The MacFarlane Theorem

I was never one for math. Far too complicated for my brainmeats. On my homeworld, I have an R8 (that's Romulax 8eretor, or "intelligence sum") of regurtillex glorbnox, but that's only about 47 intelligence quotient points on your Earth scales. And that's only assuming I converted right, as we just established I am terrible at remlors/maths. It comforts me knowing there're much more intelligent sapients than myself working around the clock to hammer out all the theories and equations that keep order in our universe.

That being said, I don't ask for much. I don't ask for answers, just the tools to find those answers. My own incompetence with using these tools is fairly irrelevant, albeit hilarious. So I certainly got more than I bargained for when I learned about the MacFarlane Theorem, an incredibly important equation that actually maps out the secrets of the universe. And really, it's so simple I'm surprised even a beegarf like me wasn't aware of it.

E=MC BEARED

The MacFarlane Theorem is a universal constant. Its purpose is to construct the perfect family unit. A family unit that can sustain the foundation of the entire universe and ensure evolution runs its proper course, lest we become butternubs and stupids. They say that there is no traditional family unit anymore, but that's merely because we've neglected MacFarlane's work. I feel we should put a stop to this negligence and so, here and now, I will raise abearness of MacFarlane's work. 

Hey Lois, remember that time we were an Eclectic Haberdashery post?

It's not just a construction based around the nuclear family, but a nuclear family with growth potential. Sure, man+woman+son+daughter does equal sign family, but we have more. We have Super Genius Baby and Talking Dog, two fairly unusual additions. Are they significant? How significant are they?

Joke!

This family isn't much different. Lacking in a genius baby, sure, but not all samples have to be the same to illustrate the same basic point. The MacFarlane family is an adaptive family who is also to survive and endear in absurd situations while still maintaining a basic, nuclear core. And the reason for this? This is the structure for evolution. A strong core, plus absurdist additions, doesn't just allow for high cutting edge comedy. It's the road map of the universe. With our powerful  foundations, we can take anything the world throws at us and not only keep our strength, but become enriched higher beings and cooperative units.

Hey Lois, remember that time we were black in an Eclectic Haberdashery article?

Most would accuse MacFarlane of being a hack, particularly due to the development of the young, suave baby Rallo. But I disagree. MacFarlane is a genius, creating a fictional universe with a consistent constant familial structure that's telling us how we SHOULD live. Traditional family unit with an unpredictable variable to keep us strong and from dying off as a species. Why, in The Cleveland Show, Cleveland even befriends the one major thing to truly give him and his family challenges: a talking bear.

Citation: The Cleveland Show, "Pilot"

This is not the apathy of a hack but more so the consistent, quality touch of an auteur. In the Family Guy/Abearican Dad/Cleveland Programme universe, all families are nuclear constructions with seemingly random, inappropriate, cartoonish additions...not because of a lack of creativity, but because of a message. It is these families that always survive and restore their own status quo every week. It is these families who have the most endearingly exciting lives in their respective worlds. And it is these families who are always able to solve the most ridiculous, intolerable problems. These families are consistent in their make up for one reason: they are the perfect illustration of human kind's evolutionary potential. They aren't like most beings: the MacFarlane family is a perfect being.

And like all great mathemelogians, MacFarlane is not an innovator as much as he's just enhancing the formula of previous scholars.

Hey Lois, remember that time we were dinosaurs in an Eclectic Harberdashery article?

The Odyssey of Sonic Gokuverine, Canto IV: Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death

Distant stars...distant hearts.

The cosmos wasn't kind, even to the likes of great warriors such as Sonic Gokuverine (and considering he had recently ascended to Super Saiya-jin 25, this suggests unreachable standards for any being to live up to).  For fifty years he traveled the universe at the speed of super light and though he'd covered an astounding amount of ground, impressive considering there's no ground in space, he was no closer to making his way home.

He decided to land on a nearby planetoid, which in four astro-eons would be known as the Prison Planet Gorlock 15, and left himself to his deepest thoughts. His brain sifted through everything he'd only been lightly skimming during his latest flight sprint: his hopes, his dreams, his memories and philosophies, and the lyrics to Demi Lovato's "Give Your Heart a Break." None of them told him what he truly wanted. None of them told him where his family was.

"Look dad!" cried out Sonic Gokuverine Jr. as she sexually assaulted the nearby mountain range. "I'm a Super Saiyan!"

Sonic Gokuverine sniffled, smiling. "That's my girl...that's my son."

Would he ever see her again? Every moment was another microlightyear without his precious little boy. His retrospection would not last forever, though.

"Sonic Gokuverine. We meet again at last."

Sonic Gokuverine grimaced and turned, all of the hatred he'd ever felt in his life swelling back into his disgruntled breast. He knew that voice. He knew it hard.

"Shadow Vegetabatman."

"You know, Sonic Gokuverine," began Shadow Vegetabatman, "I thought you really had me going when you ascended to Super Saiyan 25 and shot me halfway across the omniverse. But you forgot one thing."

"What's that?"

Shadow Vegetabatman pulled a small object from his utility belt, squeezing it until he made a clicking noise. He made several clicking noises, as if attempting to build the anticipation for his object's activation. Finally, the object made a techno beat that put Shadow Vegetabatman's clicking motif into question. But only briefly.

"This is my Midichloric Thetonizer. It's a bomb that triggers an explosion at the very core of your soul." Shadow Vegetabatman had a power level of twenty infinity billions, so he was worth listening to and the truth, to him, was like a bucket full of correct words. "It will kill you. And grill you."

Sonic Gokuverine despised being grilled, so he flew at the speed of seven quintillion battle miles to stop Shadow Vegetabatman from activating the soul bomb. But he was too slow and the bomb blowed up real good, firing right into Sonic Gokuverine's very soul. He saw his life, his liberty, and his pursuit of happiness flash before his very eyes before finally seeing his own death taking place billions of years after this.

But wait...

"Am I still alive?" asked Sonic Gokuverine in the no-space within his soul.

"You are, dad." said his so...daughter? "You are. And you always will be. Just come back home."

"I will, child. I will."

Sonic Gokuverine awoke, punching Shadow Vegetabatman in his super nards. With another punch, another kick, another kick, another punch, some more kicks, and like...wow, shit, really? You're really going there? Aw. What. Eugh. Really? Ooooh crap.

Wow. So okay, Shadow Vegetabatman somehow got up from whatever the fuck that was and shit got so real a little bit after that. The planetoid was destroyed and the two drifted throughout outer space krunking each other in their respective faces.

It would be four million years before Sonic Gokuverine saw the sun again, but only two thousand before he used a flashlight.

LOL Smileyface is a Metaphor for Capitalism

Sometimes when I'm alone, I imagine my body is a goldfish in a sea of sexuality. This is actually, fairly astoundingly, relevant to any and all of my academic pursuits. How it's relevant tends to vary from project to project, but the musicology that went into this latest dissertation is pretty dickdeep into erotica. In the world of rizzap, R and Bizzle, and fo' shizzling one's most loyal nizzles, the intimacy of a beating heart and boiling semen lie at the undercurrent of all music. It's the soul of youth, a most notorious demographic for porking. Sometimes even to the point of infidelity (you'd know that better than anyone, wouldn't you, Danny?).

But there's sometimes more. There're times when there's a far deeper meaning, laced in clever and wordplay.  Language becomes some kind of false language meant to conceal a more for realsies language, being a language within a language like Russian dolls but not, actually, like Russian language. I stumbled upon such a song while sojourning for hot clubbin' beats and discovered something I probably should have already known: "LOL Smileyface" by Trey Songz is a thrilling, incisive metaphor for capitalism.

 "Metaphor" being a metaphor.

The following will be a dissection of the lyrics of this song and, perhaps, your own personal self dissections of your personal foibles as a song called LOL Smileyface destroys your society with honesty.

I love Fisher Price

So. Right away. That happens.

8043350051Lol smiley face, lol smiley face(Soulja Boy, tell 'em)8043350051(Gucci)Lol smiley face, lol smiley face

Even as far as the first chorus, we see our lyrics being outsourced to other noted rappists. This is a chilling, but true, notion of how our movers and shakers view their own work: outsourcing, outsourcing, outsourcing. Why do the job yourself when you possess the power to make others do so? How much work is truly yours, and how much about you only exists because of your economic strength? Are you truly your own work, or are you merely a being who decrees that your resources are the true artist?

Shorty just text me, says she want to sex meLol smiley face, lol smiley faceShorty sent a twitpic, saying come and get thisLol smiley face, lol smiley face

"Text", of course, refers to the act of impersonal communication we all now enjoy: voiceless words generated instantaneously. Less effort, much more economical use of your time. Efficient. Furthermore, the song's first act of communication is an act of lust. We hunger for money and power...and yet, through impersonal means. 

Shorty called my phone, I was busy, I was busyCruisin' in that Benz 'round the city, 'round the cityThen I felt my phone buzz, I know that she like thugsI'm a bad boy like Diddy, take that
Immediately, we see that actually calling and physically talking is something we simply do not have time for due to material gains. Personal investments get in the way of power.
Then she sent the text that read, baby, I'm at homeThen she sent another one that says she's all aloneSo I text her a smiley face and said let's do the groanShe said, lol, boy you crazy, come on
Recreating that impersonal faux-relationship, via text, reestablishes the lustful connection. Even emotions are simulated via the text based "smiley face". The capitalist has surrendered his soul and his reward is acceptance and love (presumably in the form of poontiggle).
Then she said, actually, you ain't gotta ask meSent that lil' face with the tongue 'cause I'm nastyI'm on my way, girl, I can't wait, twitter me a pictureLet me see that okay
The fact that "you ain't gotta ask me" is horrifying: our impersonal world expects things to be impersonal. With further hollow representation of ourselves (a "twitpic" rather than our true presence), we go to eagerly reap the material wealth from our souls being disconnected from our loved ones.
Shorty just text me, says she want to sex meLol smiley face, lol smiley faceShorty sent a twitpic, saying come and get thisLol smiley face, lol smiley face

Go to my page and followAnd if you got a body like a Coke bottleShorty sent a twitpic, saying come and get thisLol smiley face, lol smiley face
Of course, a "body like a Coke bottle" would be preferred. It'd be easy to describe our metaphorical woman any other way, but choosing to liken her to a Coke (tm) bottle makes things clear. She is materialism and we reward brand integrity over true heart and personality.
See now my shorty text me, send your boy a smiley faceGucci Mane x-rated, we could make a sex tapePics on my iPhone, Gucci on her iPodWhen she turn around, *** make you say, oh God

Mommy, real beautiful, manicured cuticlesOffice job, student girl holding down her cubicleAnd she got my number, tell her man that's like a miracleSaid she like my swag pull up 6's on my vehicle

GA to VA, Cali girl love me, Brooklyn girls hug meMiami girls sexy, pull up in the stretchyJean Paul flexing, first date sexingNext night Texas, well damn

There's no deeper meaning. Gucci Mane is not particularly talented.

"Are farts even real?"
 Frankly, Trey Songz really dropped the ball there.
Lol smiley face, lol smiley faceSoulja Boy, tell 'em babe, lol smiley faceBaby girl, sent the picture to my BlackberryShe fine and she thick just like Hallie Berry, well damn

Kiss me through the phone, lol smiley faceWe can go and kick it babe, later on at my placeShe message me on Myspace, told me she loved me

The verse, the second outsourced portion, is of course laced with all of Soulja Boy Tell 'Em's iconic phrases and song titles. He has been reduced to his brand integrity, not his personal integrity. In an verse of artistic expression, he is a product and dutifully serves.
She texting my phone 4:30 in the morningBaby, I'm horny, I wanna kiss youI can put it on you, that's not an issue

She scratching my back, screaming out I'm hersShe text my phone said I need your loveI met her Monday last week in the clubOne week later, now she telling me that she in love, ha
This finishes pretty astutely. Soulja Boy Tells 'Em like it is and we see our true relationship with our investments and resources. "Now she telling me that she in love"...even though "she" is consumed with lust. We are in a constant state of infatuation that must constantly be sustained at an impersonal basis. And yet, despite this disconnect of souls, we insist that it is love. We insist that what we do enriches us on an emotional level. 
The tone throughout the song is quite clear. Sarcasm, negligence, and general tom foolery show that even our capitalist protagonists do not take their own emotional desolation seriously. In a world where your wallet determines your worth and your emotion, actual human depth is a mockery. We are all washed up addicts, drunk on apathy and high on irony. It is not God who kills the children. Only us.
You tell 'em, Soulja Boy. 

The Very Hungry Abyss

The abyss is a terrifying sight, if it can be called such. In truth, it is more of an all consuming experience that pervades every sense on the body with a gently nuanced fear. A well constructed fear, even. It wants you to scream in agony, but at the same time would love some scones. That kind of fear. The true substance of the abyss though, and the one that strikes fear deeper in the heart than anything else imaginable, is the knowledge that somewhere, deep in the darkness and even farther in ourselves, lies the inescapable, the unfathomable, and the unmerciful. There lies us.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" -You, screaming

Let us backtrack. The self is terrifying. If you imagine the greatest foe you have, a good number of you will answer yourself. Or yourself, but with an evil looking mustache. And mustache prejudice aside, this is for a very simple reason, psychologically speaking. All external enemies and forces can be beaten or avoided, but the self cannot be. Whatever you do today to defeat yourself, tomorrow you'll still be here in one way or another. And an attempt at avoidance only goes down the road of things like addiction, where there's an effort to abolish recognition of the self. And the Very Hungry Caterpillar inches into our discussion.

The Very Hungry Caterpillar, written in 1969 by Eric Carle, has sold approximately one copy for every minute of its existence. Imagine doing one thing every minute since your birth, and if you just thought of breathing or something like that you're a Cheaty McCheater Face Stupid Head. So why? Why is an arguably simple children's picture book so damn popular for so long?

Illuminati conspiracy?

It's actually a very easy answer. We are the Very Hungry Caterpillar. In Him We Trust, to extend the weird money thing. You see, TVHC has not stared into the abyss, but rather we stare into the abyss when you read about him. In the recesses of our soul lives TVHC, and reading the book is a way to have some tangible version of him to manipulate. Though we cannot manipulate the story in the basic sense of altering the process of events, we can treat it as we please. We can keep the abyss on a bookshelf, under our bed, or burn it while we paint ourselves ritualistically and kill a virgin goat free of blemishes (otherwise known as celebrating my birthday).

Even more than the fact that we can control the exposure to the abyss is what's within the actual tome. The book details the journey of TVHC as he eats almost as much as Rosie O'Donnell, progressively becoming larger and larger. In the end, he manages to metamorphose into a beautiful butterfly, much like I dream I will one day transform into someone that is excessively boy pretty.

One day...

You see, that is our desire for the darkness. TVHC eats and eats and eats, consuming our very soul. We may pretend to hold issue with this, but in all honesty we do not. Humans are a self-deprecating bunch, prone to attacks of self pity and doubt. When TVHC eats away at our soul, he's really just confirming the biases we have against ourselves. Once again, it is still important that we hold, or pretend to hold some control, over his abilities. When we externalize the abyss into the text, it allows us to decide when we cannibalize our self-esteem. We might not do it when Sally says yes to going to prom with you, but when you realize Sally only said yes to make Peter jealous you can decide your soul needs a swift kick in the nuts.

Through the consumption comes a change though, and this is the change we all hope for. Society at large puts forth this idea of character building. If there are enough struggles in life, then we will come out better for it. This belief even seeps into our guiding faiths, as seen in the Buddhist declaration that "life is a struggle."

Actually a translation error of "my wife is a struggle"

More westernized faiths hold to the dogma that the struggles in this life are simultaneously God testing our faith and a preparation for the next life, where it will be easier. TVHC completes the cycle at this point. He devours our soul, though only when we let him, to shape a better person. The leaves, the apple, everything, it's all different aspects of us that we allow ourselves to eat away at in the hopes of a perfecting of self. The desire is to reach a point where so much has been eaten away at that we are worthy to enter Nirvana/Heaven/Brahma. We systematically allow the abyss to take part of us by convincing ourselves that it is just the fat being trimmed off in the pursuit of a grander goal.

At this point there may be a question. "If TVHC is the abyss," you stupidly state to an inanimate computer screen, "why is it the one that transforms? Wouldn't we expect it to die for eating the unwanted parts of the being?" Decent question, I'm glad I asked. You see, here's where the human tendency of self-deprecation comes back into play.

"Remember me? I'm the reason you drink too much!"

We fear we're the abyss to someone else. We are terrified that when we see a version of ourselves in the abyss, it's really just a mirror. If we are TVHC, it means that we're the ones taking all the unwanted qualities of someone else onto ourselves. Whether it be the parent or the friend, it's the thought that instead of becoming better for our struggles, we're actually becoming worse. And that is why the book is so popular. It says that TVHC is the abyss, collecting the scraps of someone's life, but instead of dying or becoming as big a douchebag as your Uncle Bob, he transforms. The Very Hungry Caterpillar achieves perfection through his imperfection. Isn't that what we want?

Yes.

It is. We don't want to cast off parts of ourselves. As flawed as we may be, we like who we are. So therein lies the hope and the dream. TVHC took what was undesirable in us, thanked us for the snack, then reached a higher state. A menagerie of doubt and pity that we feed him allows him to change into a butterfly, beautiful and free. We fear the abyss and we fear that we are the abyss, but TVHC takes both those fears and soothes them. He tells us that it's okay to be imperfect. There's no real problem in drinking one more soda or taking one more bump of cocaine, or maybe like eight more bumps at the same time, because somewhere in that mistake lies the possibility to become a new, better being. The butterfly is not the self wiped free of flaws. Rather, the butterfly is those flaws being experienced and then a decision being made, free of dogmatic rule, as to what to do with those flaws. The Very Hungry Caterpillar is the worst us, changed into the best.

Xanadu

It takes the painter a moment, but he smiles. It's a bit of a worthless smile, though he won't quite admit that; in a week, he'll regard the piece as complete rubbish. How could I have produced this and why, oh why, did I even bother? He will wonder this someday, but for now? That euphoria that only comes with meeting a deadline is one that fills him with elation. He paints only for himself and has thus succeeded with flying colors, presuming that we are willing to accept aerial perceptions of light in such rudimentary times.

"Speaking." the painter spoke, our narrator abruptly shifting to different perspective, into his newfangled portiphone. He was grateful that he only replied and did not initiate the call. The rotary dial was a feasible device when the telephone was firmly planted at home base, but to carry one along with him wherever he went made him feel like communication required him to be the resident Phalanges Wrestling Champion of the World and, as if a testament to his pretentiousness, he was only able to muster the brutality for the state semi-finals (his pretentiousness, though a clear disability on the battlefield, still allowed some degree of tactical advantage over his enemies; it is perhaps for the best we not mention these worthy opponents, these dials of which turned the gears that triggered some sort of proto-thelemic wi-fi, thus allowing his portiphone to communicate, were far less than sentient). His commissioner, however, disliked such rambles and asked only a single question that, little did he know, had a million answers.

"Finished? A better question would be: is this portrait an exquisite, definitive portrayal of the true essence of paradise? After this painting, will we even need other forms of expression?" The painter asked his employer these questions not out of egotism (though, surely, there was no short supply), but out of genuine belief. 

The portiphone's gears ticked, tocked, and with rapidly increasing ambition even clicked one or two clacks. Minutes dwindled, and the employer asked but a simple question.

"I do not enlist hack pamphlet jockeys to give me masterworks, pulpist." The employer told the painter. "I employee you to forgo your savage doctors for but a moment and simply give me something to adorn my dining hall. I do not want you to unravel the universe. The essence of thought will not pollute my Michaelmas turkey." Art for art's sake was a disgusting proposition this close to the holidays; for a lowly pulpist turned painter to give you HIS idea of paradise instead of yours! 

The pulpist smiled. "Then I'm sorry sir."

He looked, once more, at his master work. The essence of paradise he's painted, years of honing his craft in the funny papers and given one chance to put his heart to picture.

"I didn't ask for art." 

"I'm not giving you art." said the artist. "I'm giving you Xanadu."

----

WE FADE IN on the old chess halls in the ABBEY OF THELEMA, as an aging ALEISTER CROWLEY sighs and ponders his purposes among gears that turn with precision and power the giant DOOMSDAY CLOCK in the back of the room. He's playing a game with nobody in particular, but throws the chess board to the side.

In the chair across from him forms a strange being, the fanciful INDALECIO. 

CROWLEY

Are you my Holy Guardian Angel?

INDALECIO

Don't you prefer the company of devils?

CROWLEY

I am no wicked man.

INDALECIO

No, I don't quite think you are. Neither wicked nor the wickedest, just one who dabbles in the anachronistic philosophies of tye-dye druids.

CROWLEY

I resent your retroactivity and will prefer to substitute it with my retrospection.

INDALECIO

Yours is the retrospection of a poor failure. Such wickedness and not even a single ounce of genocide. Your worst offense is, of course, blasphemy. A poor man's crime befitting the thugs of cosmos. 

CROWLEY

It is my not acts that are a waste, but my knowledge.

INDALECIO

Oh?

CROWLEY

I am not the wickedest, but I say with no need for modesty that I am the cleverest. And so will live on as all great men do, yet I only live on as means to pass the words of Aiwass.

INDALECIO

And if I may, as one cosmic being referring to another, Aiwass is a massive tool.

CROWLEY

I have been cursed to be born on this Earth to pass the words and magicks of my Holy Guardian onto the planet, in hopes that it will sink into Gaia's consciousness and perhaps do some good or ill of its own.

Tick tock.

CROWLEY

But Crowley, the man, is a pointless vessel. Only one who exists to be told the mysteries of the universe to tell others the mysteries of the universe and for many to eventually be skeptical of the mysteries of the universe. And such a simple solution to these mysteries do I present. Such is the punishment to preach in Galilee.

Tick tock.

INDALECIO

And what is the simple thing you wish your magicks could impart? Not as Crowley the avatar of Aiwass, but as Crowley the man? 

CROWLEY

Do as thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.

Crowley picks a small piece of paper and tosses it to Indalecio, who looks at it.

INDALECIO

A portrait?

CROWLEY

Of paradise. A portrait of the true meaning of life. In its time, considered a simple hack drawing by a unremarkable inkist for hire. Now, of course, Aiwass's knowledge lets me recognize it as the key to the universe.

INDALECIO

And what would you call this painting?

The Doomsday Clock strikes midnight and Crowley collapses, a single word escaping his lips so he does not die meaninglessly.

CROWLEY

Xanadu.

-----

I leave this to you because I love you.

I'd rather you not cry, but I'm not exactly there to enforce that. I just don't really like the idea of you crying, even if I wouldn't be able to perceive it when it happens. You were all I really had, Makinzie, after all was said and done. I didn't have children of my own, nor a wife to tell her I loved her. But I did have you, which is something I was never able to repay my sister for. I assume even my death was a hassle. Sorry about that.

I want you to have something, though. I was never much of an uncle when I was alive, so maybe this gift will show I at least cared and loved you when I wasn't able to show it. It's an old thing I'd think you'd appreciate.  I got it from an old kook at the flea market years ago, who was very quick to stress how the picture possessed mystic powers and even might be holding the incomprehensible, ontological baggage of famous historical figures. He mumbled on and on about it holding the musk of "prestigious body thetans", but you know how I feel about the mystic mumbo jumbo. The fact he had it confirmed by a "soothsayer" didn't help matters.

Here's what I DO know: it was made a long time before the Reformatting and was by this guy who did pulp magazines or whatever. He used the commission to paint out his ideal version of paradise, which the guy paying for it apparently didn't take too well, so he pawned it. And it's just been going from hand to hand. I don't really know what paradise is, though, to be honest.

That's kinda why I'm giving you this picture. I know that this is hard for you. It's hard for me as I write this, because I don't think I have much time left and for all I know this is the last thing I'll ever say to you. And I'd rather this not be the last thing. I'd rather make poop noises in your ear one more time, but I understand that just won't happen. But if you have this, maybe you can imagine I'm in a better place and it'll hurt less knowing that I'm gone.

So here's to you. Maybe the only one who will cry. I don't want you to, but I appreciate that you will. I love you. And I hope that the picture I'm leaving with this note will fill your heart with ease that, Aiwass willing (never thought I'd say that), I managed to make it to paradise and someday we'll be able to be there together. You're my paradise, Mak. But for now, I just have to say goodbye and leave you with Xanadu:

Garfield and You

Today we shall hear a harrowing tale. One that transcends religion, race, and what football team you like, even if that might be just totally impossible to imagine. It's here. It's time to talk about a work that so carefully follows the life trajectory of man that to deny the work is to deny the self. It is a tale of the progression of mindset through the ages. Yes, children, gather around and hear the story. Weep when you must weep, laugh when you must laugh, and mostly groan at the forced humor and generally unfunniness that has endured for over 350 years [citation needed]. Today, we talk of Garfield.

Bill Murray once tried to kill all people associated with
this movie. He was also high the entire time.

Garfield has lived, whether wanted or not, since 1978. At its beginning, it was hailed as an edgy, often politically incorrect comic strip focusing on the relationship between a cat and his schizophrenic owner that harbors illusions over his cat's intelligence. Apparently there are people who look at this work and do not immediately think to themselves, "Wow, I wish I could sue Jim Davis for stealing my time and my soul," and upon further investigation the reason becomes clear. You see, Garfield's descent into being just an absolutely terrible piece of art that merchandises itself at all times mirrors the human experience. Though I once viewed Jim as a money hungry idiot, I now view him as, yes, still a money hungry idiot, but one that has infused his work with a deep theme.

BUT IS HE AS HUNGRY AS GARFIELD IS??? HAHAHAHAHA KILLMENOW

Garfield's start reflects our own beginnings in life, full of rebellion against "the Man" for totally opressing our middle class being. "How dare society tells me to wear pants in public!" we scream, founding the Guys Against You, Society! which admittedly attracted an entirely different crowd than expected. Much more oiled up and sensitive than expected too, admittedly. Really willing to hear about your problems and comfort you.

From there, a progression occurs. Odie's owner, Lyman disappears from the script. And though it is debatable whether he moved away or Jon had a sudden urge for human flesh, the important part is that he left Jon, Garfield, and Odie's lives. This loss forced Jon to change. Now he had not only one, but two mouths to feed. Jon, like everyone else, experienced his first tangible loss in the world, and though he did not show external signs of grief, one can only imagine his inner torment that constantly haunted him.

"Should I have cooked him medium rare instead??"

Just like us, Jon struggles through his loss, inevitably being forced to move on and pretend that he didn't kill that guy. From here his mind begins to lose touch with itself. He appears more and more cartoonish, his eyes wide in absorbing the world around him. He tries to see everything in the moment, lest he lose someone yet again. Garfield becomes more and more human, even walking on his hind legs, which I had trouble with until I was around 5 years old (Shut up, I just really enjoyed crawling) as Jon tries to recreate a human presence.

Jon is us because he has a deepseeded inability to completely comprehend loss of someone dear. This loss strikes at him even deeper than that time you adopted a caterpillar and he died because apparently he doesn't like waffles as much as you do. Jon is only stirred to action by Garfield, a feline attempting vainly to regain his master. Only through a chance love does Jon find himself again.

In a showing of true human drama, Jon's unrequited love is at last returned by Liz Wilson, the veterinarian that seems to be the only one that actually wants Garfield to live. At this point, it is hard to differentiate as to whether it is reality or Jon's imagination at play, but that's the point. Reality is what we perceive it to be, and Jon's reality involves him being saved from the depths of sorrow by Liz. 

The gritty Garfield reboot never gained the necessary backers

Isn't this the same existence we all go through? The same human drama that replicates itself throughout time? We begin with a friend that we inevitably lose, forced into a new mindset and awareness that we are not immune to the tragedy of the world. Our view is altered and reality can never be quite so idealistic again. Only through the deep care of another can we hope to regain some sense of normality, even if only in our own minds. Jim Davis has recreated the essence of what it means to be human in a comic strip. Maybe that's why Garfield isn't funny. Maybe it's actually meant to be a serious comic and has just been disregarded since 1978. At this point the only appropriate action is to given Mr. Davis the Medal of Honor and elect him our president, for no one understands us so deeply as he does. That or we should realize the comic isn't funny in the least and ponder how in the Hell he keeps managing to vomit merchandise that the world in turn devours.

These movies have earned over $400 million.
There's no joke there, just depression.

Dragonball Z: A Study of Purgatory

A man lays on his death bed, moments before breath leaves his body. He's lived a good life. Not always a moral life, but a good life. He's lived, he's loved, he's hated, he's fought. All that's left now is to go gentle into a good, gracious night. God will judge him and heaven will no longer have to wait. It is time for peace.

Though unfortunately, some of that isn't true. A man is not perfect and his devotion to Jesus Christ will only take him so far. He has sins that must be cleansed and what comes now is a most righteous baptism that shows the Lord's fair grace. The man awakens. He sees not a Sunday school crossroad but the image of a vast containment cell that his soul will live and rest in as it is given one final purification before the gorgeous eternity. He does not witness the glory of God in heaven. What he sees is the greatest gift of all: a second chance.

Dragonball Z, more than anything else, illustrates a world sandwiched between the boundaries of Heaven and Earth. It remains the most exhaustive, comprehensive work by Japanese theologian Akira Toriyama, whose studies on comparative religion and commentaries on various religious texts have been celebrated since their publications in Weekly Shonen Jump. Toriyama is well known for passionate analysis of his choice subject matter and Dragonball Z is arguably his greatest work. It is a narrative essay, told over years and years, detailing how a world would operate if it existed beyond the veil of mortality and in the strange, homoerotic nest of stagnation. What is it like to live only to be purified for your afterlife?

In the interest of sophistication, this paragraph will be about balls.

In Dragonball Z, nobody ever truly dies. Via a single dragon's seven testicles (cleverly layered with symbolism, combining the Abrahamic relevance of the number seven with the distinctly Egyptian creation myth of masturbating to produce life), those who die are always given the gift of life once again. Most who die, such as Krillin, do not actually accomplish much of anything during both their lives and the great battles fought for like ever. And it is this very reason that they are not ALLOWED to die. The relinquishing of their life but not exchanging great deeds for salvation is what keeps them routed in limbo. The Dragon's Balls are like a great equalizer that keeps purgatory in check: without them, impure souls would leak into heaven and the balance of the universe would be upset. By Toriyama's theology, you earn your keep. In purgatory, the cleansing of sins is symbolized by battling great, powerful beings and only through great struggle and combat will you finally ascend to heaven.

He seems to like it.

The Saiyans, of course, are God's chosen people. Just like Moses, Goku was sent down the river to escape the explosion of his dying planet and landed on Earth as a feral child who fondled squirrel balls and attacked older gentlemen passing by to see their grandchildren on the last days of their life. But, like all people, Goku must struggle with the Original Sin of his ancestors and mutate into a giant gorilla representative of all of his past deeds that he must overcome. For some of us, this is merely our journey into the wild, awkward jungle of pubescence and unwanted ejaculatory naps. But for Goku, scion of purgatory, it is the great revelation that he is a horrible, horrible bundle of shame.

If the Dragon's Balls are the great equalizer of life in purgatory, Goku is the shining example of behavior. Goku does not concern himself with things like family, friends, or that one thing you did that one time that nobody knows about except for Cindy and, though she's a bit of a gossip, you trusted her and now everybody knows so fuck you, Cindy. All of those things are aspects of shame. Goku is not defined by his wife, children, and friends but only defined by his desire to purify himself and cleanse himself and thus, by Toriyama's theology, he will continuously battle and reach higher and higher stages of enlightenment after defeating every opponent. Sun Wukong will break out of his chains and become Buddha.

Maybe you'd get this joke if you've ever read a fucking book.

Later writers have picked up from Toriyama's cues, but have committed a cardinal sin. Theologian Aya Matsui penned the text "Dragonball GT", which shows Goku finally succeeding in purging all of his sins and ascending to Heaven on a giant penis (I'm assuming that metaphor works. Whatever). There's a reason, however, that GT is a minor theological curiosity much like the Gospel of Thomas or Halloween: Resurrection. By allowing Goku to purge of his shame and every time he ever diddled a jungle sheep while being raised by Grandpa Gohan's corpse on the periphery of civilization, we present a tangible goal for our faithful. The theology tightens, the goal is visible, and the effort to reach this goal now becomes visible. How will people be able to reach this unrealistic goal now? Toriyama's genius is that he leaves Goku's ultimate salvation ambiguous: though he reaches newer and newer levels of Super Saiyan, he never achieves total salvation and never truly leaves his purgatory. He starts and raises (kind of) a family within this null void of sin, with this generation all ascending to Aryan race to cleanse the sins of the father. In fact, when Toriyama's treastise ends, you could almost say Goku goes back to square one and has a whole new plate of sins to cleanse when he becomes friendly with a small Ethiopian child.

Butter's in the fridge!

Dragonball Z is a complex work and doesn't always tell us what we want to hear. Whether Goku spiritually awakens on Namek, during the Cell Games, or against the Pillsbury Dough Boy, he will be destined to do so again. Likewise, there will always be a more powerful opponent to signify even more sins to purge and evils within to redeem yourself for. But does this mean that you can never ascend to Heaven, or does it simply mean that Heaven only comes for those whose faith lets them survive longer than everyone else? Well, Dragonball Z doesn't answer that question. That's for every individual reader to assess in perspective with his own relationship with God. But, if you'd prefer some respectable commentary to leave us off as you ponder our roles in life, here're some wise words from the man who voiced Goku for several years and thus has much familiarity with Akira Toriyama's thoughts on religion and the cosmic state of man, Sean Schemmel.

"I don't kill people for moral reasons. It's just to watch them die."