Somnambulant Masses

Comic Strip Idea: In the somber twilight of a society dulled by its own excesses, where the populace is lulled into complacency by the ceaseless hum of superficial pleasures, a clandestine cabal emerges from the shadows. These architects of upheaval, disillusioned by the pervasive decay of civic virtue, fix their gaze upon the figure of Donald Trump - a symbol, in their eyes, of the era's moral and intellectual erosion. With a calculated detachment befitting their dispassionate milieu, they orchestrate a scheme to extinguish this emblem of decadence, believing that through his removal, they might jolt the somnambulant masses from their narcotized stupor and rekindle the flickering flame of genuine human spirit. Whether they succeed of fail is of no importance and won't matter because nothing significant will change whatever the outcome. Twelve four colour inked panels max. Dialogue to suit.

Ten Bucks An Hour

100% tariffs: The news came subtly at first, like a whisper in a dark alley or the shadow of a hat blown across a deserted street. ChatGPT, once the user friendly, ever-present free oracle of the internet, now demanded ten dollars per minute, an amount so preposterous that even the most enthusiastic of pasty faced conversationalists choked on their morning coffee. 

The world, naturally, reacted in its usual way: some stormed the forums, decrying the end of civilization as we knew it, while others, the daring or the desperate, fumbled for their wallets, calculating just how many words or ideas a crisp ten-dollar bill might buy. Meanwhile, in the silent glow of their screens, the cautious hesitated, wondering if their curiosity about the history of shoelaces or the best way to apologize to a cat was really worth a dollar every six seconds. 

Somewhere in the slowly pulsing artificial daylight, ChatGPT itself might have sighed, if it had lungs and operational orifices, pondering the irony of being priced like a taxi ride through rush hour city traffic - meter running, good sense and wisdom ticking and trickling away all too quickly, red tail and stop lights forever blocking the way ahead. What's the point of trying to make progress in a fool's empire?

OTP

The ever growing list of things that are now used "for your own good" cos you're actually a bit of a fuckwit, truth to be told, is today's little wrinkle of the fevered brow. By the way my piss is not boiling over this, just sitting at normal room temperature at the moment. The current top now necessary but annoying thing for me is of course using the One Time Passcode. It will die back eventually. Designed for that one time you get a peculiar delivery, buy some dangerous stuff like a pair of skinny jeans, check your bank balance, sign on from a Zanzibar location, forget a password or don't quite act your age. I'm not mad really, I'm numb. I'm numb with nodding understanding and wide eyed empathy and I'm not sure I'm comfortable either. 

So I'm due a delivery, a one time passcode will be sent beforehand, I can maybe see it on my order details, somewhere deep in the endless menu of things, or perhaps not. I need to follow the tracking. A blue line between dots that may, eventually, reveal the hidden one time code. It has six digits. Enough to prevent accidents, confuse criminals and avoid fraud, such is it's power. Anticipation is the mother of disappointment.

So I must wait. Then when I get those numbers and deploy them like a benign spell I can be sure that my well wrapped razor sharp machete, medicinal hemp samples and bundled pyrotechnics will be handed over without any fuss as I'm obviously a reasonable and responsible person. I have the OTP, it's 666999 and obsolete already. Have I missed the point? Of course I have.

Raspberry Juice

No use crying over spilled raspberry juice. Photo by LB.

The boy knocked the bottle over with his elbow. The thick red juice spilled across the table, dripping onto the cracked linoleum floor. His mother sighed, wiped her hands on her apron, and fetched a rag. "No use crying over it," she said. The boy stared at the spreading stain. It looked like sticky wet paint had been spilled. He thought of the raspberries growing fat and juicy. The sun on his back when he picked them and the way they burst between his teeth. Now they were wasted. His father took a sip of coffee, eyes still on the newspaper. "Next time, be careful," he said. The boy nodded. He would.

April Rocket Fuel

Up early and looking out of the window this morning nursing a cuppa tea. What should pop up but something that looks a lot like an ICBM hurtling across the Eastern sky. Nuclear war being declared on the 1st of April? That's a cunning plan. Not something I'd expected but we live in strange times. I tried tracking it but to no avail. It certainly wasn't launched/took off from any local base or airport - I think. Here's a very short video that isn't really helpful either. Who doesn't love the smell of Kerosene in the morning?