It’s not fair watching today’s grade school children flounce around with both of their backpack straps in use. I always feel compelled to sneak up from behind and yank one of their straps off. It’s a little thing called humility. When I was in elementary school, one wouldn’t think of slinging both straps across one’s shoulders. Only changelings used both straps. Then in middle school, when it became permissible to use both straps, these losers finally started using a single strap, which always made me chuckle. Some people simply can’t keep up with backpack fashions.

Actually, I’m not sure why it was ever fashionable to utilize only one strap. I think it was meant to imply, “I may be going to school, but I can’t fully commit to wearing a backpack. Something could come up that’s more important than school, and I might not have time to remove both of my straps.” As an adult I realize that there’s nothing “cool” or “hip” about putting undue strain on your rotator cuff. But I still feel like yanking backpack straps off children’s shoulders, and maybe pushing them around a bit.

The worst part about a concert is when the band leaves the stage for the first time and the audience is meant to stand around and cheer for an encore like a bunch of morons. But there will be no actual encore, friends—this is merely a ritualistic appeal to the musicians’ vanity. In reality these motherfuckers haven’t even finished their set.

Everyone is nevertheless delighted when, in a moment of spontaneity, the band reappears onstage to perform a meticulously-choreographed rendition of their most popular song. Why must we go through this whole song-and-dance? Come on, guys, I’ve got shit to do. Tell you what—if you’re done performing, go ahead and turn on the lights so I can actually get out of here. If you want to leave the stage so badly, I’m not going to stand around clapping for you to come back. Just get in your fucking van and go home.

Sometimes I like to go to the grocery store and stare at the Jiffy Mix boxes. They’ve kept right up with the latest packaging trends, haven’t they? In case you don’t frequent American supermarkets, here is what a box of Jiffy Mix looks like:

This design pleases me. It pleases me a great deal. One time on a school trip I visited the Jiffy Mix factory in Chelsea, Michigan, but I didn’t think to ask what was up with their packaging. Their marketing department is probably just some old Willy Loman-type character, and his only job is to produce advertisements for obscure AM radio stations. These are the sorts of daydreams I experience as I stare at all the amusing Jiffy Mix boxes.

As far as I know, Jiffy Mix hasn’t even adjusted their prices since 1950. It still costs like 38 cents for a box of Jiffy Mix. They have no idea what inflation means. Their attitude is: “Who cares if we’re hemorrhaging money? We don’t even check our financial records. You know what are our income was last year? Fuck you, that’s what it was.” Needless to say, Jiffy Mix is one of my all-time favorite foodstuffs.

Sorry I missed the past three day’s updates, which ruined the Brandnewary concept and made me out to be some sort of liar. In actuality I was just busy moving into a new apartment, and to update eKarjala during such a time of turmoil would have been reckless and irresponsible. Meanwhile, I’ll still try to update each day for the rest of January. If I miss another update, just realize that I move into a new apartment about two or three times per month.

Now please let me take a moment to catch up eKarjala with a realistic simulation of those missed updates:

Saturday:
Hey guys, remember Popples? What was the deal with Popples? LOL! It’s like a Carebear and a Gummi Bear had children, and the children turned out to be these silly sorts of creatures! LOL! LOL! Turn into a ball, you stupid mutant!

Sunday:
What’s up with those horizontal dashes people sometimes draw through the midpoint of the number 7? Is the regular 7 not retarded enough for these people? You don’t need to distinguish a 7 from a 1, if that’s your game—just write a little neater. LOLOL! But seriously, keep your backward F fetish out of my sight.

Monday:
The other day, I did (something normal) and was irritated due to (contrived observation). Who’s the retard who came up with (subject)? That would be like (farcical analogy). LOL!

Oftentimes when I’m enjoying a tomato, some bookish fellow will stop adjusting his eyeglasses for a minute to tell me, in his nasally little voice, “You know, tomatoes aren’t vegetables. They’re actually a type of fruit.” Immediately, everyone within earshot stops what they’re doing. In hushed tones my friends start to say, “Oh, snap, shit’s going down.” If I’m at a party the DJ will stop the record, and somebody will flick on the lights. No one even questions why I’m eating a tomato at a party, because everyone has learned to let me enjoy my tomatoes in peace. I’m not even going to make any sort of joke in this update, because what I always proceed to tell these nebbish blowhards should be digested as immutable lifeless facts:

*Fact one: It is true that botanically a tomato is a fruit. Everyone talks about this. But guess what: so are squash, green beans, bell peppers, and cucumbers. Are you still prepared to pretend you’re a botanist?

*Fact two: To get even more specific, tomatoes are berries. You might also want to note that bananas, avocados, and chili peppers are also berries—and that, botanically, strawberries, blackberries, and raspberries? Not berries at all, my friend, but aggregate fruits.

*Fact three: Check this out, Gregor Mendel: “vegetable” doesn’t even have much botanical meaning. It’s a culinary term and since the tomato isn’t sweet, it’s treated as a vegetable for cooking purposes.

*Fact four: In 1893, the U.S. Supreme Court officially declared that a tomato is a vegetable based on its usage and should be treated as such in accordance with the Tariff Act of 1883, motherfucker.

By now, the egoistic tomato-as-fruit proponent is lying unconscious on the floor with blood flowing from his nose. I didn’t even hit him, I just laid down some knowledge. Then the DJ restarts the party music and everybody begins dancing—everybody but me. I’ve got a vegetable to enjoy.

Recently I chanced upon a gathering of true kite enthusiasts. I never really thought kites had much of a point, but that’s because I thought they were all just a bunch of lame triangles, or at best little rectangular boxes. But consider the following dreamland:

I was completely overstimulated at this park. I didn’t know which kite’s pleasant lulling motions I should examine first.

The octopus was a site to behold. It must have taken a team of geniuses to get this Leviathan into the air. To see this octopus sailing in the sky once more is merely my greatest hope in life.

That one kite near the center is a pair of disembodied female legs in stockings. Why not create such a whimsical kite? In case you couldn’t tell, I was completely lying yesterday when I said I hated hobby stores. Hobby stores make precisely these sorts of fantasies possible.

Many of these kites resembled parade balloons, but you have to understand that unlike balloons, these creatures rode the wind in a fashion that must be described as majestic. Needless to say, this lobster was a breathtaking specimen.

Now here’s a guy who’s figured out a new way to travel. He doesn’t give a damn for walking. What he does is he hops on a skateboard and lets his kite take him wherever it may. One day I hope to travel across the United State in precisely this fashion, except my dream is to find a kite modeled after Falkor from The Never Ending Story.

A lot of so-called “hobby stores” have a very narrow view on what constitutes a hobby. If hobby stores are to be believed, unless you fly RC airplanes or assemble little Japanese robot models, guess what: you don’t have a hobby. This would be like calling a business a “sports store,” but when you go inside the only thing for sale is racquetball equipment.

Hobby stores don’t want to hear a single word about your cooking or golfing hobbies. They really don’t care about what you do in your free time. If you ask a hobby store clerk a question about your photography hobby, he will laugh in your face and say, “Sorry, we only sell hobby stuff here. We don’t cater to bullshit amusements like photography.” Yeah, that’s a great attitude to have. This is why I took up a fun new hobby called never shopping at hobby stores.

You can find an article I wrote for CRACKED.com here. It’s about dated futuristic movies. You might find it a little more crass and more generically offensive than usual, but that’s merely to conform to the editorial standards at CRACKED.com.

Also, on November 19th this site was randomly quoted in an article about board games in the Sacramento Bee:

I admit that it’s kind of a jarring, disconnected quotation, but at least now I have a blurb for eKarjala that I can attribute to a major newspaper: “Ouch!” raves the Sacramento Bee. My next blurb will probably be something like: “Well that was just fucking mean,” praises the Kansas City Star.