Looney Logic

So, most cartoons are made for kids, right? And obviously, someone like me would never watch cartoons for fun—unless it’s Looney Toons, which is hilarious, by the way. But that’s beside the point. Where was I? Oh, yes, I never watch cartoons. Except sometimes. Sort of like that old letter “i” rule. You know the one… i before e except after c – and sometimes. So, yeah, sometimes it is.

My question with all of this is, why does all logic fly out the window when it comes to cartoons? Okay, anvil drops. Character survives. That’s no big deal. I get it. Physics and mortality rates are a whole different ballgame in the cartoon world. But why is Little Bear naked when no one else around him is? And nobody in his cartoon world acknowledges his nudity? Weird.

Then, there are the animals that walk around half-dressed. A cute tee shirt is totally appropriate. No pants, that’s fine, too. Think about it. Everyone is okay with Pooh Bear letting it all hang out, not to mention Micky Mouse, Donald and Daisy Duck, Roo, and Woodsy Owl. Oh, and Smokey the Bear even accessorizes with a hat and belt — but apparently his jeans are enough. If he were a shirtless human, those “protect the forest” ads would read a lot differently. I’m just saying.

What makes it even weirder is that in those same cartoons with the half-dressed animals, there are fully naked animals and fully dressed animals. Like Pooh gets a shirt, but Rabbit and Tigger are nude. And Mickey Mouse gets pants, but Goofy, Minnie, Pete, and Clarabelle are modest enough to be fully clothed. Or, in Tom and Jerry, Tom is naked all day. But when he visits the beach, he wears a swimsuit. Excuse me?

The examples are overwhelming. Next time you watch an animal cartoon, just pay attention.

Oh, but that’s not where the weirdness of cartoon logic stops. Animals will own other animals as pets. And all the other animals are fine with it! Or, there’s some strange animal kingdom hierarchy that makes no sense at all. Just look at Pluto and Mickey Mouse. A mouse owns a dog.

In Little Bear, Tutu is a pet dog who doesn’t speak. Her owners are humans who befriend other speaking (and clothes-wearing) animals. What?

Then, there’s Peppa Pig, who owns a goldfish, who she takes to the vet, who happens to be a hamster.

Have you ever seen Alvin and the Chipmunks? Well, in one episode, they visit the zoo. The plot thickens when Alvin gets put in a cage in a case of mistaken identity, and everyone is outraged. But where is the outrage for the non-speaking, non-clothes wearing animals on display?  What the hell is that about?

And this broken cartoon logic transforms into the downright ridiculous when you think too hard about it. There’s one scene where Donald Duck is sitting around the table with his three nephew ducklings. On the table for dinner is a roasted chicken, for fuck’s sake. Something seems deeply wrong about this.

Or the classic scene where Minnie Mouse is afraid of… a mouse.

So, the hierarchy here isn’t even based on what type of animals they are. It’s totally arbitrary. Some animals are like humans. Others are treated like animals. Or, you know, food.

Cartoon logic is, well… illogical.

Why is Road Runner just a very fast bird, while Wile E. Coyote has the wherewithal to mail order jet-powered roller skates and hand out nifty business cards? Yes, I get it, he’s a suuuuper genius.  Still.

Elmer Fudd has regular conversations with Bugs and Daffy yet tries to shoot them — and presumably eat them, anyway. Okay, well, yeah, that one I understand. I have a few coworkers I feel that way about.

As it stands, I think the incongruous nature of the cartoon world needs to be studied further. And tomorrow is Saturday. You know what that means.  Saturday morning cartoons. So, if I’m sitting in front of the t.v. with a big bowl of cereal watching cartoons all morning, it’s research, people. Research!

When I Win the Lotto

Let’s be clear.

I will win the mega-millions Lotto.  This was told to me by a fortune-teller at my local carnival this past summer.   She also told me I would get a break, and she was right; my bank account is as broke as they come.  How did she know!?  It boggles the mind. Truly.

The first thing I will do as a mega-multi-millionaire is to run for president.  Hold on, someone just told me that’s already been done.  Damn.

My next plan as a future Lotto winner is to buy The Perfect House.  You know the one; with the swimming pool in the kitchen, the bowling alley in the foyer, and the self-cleaning bathroom?  I love New York, and I also love California.  I would happily move to either place, or maybe both, if I didn’t have to worry about making a living.   That would be the extent of my real estate investments, though, because I’d be traveling all of the time.  If it weren’t for my animals…well, and a general lack of funds…I’d never be home as it is.  Since this is my future, according to Madame Mystery at the Country Fair, I’m interviewing animal caretakers and looking into buying each pet a mobile home.   Just kidding; Rufus the Invincible has a license but he doesn’t drive.  Wouldn’t it be great to have enough money to take them with me as I trek the world, though?

I’m not a big lover of stuff.  Sure, stuff is great, but instead of buying even more stuff, I’d indulge my laziness. I’d have servants – paid very well mind you. In return for a generous yearly salary, room and board, medical insurance, the whole nine yards, they would have to be on call 24/7. And having lived with myself for quite some time now, I know that I have bad days where I’m …um…grumpy, shall we say? On days when I’m less than my nice self, I’d offer up an extra $200 or so in cash in advance – first thing in the morning (forewarned is forearmed they say) and explain to all and sundry, today I’m a bitch. Sorry. But here’s $200.

feed me! oh, was that harsh? here's some cash!

I’m sorry for what I said while I was hungry.  Here’s some cash.

One of these well-compensated individuals would be my “runner.”  If I want coffee or some of that great carry out seafood from across town, I’d just call the runner. I’d also have a chef, but one that does more than make those frilly little dishes that look like cat food with a piece of sidewalk weed on them.   My chef will be as versed in good old home cooking as he is in fine French cuisine.  “A big old slab of homemade meatloaf drowning in gravy, Monsieur Snooty, if you please, and  a loaf of your finest bread, with chocolate mousse for dessert.  And a diet Coke.”   At midnight if I’m hungry for a snack or a full-blown meal, I’d just buzz the chef’s quarters.   Heck, let’s take it all the way and send the runner to the kitchen for my snack. Oh yeah. I know how to live.

Now, we’ve discussed my mobile pet idea, but of course I won’t be travelling ALL the time…I would eventually make pit-stops at home. So for those times when we are home, I’d hire someone to clean up all the cat hair and hairballs.  This would be an awesome job for someone, seriously.  I’d pay them well to dump litter boxes and clean up outdoor…errrr, leavings.  These dainty hands will never again flick a hairball under the couch, or pour more litter on top of the old in a vain attempt to get out of changing the box.  Don’t judge me, you’ve done it too.  This person also gets to take my dogs out whenever the need arises.  I may just train the dogs to buzz for their caretakers themselves and eliminate the middleman altogether. The middleman being me. Just so you know. Cause I’m lazy.

me...being my lazy self

me…being my lazy self

No more stuck in traffic for THIS Lotto winner.  I mean, I might be stuck in traffic but I wouldn’t have the “stuck in traffic driver stress.” You see, I’d never drive myself again…anywhere. I could just lean dramatically back in my seat and sigh loudly, like I did when I was a teenager.  Good times.

With all the time and money in the world at my disposal, you’d best believe I would be one sexy, albeit idle, chick.  I’d have salon and spa days, and relax on the French Riviera, drink at a café in Tuscany, and hide myself away in a thatch-roofed cottage on the coast of Ireland. You know. Just the essential travel spots.  I have already bought a cover shoot for Glamour, in case you’re wondering.  Madame Mystery insisted that I would be adored by millions and loved by all.  Or was it that I owed millions and would be sued by all?  It’s a little hazy, and I was still reeling from the Tilt-A-Whirl.

I would need a hobby to occupy my time.  Of course, right? Everyone need a hobby.  I’m dangerous with pointy objects, so knitting is out.  I’m not very athletic, so sports would be out, too.  Thank goodness for that; that last one involved excessive movement.  Who the hell wants to do that!? I decided to Google a bit of fancy hobbies, and my research turned up the following.

  • Collecting fine antiques: This isn’t your grandmother’s china cabinet here.  We’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars spent on a rare coin, stamp, rug, or piece of jewelry.  On top of this, I would need to build a special storage facility and insure the whole thing.   Sounds like a lot of work for things I can’t really use, doesn’t it?
  • Investing in an art collection: Up until now, I have considered the TV Guide as a valuable artistic statement.  Turns out, there are paintings and sculptures that I don’t like or understand for several million dollars apiece.  I can own some of this baffling work for myself, if so inclined.  I’d pay other people to look at it and make appropriate “oohs” and “aahs.” But then I’d need to get insurance, a security guard, an alarm system. Who has time for all of that?
  • Race Car Driving: I kid you not, I could enter the exciting world of race car driving.  Probably, the equally exciting world of hospital emergency rooms as well.  If I visited the hospital enough times, I would just build a wing in my name…provided I remember my name after the accidents.   This fine sport costs hundreds if not thousands of dollars per hour when on the track. That doesn’t take into consideration the medical bills. Blech.
  • Boating: Nothing says indulgent like purchasing a boat as big as my house and burning through enough fuel in a half hour to power an entire third world country for a year.
  • Gambling in high stakes games: When the opening bid is a million dollars, I think I’ll leave my inner Kenny Rogers on the table and just fold ‘em.

Maybe fancy hobbies aren’t for me? I just couldn’t get into anything like that. Oh wait, I do know one hobby I could get into. I could collect animals – all my favorites: pigs, horses, sheep, chickens, cows, dogs, cats, the works. Emptying out a livestock auction or a shelter, now that I would enjoy. The money I would spend on fuel for a race car each week could pay a keeper to take care of them – and what it would cost to buy a boat or that antique umbrella holder dipped in gold could surely buy the necessary property on which to build a sanctuary to keep them healthy and happy.  Now THAT, that I could get into.

When I win the Lotto, I can see myself still being me, only a hell of a lot less stressed…and maybe a few pounds heavier.  I’d like to think I’m not one of those individuals that money would change.  I’d also sure like to find that out for myself one day.

In the meantime, if you see Madame Mystery, tell her I’m still waiting.

just sitting here...waiting...any day now...

just sitting here…waiting…any day now…