make a
deal with God and
I'd get him to swap our places
~
|
June 6, 2007
So I'm cruising in my '91 Daihatsu blasting Vanessa Carlton's rockin' smash hit "A Thousand
Miles," when it suddenly occurs to me: "Am I too gangsta?
Am I too hardcore and menacing for this
world?" I just might be. So I decide to tone it down a bit. I bust out the Lionel
Ritchie, mellow out the vibe and siesta, fiesta, foreva, togetha, all night long. So
anyway, I'm driving along, right, and I approach this tunnel and whenever I drive under
tunnels I pretend it's a gigantic vagina and all the cars are little sperm cells swimming
into it. Millions and millions of little sperm cars desperately searching for the
mother ship. The S.S. Ovary. One day I'm gonna buy me one of them monster semi trucks with
a huge state of the art, futuristic trailer with lights on it, and I'll rendezvous with
it on the highway, see,
and its back doors will fly open and lower a ramp for me to climb into. I'll
be like Knight Rider, man. Imagine the envy of the other motorists as I ride off, safely
docked inside my own personal headquarters on wheels, my mobile mechanical womb,
spiriting me away deep into the night
to some secret sanctuary
far away from civilization--a thousand miles away, you might say...
-T.
|
~
I'm so hot for you, I'm so hot for you
I'm so hot for you and you're so cold
~
|
July 4, 2007
Like most pampered primadonnas I was shocked to learn that not everyone in the world was there
for my benefit and edification.
Apparently, vast segments of the human population, possibly even a majority, don't give
a flying bugfuck what I do or what happens to me. Highly alarming revelation, this, as I've
always assumed I occupied the very center of the cosmos, and the very structure and integrity of the
space-time continuum hinged on my well-being. Should anything untoward befall me,
I was sure the universe would collapse and all God's Creation would cease to be.
But as I grow older and less full of myself,
I'm finding what an inconsequential gnatfart I am in the Great Scheme of Things. I could die
tomorrow and humanity will go chugging along its merry way.
It'll continue junking up the earth, attempt a wild
and crazy escape to Mars or something, die out by its own poisonous effluvium or
blow itself up, thus ending the Rule of
Mammals and ushering in The Age of Insects, who will
use all our plastic and styrofoam and non-biodegradable radioactive
waste as fuel for their little bug cars and build fantastic little bug cities and
little bug kids will read about the giant prehistoric humans
with awe and delight. Secular Ants will dig up our bones, Fundamentalist Bees will deny we ever
existed, and Dragonflies will just chill cuz they're cool like that.
Maybe they'll enshrine my memory and make me an honorary insect. Tatsuya
Ishida, the Inconsenquential GnatFart, He Who Predicted The Next Phase of Earth Evolution.
-T.
|
~
I've been downhearted, baby
ever since the day we met
~
|
July 16, 2007
I have discovered a way to live life in a state of perpetual orgasmic ecstasy, unbothered
by the cruel vagaries of life.
It's perfectly legal, no drugs involved,
no crazy meditation regimen,
no change in diet or beliefs or lifestyle.
It's healthy, no side effects,
no hangover, just pure bliss round the clock, 24/7. Problem is, I can't
articulate the secret method in words. There's no verbal way to demonstrate how I've achieved
this state. As much as I'd like to disclose the mystery to you all it resists
all known forms of communication. Except one. The comic strip. I can transmit my esoteric
knowledge through my comic strip and through my comic strip alone. There's no other way.
So you must keep reading,
every day, all the time, forever. Buy all the books at least four times.
Reminisce on particular strips in your free time,
learn punchlines by heart,
impress your friends with your knowledge of Sinfest. Whatever you do, you must keep
reading.
But now for a limited time eligible women can receive my wisdom through special tantric exercises with
me as their
personal guru. After only ten, twenty sessions of intense hands-on nude full-contact sensual
massage therapy you too can experience
The Super Duper Tatsuya Joy. Act now! Operators are standing by.
-T.
|
| All
contents © copyright 2006 by Tatsuya Ishida/Museworks. No
duplication, reproduction, or reprinting of Sinfest strips and/or
related characters allowed without written permission from the
author/publisher. |
|
