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batfakforever
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Name: Running Bear
Country: United States
State: Illinois
Metro: Chicago
Birthday: 1/3/1987
Interests: Cartooning, Procrastinating, watching funny movies, old war movies, eating Chipotle, entertaining people in whatever way I can, playing computer games, and History.
Expertise: Procrastinating, comedy, writing, ideas, childish scribbles people call "cartoons," and lounging around like the lazy bastard I am.
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Art
Message: message me
Yahoo:  thpassionofthenightdog
AIM:  Codename Twinky
AIM:  Josh Jobbe
Member Since:
10/25/2004
 Lifetime
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| "Well... I guess you don't have to be Mexican to drink a margarita."
~ My Grandma
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| If, for whatever reason, I disappear without a trace with the only clues being signs of a struggle accompanying broken bottles and crushed nachos, plus the smell of mediocre Mexican food, then you may assume that the restaurant next door has had me eliminated.
You see, the Mexican restaurant next door is perplexingly popular, and their patrons find no qualms in ignoring the five "7-11 Customer Only" signs we have, and occupying our entire parking lot, even if that means my 7-11 customers have nowhere to park.
So I (politely) tell these illiterate douches to move their cars. Most just move them without a fuss, some throw temper tantrums because they have to walk 20-30 extra feet. Others try to argue their way out of it:
Dumb Guy: We're just getting carry-out!
Me: Okay. You still can't park there.
Dumb Guy: Listen, man! I've got a one-year-old son at home. We've got a car seat to prove it.
Me: That's... great... I guess you'd better go home and get him, and then park in Cilantro's parking lot when you come back.
I guess newborns really like tacos.
So then time continues to unravel forward; I ring up customers, tell a couple more people to move their shit, straighten shelves, that kind of stuff. When suddenly I hear a familiar enraged voice with a distinct lisp that impedes me from taking it seriously- it's the owner of Cilantro.
And he is upset.
Mr. Cilantro is a man who has twice previously run into my store and screamed at me- 'til his face was red, in front of customers- about how I am a horrific dragon of a man, using my forked tongue and fiery breath to purposely piss off all of his customers, who apparently have the divine right to park wherever the fuck they want.
Both times I enraged him further by being really polite, not really caring about what he said, not taking him seriously, and calling all of his bluffs.
So he throws open the door, and begins yelling (as in, ALL CAPS with lots of EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!) at Matt, my co-worker, the person who is not me, who never yells at anybody. Ever. What he does is far more sinister; he parks his car in one of Cilantro's parking spaces.
Mr. Cilantro is so angry that he stutters, and doesn't speak using full sentences. He expresses his indignation towards our treatment of his customers, to which Matt replies:
Okay, its not our fault your customers are all assholes who don't read signs.
I can assume that from Mr. Cilantro's point of view, this response was less than ideal. At this point, Mr. Cilantro demands that Matt remove his car from Cilantro's half of the parking lot. Matt's reply:
I'm sorry, where's the sign that says I can't park there? Because I don't see one.
This, also, was less than ideal. Mr. Cilantro's conclusion was that threats were the next logical step in his embarrassing parade of fucktardery. He informed Matt that should the car not be removed, he would have it towed away by big smelly men with greasy hands. His response was thus:
Go ahead. Do it. Do it. I dare you to do it.
Mr. Cilantro then withdrew from the scene... and did not do it.
He did, however, call the cops on us. An officer arrived maybe an hour later, informed us that doesn't give two shits about our stupid problems, and gave me (not Matt) a stern talking-to about how we all need to get along and stop waking him up in the middle of his afternoon nap.
I think we all learned a valuable lesson today.
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| There are two things.
First off, there is a subject which harbors a lot of confusion and facilitates misinformation which results in anti-good times for everybody. Foremost, everybody has my apologies regarding my treatment of this subject, and major apologies go out to a certain someone (you know who you are.) Now, lets put this to rest once and for all.
This is Blackjack:
This is Jack Black:
Secondly, for my painting class we are required to have a glass container of some kind to hold turpentine to clean oil paint off our brushes. I took one of my mom's nearly-empty spice jars, which held trace amounts of garlic powder, washed it out with soap and water, and filled it with turpentine.
A couple days later, I opened it up in class and it reeked like fucking garlic.
GARLIC WINS!
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| Weeeeell
I'm Popeye the sailor man
(toot toot)
I live in a garbage can
(toot toot)
I likes to go swimmin with bald headed women
I'm Popeye the sailor maaannnnn
(toot toot)
PEE ESS.
Who do you think would prevail in a battle to the death: Garlic or Turpentine? Tune in later to find the answer to this smelly question.
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| Holy shit, evilBay LIVES!!!1!
...Even though its pretty rough around the edges due to lazy people being retarded bitches, but no matter; all of MY stuff is done. Feel free to browse some ninjas, carve the future to your liking, or enjoy thousands upon thousands of cup holders. If it really strikes your fancy, you can opt for some Jonas Brothers tickets. They're in the Doomsday Devices section.
Or, if you have any questions, they may be answered here.
Also, I did a cartoon about the Rock Laws for my climate and biology class. "Fuck" was used sparingly, and a guy got stabbed towards the end, but don't worry, he was asking for it.
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