I recently attended the Mothman Festival in Point Pleasant, West Virginia. For those of you not keeping count, that is TWO Mothman-related activities this summer, alone (three actually, if you count that I watched the Mothman Prophecies with AlexT). This means that I am not just an expert anymore. I have graduated to being the foremost mothmandollogist in the field of Mothmanology.
We, the writers of Sneer Campaign, are not complete philistines. Occasionally we like to raise our pinky fingers and sip on hot tea while discussing some of the finer things in this world. Sometimes we cover matters of history, other times we may speak at length about books we have read, or scientific breakthroughs that had been brought to our attention somehow. Other days, we sit around analyzing classic artworks — but never modern art because we are not sophisticated enough to “get” it!
Today, we decided to take a look at the Last Supper, by some kid named Leonardo da Vinci. He had his day back in the 1400s, but do not let that frighten you. Those days were not so different than these days we are in now. So take our hands, readers, and appreciate the history of art, religious beliefs, flippant artistic subterfuge, and yes even a little Last Supper Day Miracle!
On January 9, 1859, a remarkable baby was born. Well. It was probably a fairly normal baby, but then it grew into being a remarkable and bold lady. Carrie Chapman Catt founded the League of Women Voters and International Alliance of Women. She knew what was right, and knew what was stupid, and was unafraid to let it be known that she knew. By all accounts, Ms. Catt was intelligent, strong, and self-confident, and refused to follow conventions that seemed ridiculous to her. This means that she is an ideal model of a woman – of a human being of any gender – and we should all look up to her. And we should all print out this free coloring page and color it.
This bestie of Susan B. Anthony was great at organization and had grand ideals concerning dignity, world peace, and things of that nature. The League of Women Voters still exists and we will probably join, or at least support their endeavors in some ways – like letting you know about it and by giving you coloring pages. It would appear that we do not have the organizational abilities of this woman, our newest hero. Our newest role model. Color!
S.M.A.R.T. Goals is what I generally tell people they should do for New Year’s. A goal to “do better” will not help. Do better at what, friend? And by when? Usually I encourage people to stick to the smart pattern to make sure that their goals are “Specific. Measurable. Attainable. Realistic. Timed.” Some people use other words for each letter but the results will come out the same. Essentially, the goal should be able to hold you accountable. When you look back in March at “do better” not much will be evident. But if you look back at “read every day for 30 minutes so that by March 15 I have finished some of those books on my list” you will know exactly whether or not you have met your goal and what you need to do to keep yourself on track.
But here at Sneer Campaign, we do things a little differently, of course. So we have developed, for you, a way to make goals the Sneer Campaign way.
Born December 12, 1915, Frank Sinatra was a heroic figure of Hoboken virtues — particularly manliness and civic virtue. Most often, he is known as a singer and movie actor, but around my home town, he is best known as the founder Cincinnati, Ohio. It is not a widely known fact beyond this region, but the city was originally known as Sinsinatra and we were raised to revere his uprightness and strength of character.
In the 1960s, when it seemed that his stardom was losing its luster and that he would wind up being a penniless tragedy, the city he once called his kingdom distanced itself from him and renamed itself to Cincinnati, pretending that it had ties to ancient Rome somehow, for some reason. Of course, this angered Sinatra and he went on to build Las Vegas, known affectionately as Sin(atra) City, and he sure showed us by becoming the icon he is today, eternal and universal in all ways.
Still, there are statues that remain around town, and here is my humble sketch of the most prominent one. It is Sinatra wearing his classic tunic and fedora combo, in honor of his keen sense of style. He is holding out an ax wrapped in fine Cuban cigars and bound in what appears to be some skinny fashion neck ties, indicating his dislike of chopping timber and his love of cigars and finery. He is standing in front of a plow of some kind, a symbol of his love of fresh farm foods.
Human babies are not pretty things. Ever. They dribble, goo, spit up, stink outrageously, and make ear-shattering screech-noises at all hours of the day. Their heads are enormous for their body sizes, and they don’t appear to have teeth or anything. They can’t even form words! Instead, they make nonsense gurgle sounds which, quite frankly, terrify me. Some babies don’t have any hair, and some unfortunate babies have far too much hair. Exceptionally ugly babies already have a unibrow. I have seen a few of them, mostly in photographs. I avoid babies as much as humanly possible, and yet, even I have been faced with the question, “Awww, isn’t he or she just the cutest thing?” Of course, it is not.
Now, I am the first to admit that I am not an expert on human infants. But I know enough to allow me to get along with my friends, relatives, or acquaintances who have decided not to terminate certain pregnancies. Lunatics though they may be, it is not my place to alienate them beyond my wildest dreams. Instead, probably because I’m a coward who doesn’t want anyone to be angry with me, I use my cunning skills of tact and deception to fool them. And when those techniques are also used in combination with the deft use of the subject change, a situation first thought to be a hopeless trainwreck will instead turn into a delightful conversation about how nice the kitchen would look if it were a lively peach color, or how we would benefit as a society if we all stopped drinking carbonated soda pops for several years, or even the possible ramifications one would experience from having made a robot that could think, act, and love just like a human. Or at least think, act, and love just like a human dog.
It is easy to see why new parents find cute in their own baby or, in the unholy event of twins or more, babies. If the baby or babies did not weave some sort of evil magical spell over their caregivers, the adults would smother them with a pillow by Day Two of the never-ending screaming, messing, eating, and screaming. Even if the parents outlasted my two day estimation, there would come a day when they would realize that that baby hadn’t stopped screaming, eating, and eliminating their foulness since birth, and it would not stop for many years yet. Eugh. I refuse to dwell any more on the horror of childbirth and human infancy, as it is making me feel too queasy. It isn’t really the new parents’ fault for shoving their baby in your face and asking you to validate whether or not it is cute. It reassures them and keeps them from some sort of soul-sucking depression and subsequent jail time. And I hear the fellas down at the state prison aren’t too friendly with baby killers. You don’t want your friends in jail, they are already paying for their birth decision enough with the actual baby itself. That is why I am here to help you out by giving you ten easy ways to avoid telling those unfortunate souls how ugly and horrible their baby actually is.
You listened to our last article on this subject and followed the advice and now, of course, you have a house. But what do you do with a house once you’ve got one? Interior decorators suggest that you hire them and let them take care of you at an insane price. Inspectors want you to do preliminary maintenance so that you don’t have a real money pit in a few years. Your parents want you to just move in, hurry up and get out of their house!
Well, I have been living in the Sneer HQ for a few whole days and I already have so much life experience as a result that I just have to share it with you now, today. I already have too many projects going on, so I shouldn’t add “open a house-owning consultation firm” to the list. I’m still only one girl, no matter how often I wish for clones with a shared hive mind! Nevertheless, I am very much an expert on this subject, but I don’t mind sharing wisdom for free.
Millennials have long had the reputation of killers. At the time of this writing, millennials have already killed Bar Soap, Cable Television, Print Media, The 9-5 Workday, Mass-Produced Beer, Hollywood, and Pleasant Journalism. And who cares, right? As long as there’s a decent alternative, we should be okay with moving on and getting with the times.
Wrong. Millennials are out to destroy our souls. Like every God-fearing Christian, I watch for new signs of the apocalypse every day. Here are five reasons why millennials are the harbingers of the End of Times:
Are you afraid of everything? Me too. Monsters, ghosts, the A word (I don’t want to believe), you name it! I’m sure you noticed that often my posts are about my fears. We even have a whole Irrational Fear comic series for your enjoyment.
It’s hard to live this way! You can’t really go out at night because it’s dark and maybe not even into your living room at night if the light switch is too far away. If you hear something, every one of your muscles tenses until you fall asleep from distress. Sometimes you turn on all your lights and call your sister. Maybe you clutch the sharp butcher knife in your white-knuckled shaky little hands just waiting to finally have to defend yourself in the worst case scenario you’ve been dreaming about for decades. Whatever. You deal with it!
Everybody loves France. So – oh, no? That’s not a thing? Well they should. Their tendency to surrender is exaggerated, their cheese, whilst smelling like the olfactory equivalent of the Westboro Baptists Church, is known to be delicious for some reason, and they discovered radium, without which I wouldn’t be able to find my glow in the dark mouth guard when the combination of my saliva and grinding teeth inevitably shoots it across my bed like so many bars of prison soap. I’m sorry, I’m not doing a very good job of celebrating France. I must, as I often do, turn to poetry to communicate my deeply felt, depthy feelings about France to you all.