The Less Ordinary Life of Harold: Dairy Comics (Featuring "The Prodigious Cheese-Man")

 

            Harold sits regally atop a throne of gold and yellow.

            “I didn’t ask for this power…”

            As we examine him we can see he is wearing a colored outfit, similar in hue to that of his throne. The garb almost looks like that of a cut rate comic book hero; yellow cape, orange tights, oversized gloves shaped like triangles of pale yellow.

            Harold snaps his fingers. A small square of yellow-orange appears before Harold’s open mouth.

            “This blessing…”

            Harold chomps down on the tiny floating brick of cheese, devours it in one bite. He snaps his fingers again, repeating the process.

            “This curse.”

            “They say with great power comes great responsibility. But even they never knew the power I now hold, and what it might cost me.” Harold gazes down, taking in the ridiculous over-sized gloves covering his hands. He scans the back of his hands in deep contemplation…

*

            …In an alley coated in shadow, two dark figures stand speaking in hushed whispers. It’s easy to tell from their body language and rushed conversation they’re up to no good.

            But then an ethereal figure floats down from the sky. For a moment it resembles our innocent protagonist Harold, but that’s merely a fleeting trick on the eyes. For we now only see…

            “The Prodigious Cheese Man!” One of the ne’er-do-wells cries out, as he takes off running.

            The other pauses, if only to ask, “If he’s got cheese powers, how does that make him fly?”

            A booming voice delivers the line that makes villains quiver with an upset stomach. It is his only response, “Are you fellas lactose intolerant? You will be!”

            Both men are now in full sprint, trying to get to the open street at the end of the alleyway.

            The Cheese Man’s right hand begins to reshape itself, in a few moments where there was an abnormally large gloved hand, there’s now a Gatling-gun shaped appendage.

            “No criminal can escape the Curd Turret!” Cheese Man declares, as he opens fire on the two men. Round upon round of creamy, gel-like cheese curds erupt from the barrel that once was a hand. The substance coats the blacktop, covers the walls of the buildings that form the alley, and pelts dumpsters- the twangy-thud of them echoing off the metal containers.  

            The two men are cut down, covered in a thick layer of cheese curd, so much so that they struggle to move, but cannot.

            Just then a van skids into view at the mouth of the alley. The side panel is flung aside, revealing a mounted gun. A man in a black ski mask grins maniacally behind it.

            “Remember, Cheese-Man; turnabout is fair play!” the masked man cackles into the night, releasing the lever on the .50 caliber machine gun. This time its metal shell casings that ring against the pavement instead of the splat of cheese curds.

            Cheese-Man is forced to take evasive action. He dives behind the closest dumpster, knowing that the gunfire will soon tear through the dumpster’s material. The bullets fly past, some so close Cheese Man can feel the hot break in the air as they whiz by.

            As the chaos surrounds him, Cheese-Man closes his eyes to try and think. Its then he hears the most majestic sound his ears could imagine: a cow mooing into the night.

            Make no mistake, this is no ordinary moo. It’s fearsome and prolonged, more like the feral howl of a wolf than anything a bovine creature might produce.

            Cheese-Man opens his eyes, and finds himself staring up at the moon. Superimposed over it is the shadow of a cow. And lucky for him, it’s not just any cow.

            In a flash, the cow’s silhouette has disappeared from the face of the moon. With a whoosh the panel van in front of the alley is hit from the rear by what seems to be a cannon. The vehicle rocks on its frame, causing the masked machine gunner to fly forward, the machine gun grows still and quiet.

            One of the thugs ensnared within the mound of cheese curds comments, “So the cow can fly too? I don’t understand any of this.”

            “Shut up you!” Cheese-Man emerges from the alley and is greeted by a green cow, wearing what appear to be yellow galoshes, and matching goggles.

            “Moo the Cow, ol’ friend!” Cheese-Man attempts to high-five the cow.

            The cow replies with, “Moo.”

            “Oh ya, right.” Cheese-Man lowers his hand realizing his mistake, “Well it’s great to see you as always. Your timing is impeccable.”

            However, fate’s sense of timing is more macabre.

            The masked man is dizzy as he tumbles from the passenger side of the van. Though this does not seem to affect the grip he has on the pistol in his hand. He staggers towards our distracted heroes.

            Cheese-Man’s back is to the masked man, but Moo the Cow sees the villain clearly. “Mooooo!” the cow pitches Cheese-Man out of the way, as the masked man raises his gun.

            Two shots are fired as Cheese-Man looks on in horror.

*

            Again, we are transported back to Harold, the Cheese-Man that was, and will forever be sitting atop his throne alone.

            “Yes,” he says to himself solemnly, “great powers indeed…but even with great powers I fall short of being able to stop a bullet, return the dead to life, or perform mouth-to-snout resuscitation.”

            Cheese-Man is through grieving. He rises to through the air, clenching his fists in rage. As he floats there, hovering above the ground he vows, “I will find this masked man and I will make him pay. I promise you Moo!”

*

            In the background of the room, the two thugs from the alleyway, are still frozen in dry cheese curd, hardened to the density of stone. One looks to the other, “I still don’t get how he can fly. I don’t care how cheesy his powers are. They can’t make you fly?”

            His partner responds, “Oh my God! Shut up already!”

            “What? It’s a legitimate question!”

 

THE END?

 

R.I.P. Moo the Cow 7/17/17-7/17/17

 

The Less Ordinary Life of Harold: Make America Poop Again

The oval office is crowded- filled to the brim with white men in suits, most of whom are glancing at Harold with drawn, dire expressions. They seem to regard him as an anomaly, a political stunt, or even a distraction like so many tweets meant to divert a nation’s attention from reality.

In a few minutes of adult-time, but a lifetime in kid-time, the President, and Harold’s new boss, enters the room. Harold watches from his own huge leather chair as all the other men stand to greet him. Some step forward and shake hands or pat him on the back.

Harold notices that through each interaction, none of the other men mentioned the negative things they’d been conversing about regarding the President before he entered the room.

President Trump takes his seat at the head of the table. Harold sees that unquestionably he is in charge as he has a huge chair, the biggest chair in the room, bigger than anyone’s.

“Thank you all for coming here,” the President begins in a serious tone. “As you all know the biased media, with their fake news about this administration’s collusion with Russia- I mean alleged and totally false and sad - did I mention sad? - collusion with Russia have caused my approval rating to plummet.”

The men around the room nod heartily.

“So it’s with that concern in mind that I have sought out a new image consultant. He comes highly recommended, he is truly the best, and believe me I know all the best image consultants. With his youth, intellect and unique skill set, he is going to help us truly make America great again. Everyone, please welcome Harold. ”   

Harold sees them, the way they stare at him as he stands to speak, with their darting, snake-like eyes. He can tell they consider him to be different and thus not worthy of their respect or even idle consideration. Harold began to think, to slowly realize, he was everything they were not: young, poor, respectful of others, and unafraid. Although he could see they were most certainly afraid, Harold wasn’t quite sure what men of their stature would fear.

“Thank you President Trump. Thank you all, let me get started by throwing out some numbers; 4.7 million, 28%, ½.”

The old men before him stared back with raised eyebrows and looks that told even the casual observer they were lost.

“Mr. Trump, if I could speak freely sir?”

The President nodded to Harold.

“With all due respect sir- Mr. President, I’m a kid and even I can see that politicians-along with most people- are full of shit.”

Gasps rang out from all over the room.

Harold flushed a bit, but continued his speech, “America’s full of it sir.”

Now groans came from the crowd, though President Trump still listened at full attention.  “It’s full of greatness already. The problem isn’t that we lack greatness, it’s the fact that we are constipated with greatness sir, we don’t know how to get it out.”

Some of the men around the room began whispering to those next to them.

“So you see sir, as your new image consultant, my recommendation isn’t to rework your image from the ground up. We only need to change one word.”

Harold holds up a finger as he removes a small remote from his pocket. Pressing the button a large banner unfurls from behind the President’s seat.

Harold keys in on the President to see his reaction.

A true moment passes, then a single, shimmering tear rolls down his cheek, and Mr. Trump stands and begins clapping with fervor.

The Less Ordinary Life of Harold: Super-Zero

An oblivious young man with his nose glued to a cell phone absently strolls through the park. Passerbys are forced to navigate out of his way. Joggers, senior citizens on walks, and mothers with strollers all side step him at the last minute, clinging to the belief that he couldn’t really be that enthralled by whatever’s on the screen.

This is Harold. Harold, by most accounts has had a shit day.

Sitting down, not because it's the courteous thing to do, but because he wants to, the preteen plops onto a nearby bench. Harold is husky and he seems all-too conscious of this, so as he gets seated comfortably he tugs down his shirt, to make sure no one can see anything they shouldn’t through the green slats that serve as the bench’s backrest.

A few minutes pass and another child sidles up, sitting beside him.
For more than a while, no words are exchanged between the two.

Eventually, the new boy, thin but equally meek-looking breaks the silence, “Sorry-”

“Let me save my game!” Harold holds up a finger. “I am playing versus on Battleblood, and am ranked in the top five for this skirmish.”

The thin child adjusts his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, realizing even he had little idea what most of that meant.

A few presses and swipes, “Ok, what?” Harold still doesn’t look up from his phone, not entirely, it makes the fat underneath his neck stand out even more.

“I’m sorry for what happened today.”

“Ya, you been hangin’ out with those kids?”

The thin boy nodded, blushing almost imperceptibly.

“They suck Tyler. And...and they are stupid.”

Acknowledging the statement, the Tyler nodded again. He not only agreed, but there was no hesitation in him doing so.

“Asshats,” Harold, “that’s what they are.”

Tyler, confused, “What does that even mean anyway?”

“I dunno,” Harold admits, “I picked it up somewhere, but its bad, real bad.”

“Hey, they aren’t that bad. I, we could always use more friends right?”

“Not those guys.” Harold seemed resolute.

“Maybe I could talk to ‘em, put in a good word for ya?”

Harold looked up from his phone completely.

Tyler leaned in closer, “Tell ‘em your a cool guy, tell ‘em how you have all the newest video games.”

Harold’s brief interest already faded, changed to a spark of anger. “You mean bribe them to not pick on me? Thanks Tyler, but no thanks.”

“C’mon, Harold, I still want to be friends with you...and them.”

“I don’t think it works that way.”

Tyler looked at Harold, in a way that many adults would think a child was not capable of doing. He saw a fat kid, with a red ball-cap, but redder cheeks, dressed in clothes assembled from discount retail stores. He contrasted this against the group of guys he and Harold were conversing about. “Ya, I guess you’re right. Fuck.”

Harold had never heard a kid his age say the “F” word. He had never heard Tyler swear at all. Both boys shook their heads.

“What do we do?” Tyler asked.

“Doesn’t matter- whatever you want.” Harold said, “I got things to take care of anyway.”

“Like what?” the surprise in Tyler’s question was heavy.

“Hero stuff.”

“Psshh, what are you talkin’ about?”

“I’m a superhero. I didn’t want to tell you, because I thought it might be the only reason you were my friend.”

Tyler paused for a moment, trying to gauge if Harold was trying on being crazy, or trying on being funny. When he couldn’t decide, Tyler broke out in heavy laughter. “More like Super-zero!”

Harold took the laughter and the insult from a kid who he had thought of as his best friend for 3 summers and four grades. He took it like Superman takes bullets.

Tyler looked at Harold and couldn’t believe his eyes. Suddenly, before him, the chubby kid that lived 5 houses down the street was gone.

There in front of him was an image; misty, blurry in the way that the blacktop gets from a distance on a summer day. Harold was now a wavering image of strength. His head held back high, his clothes became the bold uniform of a dealer of justice. His red hat was now a crimson mask. His untucked shirttail transformed into a cape. The discount athletic shoes had become leather boots, complemented with tiny H’s embroidered on their sides Harold’s eyes had changed the most, they seemed to dig into him, they were piercing, full of confidence and know-how.

Tyler could’ve sworn he saw a telling I-told-you-so kind of wink, but he wasn’t sure of that at all. In fact, he was no longer sure of anything.

Then right there before Tyler’s eyes, Harold took off with a bang into the air, it was like lightning combined with thunder. In an instant he was gone.

Off to do hero stuff.

Rock Star Student

The below is an actual assignment for one of my 300 level college courses. We were asked to introduce ourselves to the rest of the class in a creative way...Since my fellow classmates didn't take the time to fully appreciate this, I thought I'd share it here...Enjoy!

The most non-traditional of the non-traditional students is David Scott, and Rolling Stone had the chance to catch up with him as he prepared for the launch of his Spring semester. We were able to sit down with the underwhelming undergrad himself and get his take on a few key questions:

RS: Not too many students name their Spring semesters David, why did you name yours, and tell us exactly what “B.Y.O.B” means?

DS: I think in order to fully commit myself to this semester, the serious student, artist, deep thinker such as myself needs a theme they can commit to, and maybe even aspire to. “B.Y.O.B.” is exactly that, it’s here, it’s loud, and it’s in your face. It’s so many things it defies labels. But if I were to put a label on it-and I’m going to- I’d say it’s contemporary…to the point that it’s retro.

RS: So it has something for every generation?

DS: Well, ya sure, I mean I’m a 36 year old student, with an awesome girlfriend and four occasionally horrible pain in the butt dogs, who got sick and tired of the greed and corruption of the corporate world man. I, I just said enough man! And then decided to major in Social Work, ‘cause like who needs money man?

RS: Wait, what? Sorry, let’s back up, what exactly does “B.Y.O.B.” stand for?

DS: Oh ya, sorry…”Bring Your Own Brain” It’s like who needs Google, or Wikipedia. It’s like getting back to the roots of studying- spiral notebook, pencil, textbook. And you know, just shut up and learn.

RS: Ok and when does “B.Y.O.B” drop?

DS: Oh, it done dropped! I mean we are living it right now, Spring 2017 semester has started!

RS: And you’ll be touring to promote “B.Y.O.B”?

DS: You call it ‘touring’ I call it ‘going to class’ but yes, I have some appearances planned.

RS: Now that we’ve got business out of the way, tell us more about the real David, behind the scenes?

DS: There’s not a lot to it really. I mean my goal is to make the Dean’s list every semester until I graduate with honors. Rock my placement at DCS through the stipend program and then build and position my brand so I can take over the world.

RS: And in a David-controlled world what could fans look forward to?

DS: Merchandising.

RS: Merchandising?

DS: Yes, I’m talking David Scott products in every consumer category known to humankind! Lunchboxes, non-smoking ashtrays, key chains, pre-flushing toilets, dry towelettes, energy drinks, bacon- flavored dog treats, mouse-flavored cat treats, hardhats, placemats—

RS: David-

DS: Doormats-

RS: David!

DS: Floor mats-

RS: DAVID!

DS: Hazmats-

RS: DAVID! Stop please, let’s get back on track?

DS: Certainly, what else would you like to know?

RS: How does Criminal Justice factor into all this?

DS: Batman.

RS: I’m sorry? You decided to Minor in Criminal Justice because of Batman?

DS: No, because I AM Batman!

RS: …That’s not true. Is it?

DS: No…but it sounds cool, eh?

D.I.P.S.H.

“So Captain Accelo it’s been a year and I thank you for your service to our company.”

A man in a red full length bodysuit featuring crisscrossing white electrical bolts across its front sits casually in front of a giant desk. The get up looks to be made of a tight fitting Lycra.  “Thanks it's been--”

The Director holds up a hand, stopping Captain Accelo’s response. He then turns his chair away from his desk, and looks out of the large picture window behind him. He wears a pair of reflective chrome sunglasses, the type that a state trooper might wear.  The Director does not remove them to further enjoy the view.

From the window, a huge city scape can be seen; towering skyscrapers, a bay filled with watercraft, and a huge grassy area that appears to be a city park.

Captain Accelo sits, quietly confused for several moments. Finally, he speaks; “I’m sorry what are we doing here?”

“Ha, why I’m practicing ‘authoritative superiority’ of course! It's from my book; The Director: Managing People with Personalities that are Just the Worst.” Without facing forward, The Director stands, adjusts what appears to the Captain to be a rather expensive suit, and walks away from his desk. In a hush, “Ah yes, nearly forgot, I need to establish dominance by standing as my inferior remains seated. Finally The Director turns back to Captain Accelo, “Please have a seat…” a hand extends to the Captain.

“I’m already sitting…?” Captain Accelo reminds The Director.

The Director doesn’t acknowledge the comment, instead he begins a diatribe, “We here at Department of International Professional Society of Heroes, a registered trademark of Maximum Corporation, a subsidiary of Maximum Media, believe that at the one year anniversary of a team member, we should conduct an assessment of the member’s behavior and work performance that will determine both an overall rating and any increase levels of compensation for the coming year.” As he speaks, The Director continues to wander around the room.

Captain Accelo leans forward, “Are you saying it’s my annual review?”

“Yes, yes but so much more,” The Director has an odd air about him, he seems excited, and perhaps proud, but his stance, diction and rhetoric make one wonder if he’s not just playing some off-putting gag.

“What else does it entail then?”

“Glad you asked!” The Director rushes back to his desk, and sits, “You aren’t just getting evaluated, you get the opportunity to rate yourself!”

“Ok.” followed by an eye roll.

“Go ahead, give it a try,” The Director seems overly enthusiastic.

A bit uneasy, Captain Acccelo takes a few seconds to look for the right words,  “Umm...well I was instrumental in all of the team missions this year, I’ve saved 223 civilians to date since being with the company, and I bake a cake for everyone in the office on their birthday. Well, except for Castigator, he’s diabetic and all.”

“That really is great, really.” The Director takes a deep breath. So on a scale from one to ten, ten being the best team member you could be, where would you place yourself?”

“Hmm, that’s a tough one, we have so much talent on the team…”

Accelo is thinking it over, as The Director speaks with ignorant disregard, “So much talent, yes so many other talented team members, you should keep that in mind as you answer.”

“I’d say umm, I dunno, 8 i guess?”

The Director lets out a powerful belly laugh, following by a machine gun of smaller, stunted laughter. He slams a fist down on his desk, and tries to catch his breath. “You an 8! Are you for real right now?”

Red faced now to match his outfit, Captain Accelo reconsiders, “7?”

More laughter from The Director.

“Geesh, umm, 6?”

Pausing for breaths between chuckles The Director gets out the following, “You...think...you’re...a 6?”

“Sweet Jesus,” Captain Accelo throws his hands up in disbelief.

“You can’t even fly!”

“I’m super fast! ‘Accelo’ you know as in ‘accelerate’!”

“We have to chauffeur you around in the DIPSH Jet! Do you know how much fuel costs for that thing? Not to mention it’s adverse effects on the environment.”

Accelo is clearly beside himself, “‘Chauffeur me around’! What the hell!”

Still recovering from his laughing fit, The Director adds, “Besides, do you know what kind of pay grade you’d be in if you could learn to fly?”

“But I can’t fly. I’m the speedster of the group.”

“You’d wanna learn to fly, if i could tell you,” tauts The Director.

Accelo seems a bit desperate, “But that’s not my power! Remember the whole struck by lightning during the lunar eclipse when I was doing routine janitorial work on the military base after they tested that nuclear bomb?”

“That doesn’t ring a bell. Anyway, I’ll tell you what your pay would be if you could just learn to fly…Do you wanna know?”

“I can’t ‘learn to fly’” whines Accelo.

“675,000 dollars more a year!”

Accelo perks up, “Wow, really that much?”

“Ya but you can’t fly…” reminds The Director.

“Maybe I could get lessons from Extraordinary Storckman?”

“Maybe...but without the whole flying thing…”

“I’m a five?”

“Solid five, with the potential to be a seven-maybe even an eight!” The Director adds.

Somewhat disappointed, Accelo asks, “And what about a merit raise?”

The Director simply folds his hands into the shape of a bird, and makes a flapping motion.

Captain Accelo stands, head drawn down to his chin and slinks out of the office.

The Director stretches out in his chair. He giggles absently while shaking his head, “Seriously, the guy thought he was an 8…”

Bro, Do You Even Joke?

                It must be a hard life when you have little to no sense of humor. Worse yet must be those who have friends who are religiously committed to being serious, the type that are perpetually unfunny, and wouldn’t know a joke if was written by Sam Kinison, delivered by Johnny Carson as a guest character on The Simpsons and then showed up in their Facebook feed as part of a meme about not knowing a damned joke was in the first place.

                A hard life indeed.

                I don’t know what these people do in life, but I can speculate: They don’t laugh as much as the rest of us, they don’t find humor in nearly all (ok actually all) aspects of life, and they are probably really stressed out most of the time. Oh, and they are constipated- granted I’ve nothing to base this on, but I’m just throwing it out there that they can’t be regular, can they?

                A few things though are tell-tale about the lifestyles of these sad sacks and how they spend their free time.

Psst, this is the part where I call out people for participating (or failing to participate) in things I don’t like, or have no interest in.

1)      Cards Against Humanity

a.       Now I can already tell that I’ve struck a nerve with some of you. I get it, it’s a popular game, manufactured by a great team of people who donate to charity (If you consider Wikipedia “charity”). But I don’t give a shit. The premise of this game to me screams “I am not witty enough to say anything funny on my own, so let me string a few random things together and see what happens…” (draws cards) “Harry Potter, testicular cancer, teabagging. Am I funny? Someone tell me I’m funny?”

b.      Further, I also think those that are seriously into this game have been either stifled creativity-wise as children or Mom and Dad never let an off color word fly in their household growing up. Either way they are dying for attention.

2)      They can’t make conversation

a.       You ever sat next to that person on a plane that you know is just not going to let you have a moment’s peace, because they are going to talk your damn ear off, and you are oh-so-very-sorry for making eye contact with them by accident when you first boarded.

Well, that person is an asshole, and turns out rare. So if I’m traveling alone, I’d much rather take the chance of running into Chatty Charlie than reading a book, or screwing around with my phone (which I’ll get to in a moment)- and this is coming from ME – a guy that generally dislikes…oh what are those things called out there in the world…oh ya- PEOPLE!

But it’s been my experience that most people feign disinterest (sometimes to the point of being rude) because they can’t actually talk to someone for any length of time, about something, nothing or anything. Granted, this is arguably a skill that is fading the world over with the increasing pressure to be social only through media and connect via technology rather than in person, but I digress.

3)      Cell Phone Love

a.       You’ve seen them, those lost souls with their craned necks and bad posture, staring dismally as they try to focus their eyes on a small, dim screen permanently attached to their fingertips. Talk about the walking dead…and to add to that actual factual science has now found that people that overly employ their cell phones as entertainment may lose the ability to entertain themselves without one.

This one’s hard to refute folks- you can argue with me about Cards and Conversation because that’s just me ranting about stuff (It’s my blog, it’s the internet, where else am I supposed to complain?) but this is actual scientific research! Science, that thing you’d never thought you’d use after you graduated. No wait that was math. Anyway, if you want to read it for yourself, click HERE.

                In the end, I realize that everyone has his or her own talent to draw from, but for the sake of the rest of us, those of you that have an underdeveloped sense of humor need to get out there and exercise it!