Archive - October 2004

Why Hath Thou Forsaken Us?

            Cartoons today leave me wanting.  Not more, just older.  They all now seem to revolve around some anthropomorphized creature learning a lesson about sharing, or believing in oneself.  Not that there’s anything wrong with anthropomorphized animals, for entertainment purposes.  But what happened to the days when the lesson was that you shouldn’t buy a liquid oxygen fueled rocket from a fly-by-night outfit, and strap it to your butt while wearing roller skates on your paws?

            Cartoons used to be about so much more than fun and games and lessons regarding jet propulsion safety guidelines.  They were art, in Elmer and Bug’s operatic triumph.  They were mirrors of harsh realities – too many similarities may be drawn between Wile E. Coyote’s hapless attempts to ensnare the Road Runner, and my own, equally unsuccessful, attempts at getting a date in high school.  They were promises.  Promises like a Jetson’s reality, where we are pampered by an unimaginable glut of technological wonders.

But where are these wonders, I ask?  Where is the self-propelled treadmill?  Where are these dream jobs in which humans merely press buttons all day, and have computers all around to monitor their progress?  Where is the . . . ? 

Okay, never mind those examples.

            Where are the flying cars?  That’s what I want to know.  Why is the most promising innovation set forth by Hanna-Barbera being so coldly ignored? 

Bill Gates keeps on about the rapid advancement of technology, yet my beloved Nissan still languishes in a state of flightlessness.  I find it hard to believe that the greatest technological advance in a century of automobiles is the cup holder large enough for a Big Gulp!  (Which is pretty nice, though.)

            Sure, there would be shortcomings.  Imagine the overtime we would have to pay our lawmakers so that they could properly limit the usefulness of flying cars.  Or the insurance, I can’t imagine what that would be.  But think about the perks.  The number of stupid people would drop dramatically.  Why?  Because the new answer to “How far can I go before I run out of gas?” would be “10,000 feet, straight down.” 

            My guess is that flying cars have been around for decades, but the Detroit Big-wigs know we’re too stupid for them.  After all, we’ve had over a hundred years to master driving a vehicle in tow dimensions, and most of us are no better than Henry Ford’s 16 year-old son must have been, and at least he could say, “Give me a break Dad, you just invented the damn thing yesterday!”  What’s our excuse?  “Sorry Officer, I was trying to get to track four on my new Best of Zamfir CD.  Was that building even there yesterday?”

            Maybe I’ll just wait on the Start Trek engineers.  The transporter.  That’s the way to go.  ZAP.  You’re at the grocery store.  ZAP.  ZAP.  To the liquor store and back while the wife’s in the bathroom.  “What?  No.  This bottle was under this sink.” 

Ah, who am I kidding?  The transporter technician will probably look like the guy who runs the Tilt-A-Whirl at the carnival.

Dear Llama,

I’m friends with “Tim,” we’re both fourteen years old.  Last week, he got mad because I was hanging out with someone he didn’t like, and to get even, he told my parents all kinds of lies about me.  Like that I drink and smoke, and skip school.  I got in big trouble.  Now he wants to be friends again and laughs when I bring up getting in trouble.  What should I do?

A Confused “Alan”


Dear "Alan,"

To give you a good answer, I must first determine whether or not you are a moron.  If you are (and statistically speaking, that is the more likely scenario), then by all means, rush headlong into renewing your friendship with "Tim."  If you are indeed not a moron, then you have two choices.  You can draw in a deep breath, and tell him unemotionally, that he should go fuck himself with an unlubricated pogo stick, or you can seek revenge.  The Llama always opts for revenge.  Try regaining his friendship and solidifying his trust, then stab him in  the back.  If you can wait a few years and really fuck him hard, so much the better.  Otherwise, wait a few weeks and them pepper the cafeteria with doctored photos of him orally servicing the gearshift of his mother's Audi.

Hope that helps, 


Dear Llama,

I am a 24-year-old single woman.  Several days ago, “Bill” asked me out on a date.  I was distracted, and could tell he had worked up a lot of nerve just to ask me so I said yes, but now I don’t want to go.  How should I get out of the date?

Troubled in Tempe


Dear Troubled,

I refuse to help you.  You must go out on the date.  In fact, I strongly suggest you put out as well.  Maybe then you will learn to think before you speak.

Hope that helps,


©  2004

All Rights Reserved.