Actually, it IS Rocket Science


Category Archive

The following is a list of all entries from the Sunday Comics category.

Sunday Comics (pt. 9)

WHOOO-BOY.

T.G.I.S.- Am I RIGHT, ever’boday?!

That is the phrase, right? Short for “Thank God Igotthroughthe Shit?”  Right? Yes?!

Actually, I still have three papers left, but those are breezers at this point.  I write a blog entry almost every day; I think I can handle a couple of five page-discourses on a few peer-reviewed journal articles about some cognitive-behavioroh godammit you know what I think I just bored myself to death.  Can I just quit bellyaching for a little while?  I think we’d all like that.

Instead I think I speak for all of us when I say, “Welcome back, sanity.  Ashlin sure did miss you.”

You know, I’ve spent the last several entries on here pissing and moaning about what I was dealing with in school.  I did so thinking it was more for myself than anything.  I use this blog as catharsis to vent my frustrations so that I can laugh at them rather than letting them fester in the back of my mind.  I also use this blog to make self-deprecating jokes and share some stories of things I find interesting.  But, you know, mostly self-deprecation.  And yes, I see the stats and I read the numbers of visitors to my site every day, but I never really thought that this ridiculous blog would garner that much attention.  That was until the absolutely massive outpouring of emails, text messages, phone calls and the like from so many people began surfacing.  I got daily affirmations from one friend who I haven’t even seen in over ten years (Thanks, Jay!), a voicemail from my parents who lovingly asked if I had hijacked a car and driven off a cliff à la Thelma and Louise style yet, and a very thoughtful phone call from my first ever epic love (you know, that one in high-school {or previously, if you were ever that lucky}),who is currently in Alaska, doing very important things with percussive instruments and still took the time to call (Thank you, Chadwich).

And I could still go on, but then I would begin to sound like someone making an acceptance speech after the lead-out music had long since begun to play.  It just floored me how many people reached out and gave their support.  It was like having a surprising number of unknown pen-pals.  And I hope you guys realize how appreciated it was and continues to be.  Seriously.  I’m not good at showing a lot of sentimental emotion, but you knocked me out with those American replies.  Get it?  Get it??  Yeah, you get it.

So in my effort to thank you guys for how immensely helpful and supportive you’ve been, how about a Sunday comic, eh?

Thank you Chris B., Maria, Patrick, Jason, Missy, Letitia, Aunt B, Uncle J, The Cousins and Erin, Chris G., Mark and Melinda, Jeffrey, Megan, Chris P., Tony, Miss Sula, Bill, and shit if I left anyone out; I’m so sorry and I will make it up to you with chocolate covered brownies as soon as I see you again (or beef jerky, your choice! Wee!!)  They’re playing Ashlin’s theme.  See you at the afterparty!


Sunday Comics (pt. 8) (Plus Surprise Ending!)

(*Careful- this post contains details of animal poop- you’ve been warned*)

Oh man, you guys.  You know how I know it’s going to be a good day?  When in the process of scanning my cartoon for Sunday comics at the local print-store-which-shall-not-be-identified, I came across someone who will likely spawn or be a part of another blog entry on the subject of why I’m glad I don’t huff glue.

We’ll just hold onto that for another time, though.

The following is not as much a comic as much as it is a situation that occurred during my trip to Hawaii.  We were lucky enough (on top of everything else during our stay) to have a room with a balcony, and every morning we’d go out there and enjoy the morning.  Until my mom and I made probably the biggest mistake of our lives while we were there, as it became something the locals preyed on after a while.  But not the locals you would expect.

You know what?  I’ll just show you and explain later.

Feed the birds... Tuppence a' Hitchcock-worthy scenario

You know what’s scarier than a ravenous bird?? A FLOCK of ravenous birds. … With NO regard for table etiquette.  We sat there helpless as these assholes got close enough to clean out the sleepies from our eyes.  But they made sure to repay us.

With little poops.

Little, teeny, tiny, soggy poops.

Has anyone here owned a bird as a pet before?  Anybody??  Don’t worry, you’re in a safe place for disclosure.  I’ll go first.  I, myself, owned a bird once.  His name was Topper.  He was a grey cockatiel.

And he POOPED. … …He pooped EVERYWHERE.

Sweet guy, really, but try to bring any friend to a party who had a tendency to POOP EVERYWHERE and not apologize for it.

Try explaining to your mom why paint’s peeling off the walls in your room because you didn’t notice sooner that the bird had taken a shit on the wall trim.

Honestly, I was too young to own a bird with such high requirements that exceeded even poop coverage, but I did learn a valuable lesson about birds from it.  Namely that birds don’t have anal sphincters.

I’ll just go ahead and repeat that because it bears repeating:

Birds. Don’t. Possess. Anal. Sphincters.

Meaning that little squirts of green and white plops would just splay out willy nilly, and the only chance you had of catching it was that special time when his feet suddenly got really warm (a key sign of optimal poopage to come) and make your way to the nearest newspaper (or magazine you were prepared to throw away already) and pray the fellow didn’t perchance fly within the next 10 seconds.

________

Anyway, the Hawaiian balcony, yes?

We dealt with the birdmob until we were out of the tasty english muffin on my mom’s plate.  All we were left with was a disproportionate ratio of birds to humans and the burnt remnants that had fallen off of my mom’s breakfast crumpet. Oh, and bird poops.  Lots and lots of bird poops.

You know how in War of The Worlds when they accidently discover that magical yet banal device to ward off their enemies? (What, you think I’m gonna spoil an H.G. Wells masterpiece for anyone by telling you what it actually was?) I had my own epiphany that morning to ignite the mass exodus of those assholes.

At my wits end, I chose to offer them the last few bits of english muffin, even though they were just burnt edges at that point, mostly.  As I offered the blackened iota to the nearest winged flight of fancy, he ventured close enough to eat it but stopped halfway, noting that it wasn’t the buttery, warm, white flakey crust that he was used to, and he flew off.

THE PICKY BITCHASS FLEW OFF.

And within the next 3 minutes, so did the rest of his cohort, after one by one inspecting my final offering and unpolitely declining.  Finicky turdlettes.

Which proved to me this wasn’t a case of us feeding the poor, or doing any charitable work on our parts, whatsoever, since these crapmongers apparently had the palette that could discern between perfectly toasted and charred.  No.  This was a case of another species pilfering our hopes and dreams of bettering the world and shitting on them.

Literally.

________

Oh wait, I told you there’d be a surprise ending, yeah??

Saw this the other day and couldn’t stop laughing.  Only because I still make “PEW-PEW” noises whenever I’m flicking any hair, crumb, whatever, off the edge of my fingertip.  That and hearing a guy go into falsetto never fails at making me smile (And the dub is so much better than the piece-of-absolute-shite-you-expected-us-to-accept-as-good original ever was, MR. LUCAS):


Sunday Comics (pt. 7)

You know how sometimes you have a really good story but you just don’t know exactly how to start it because no matter how you cut it it’s just so flat out hilariously fucked up all around?

I guess that’s how I go about doing so.

I’m once again back on the mainland after spending a week in the land of Tora! Tora! Tora!’s and spamburgers that was stockpiled with more activities than I think I’ve done since I’ve moved to California combined, and had a fantastic time doing so, too, more to come on that later.  But I just thought I’d share with you the delightful bitchslap of a rude awakening that came with my entry back to the apparently oppressed, hateful-of-all-things-alive brethren that share landlocked coordinates.  You know, while it was still fresh.

______

So my departure itinerary went like this:

Leave Hawaii @ 9pm, which translates to midnight California time.  Fly the red-eye overnight which would put me in San Fransisco at 5am (I was content with this because it would allow me to sleep through a 5 hour flight.  Karate kicks!)

Minimal hour or two layover in SF, arrive in Orange County at 10:30am, shuttle service picks me up, home by 11am. Flawless victory.

______

The day leading up to it was actually pretty wonderful, as I got to spend it with my cousins and friends on a kayaking trip and scoping out the official royal grounds of “The Big Island” (Fun fact: you do, in fact, have to capitalize “The Big Island” or else Pele eats your unborn children with her fiery gnashing jaws).  We wrapped it up with some kickass pulled pork cochon sandwiches and I made it to the airport in plenty of time.  Shitchyeah, I’m KILLING it over here.

I even manage to be the FIRST ONE in line to get on the plane!  How flippin awesome is that?  I’ve got a window seat and I don’t have to delicately shove my ass in two other peoples faces to get there!    You’re welcome, America.

Time’s progressing and I still don’t see anyone coming to take the two seats next to me, even though it’s an overbooked flight.  Weird, considering we were the first group allowed to board.  Finally two harried individuals push their way through to the empty seats, and they look decent enough; a middle-aged couple, looks like they got the right amount of sun.  They know their spf limitations, I admire that.  I exchange a small smile in salutations…

And get BUPKISS in return.

But, you know, whatevah.  They looked super rushed getting on there, and everyone knows how panicky you can get when you think you’re about to miss your flight, and that missing your flight could mean that you could miss that important meeting tomorrow, and oh christ I don’t even want to think about that meeting right now and being late for this boarding call is making me think of it and JESUS is there a bar menu on this flight??

So I just figured they’d prefer to be silent partners on the progression of Row 31 D-F. Works for me.

Now, I tackle the finite internal politics of riding on a plane as I think any respectful politician would at a U.N. Conference.  Having sat in the middle seat between two others before, I know it’s never delightful.  In fact, if you’re traveling with others and you take the middle seat, it is an unspoken agreement that you’re taking one for the team, and I fully believe someone on either side of you should buy you your next meal, souvenir, drink, what have you, in retribution. So I do try to offer as much space as possible to said purgatory seater.  In this case, I made sure to pull all my stuff over so she could have a chance to spread out if she wanted to, even extra room beneath my seat, which she thanked me and took advantage of.

Now, here’s where it gets fun:

I had been sitting in the same position since I had gotten there, with both elbows on the farthest end of either arm rest, nearest to the seat itself, interlocked at my midsection.  You can picture it now, can’t you?  Here!  Refer to Figure “80’s Sitcom buildup” for an aerial view:

Fig. 80's sitcom buildup

As one can clearly see, there is space to move and/or become comfortable with a great deal of area with which to adjust the placement of your Radius and Ulna, respectively.

Which is why what followed next was an experience that if you’ve read this blog before, you know ignited in me what I have previously referred to as the ancient Irish belligerence rather than something that could have easily been resolved with a simple conversation.  Because babygirl in the middle decided that instead of using her words, she thought she’d played a little game called PISS ASHLIN OFF IMMEDIATELY.

1...

...2....

PASSIVEAGGRESSIVE THREE, BITCHASS.

And because she PROCEEDED TO DIG HER ELBOW BRASHLY  INTO MY OWN FOR AT LEAST 5 FULL SECONDS TO PURPOSEFULLY GET ME TO MOVE, I did what any normal, suddenly vindictive Irish firecrotch would do:

My arm suddenly and without control became as steadfast and unmovable as Ned Kelly as I stared off into the distance and acted as if she wasn’t being a passive aggressive piss-ant, therefore negating any further opportunity for a rational conversation that she had previously given up by behaving like an oversized spacial neanderthal.

Because what you fail to realize, lady, is the following:  This armrest is mine now, babycakes.  I claim it on behalf of previously scorned travelers everywhere.  Suck it.

Would you like to guess how long this went on for?  This stop-and-start-again elbow jab from the woman next to me, all while refraining from holding a rational conversation and thus expelling less and less sympathy or even any attention or surrender from my part?

Let’s just say I sat through Jane Eyre as the in-flight movie.  How ridiculous is that?  Why the HELL would you play JANE EYRE on an in-flight movie?  Granted, it’s a literary work of genius, depending upon who you ask, but the dynamic level between soft-spoken Brit-wit up against the peals of equestrian whinnies does not make for an enjoyable film when you’re trying to control all the sounds from your shitty-ass side console.  Oh, that and there’s a total overgrown brat sitting next to you trying to play off the fact that she’s wearing a dent into your arm.

Finally she launched into the passive agressive enthusiast’s last resort- the heavy sigh.  Yes.  YES!  I friggin LOVE the heavy sigh in this situation!!   You know why?!  It’s your death knell, puddin’ pop.  It’s your little white flag whether you want to admit it or not.  And although you think in this case it’s your last resort, it’s a veritable trumpet fanfare as far as I’m concerned.  And it’s made the last several hours sitting through a stuffy film and your knobby elbow love totally worth it.  I even fell asleep somewhere in there, did you catch it?  So by the time we touched down, I’ve got at least an hour over you on the sleep department, and I’d have to say, you somehow made me appreciate that arm rest even more than before.  So to put it into a phrasing that you might better understand:  thaaaaayyyyynnnnnnks.

Please note:  It takes a lot of energy to hold this much spite as ammo, I’ll admit.  But you really have to choose your battles, and this was one well worth fighting.  That’s also not to say that I didn’t pay for it later, which you’ll hear about soon enough, because I did indeed make an ass of myself on my connecting flight from lack of actual restful sleep. ha!


Sunday Comics (pt 6)

I have a weird ear.

No, I don’t mean like an ear that’s been disfigured by so many boxing gloves that it bears the title “cauliflower ear” and if that upset your brain then you’re a lightweight.  My dad boxed so much in his youth he broke his nose and lost the majority of his sense of smell and taste.  For life. THAT’S something to consider.

What I mean is that I hear things differently, and not always in a good way.  One time a guy told me innocently enough, “I like your book sack” and I thought he said, “I like your big sags,” which yes, makes no sense, but I assumed referred to my boobs, which were in the process of swiftly gaining realty over my upper body and which I was very sensitive to at the time.  I gave him the international “letsjustbefriends” face and realized about two minutes later what he actually said.  Then I proceeded to dig the biggest hole in the ground and bury my head in it.  That’s right.  I celebrate my embarrassment ostrich style.

So I went to a party in college with a few friends.  And a college party inevitably means that you will inevitably be offered an inevitable shot of some inevitable alcohol that will inevtiably mean that you will inevitably not be driving home that evening.

“Do you want to do a shot?”

“Eh. I don’t really do shots.  What is it?”

“Hornitos.”

“…Wait, what?”

“Hornitos.  Well, tequila, but Hornitos tequila.”

And I waited for him to correct himself, because what I heard was:

Yes. I heard and fully believed he had said:

Horny.

Toes.


Dia de las Madres (Sunday Comics pt. 5)

It is a widely known and accepted fact that my mom is way cooler than I am or will ever be.  It’s cool, it’s cool; I’ve learned to deal with this over the years.  In fact, it really doesn’t even bother me that much anymore.  I’ve just come to terms with the knowledge that friends will enjoy her presence more than mine because I still deal with mood swings and that boyfriends will want to shoot the shit longer with her than I think would ever be rationally acceptable because of her random dollops of deviant-and-at-the-same-time-hilarious thoughts.

You guys, she pulls all this off under the guise of a character who is just so-damn-nice. That’s a true example of mastery of the art of a truly lovely miscreant.  (That and she’s a knockout.)  And I LOVE her for it.  People who know my parents love to tell me I’m a hybrid of my dad’s wit and my mom’s comfort.

Those people have no idea.  My mom’s levity is so clandestine, it was underground before hipsters were even born.  How bout THAT?!

Case in point.  I’m laughing already because she won’t rest once she reads this to pin the blame on her own mother for originally placing this indecency in her mind.  But the truth is: humor is much more in the delivery than its lineage- and being that SHE dropped the bomb on ME and made the mistake of having a daughter who draws broken comics every so often, that eventually someone’s gotta take blame for this incivility.

So, Mom.  A memory.  In honor of your day.  From when I was around 5 years old:

Happy Mother’s Day, you crazy lovely woman.

(Ed. note: She insists that she never told me she was actually “boiling chicks in their shells.”  But I AM the rocket scientist, after all.  I think I’d remember these things. : )

love you, Mom.


Sunday Comics (pt 4)

I’m closing in on the final week of my first year of obtaining my Master’s degree in Clinical Psychology, for those of you who care or have accidently stumbled upon this post randomly (I promise I’m not usually this cloying).  There’s a very interesting event that goes on during the final weeks of every semester, as any person with even the most minute educational experience and recollection can attest to, which is a veritable gauntlet of activity that, while I’m not 100% sure yet, is littered with the intent of work that holds no other purpose than the sheer act of crushing the minds and souls of their masochistic saps students, and trampling on the spare bits of grey matter that are left over with a Frankenstein’s Monster’s authority.

I have charted out my following week with an acutely accurate, nearly seismographic map of how I will handle the ups and downs of the following days.  2 Finals, 3 term papers, and 1 more presentation, all due before Thursday, and I’m writing this instead of beginning work on any of them.  I can do this, right?  (NO ONE ANSWER THAT)

While I’m in class, I have a tendency to doodle during our breaks.  This isn’t necessarily intended to be humorous, but this little guy has found his way into my pages of notes since I began undergrad.  He always starts the same way- the effervescent cartwheel.  Then he starts to play the field.  One semester he backflipped into a barrel, another he somersaulted into a round-off.  I got him to play the drums once, but he was too worried about his style to let me show anyone.  It’s funny because I never actually named him, although he’s been one of my most consistent friends since my duration as a continuing educational student.

You see where this is going, right?

Somebody- please give this lil guy a name.  We’ve been pals now for so long and at this point I feel as if I should know it already and I’m too embarrassed to ask so I keep passing him with unidentifiable “Hey!”‘s and “What’s up, man?”‘s.  It’s only a matter of time until he figures it out, or heaven forbid I have to introduce him to someone else and then shit will hit the everloving fan.  And give it some props, yeah?- you might run into him again, and if he’s offended by your suggestion, that would just be awkward (for you) in the future, wouldn’t it?


Sunday Comics (pt 3)

You guys, I only have two weeks left in this semester.  Which means I have two weeks left before I’ve officially finished my first year of graduate school!  Which means that I’m technically only halfway into the swandive of debt that comes with earning my Master’s degree!  Which means that I’m only 1/3 of the way into the nosedive into debt I’ll be if I decide to go for my Doctorate! Which means that I’m only 1/4 of the way if I decide to sit for my license and accreditation certificate! !!  !!!!

Which means that by now if you haven’t already figured out that I’ve lost my everloving mind, then here’s a little nugget of joy from the mind of a madwoman.


Sunday Comics (pt 2)

I’ve got a friend staying over with me for the week from upstate, so I’m going to be making this kind of short, but here’s another simplistic view into the drastic effects of ennui on the human brain during those long days in near solitude.

I’ve actually considered submitting this to an official scientific study on early-onset dementia.