Cake and Potatoes: July 2009

Thank You for Stroking

A Brave New World for Big Tobacco ...

Two new comics below.

Outside the Box

How’re the kids, Watson?

Caught little Billy making out with his girlfriend to a T-Pain album the other night.

Oh, my.

Yeah, talk about furious! I asked him, “Don’t you know how over-produced and ideologically bankrupt T-Pain’s music is??”

“At the very least, swap saliva to the well crafted though perhaps somewhat sophomoric lyrics of Taylor Swift!”

Kids these days.

I swear, if Kate and I didn’t keep such a tight rein on what the children consume—dietary-, culture-, and information-wise—they’d be just as obese, prescription drug-addled, and narrow-minded as the general American public!

God forbid you ever catch them using one of our fine products.

Shudder …

… If I ever found out that Billy had taken one puff of a cancer stick, I’d wring his scrawny, little neck.

And then promptly shovel an organic wild berry medley into it to get the antioxidants working those putrid chemicals out of his system!

All while keeping it out of the public eye, I’m sure.

Good PR has gone by the wayside, I’m afraid, Ms. Bronze, with Obama’s anti-smoking act. Hopefully our newly elected CEO can turn things around.

Speaking of Mr. Polk, where is he?

Hi, folks. Apologies for being late. Accidentally had my watch set to “CP time.”

...

“China-Pacific” time … I just flew in from Shanghai.

... Ooooh.

Let’s get right down to business: As we all know, President Obama’s Family Smoking Prevention Act is now a legal reality. What does this mean for our customers?

This legislation will prevent us from further labeling our cigarettes as “Mild” or “Ultra-light.”

These rhetorical tools have been invaluable in promoting the impression that these brands are somehow less dangerous.

Or, in the case of the latter term, vaguely futuristic—transported back through time somehow, carcinogen-free, and placed now in the Plexiglas cigarette case at one’s local grocer.

Also, there’s the new requirement for more visible warning labels that are to cover at least 30% of each package.

[Forcing us to reduce the size of our beloved mascot, Moe Llama, to such an extent that he’ll no longer be discernable to school children as an appealing, goofy-looking cartoon!]

Alright, let’s turn to solutions. Come on, people, we need to think outside of the pack, er uh, carton, er uh, box.

...

Mr. Polk, sir ...

Yes, Watson? An idea?

Can I be excused to go to the restroo—?

No, focus, Watson ... Damn it, people, COME ON!!

...

Put a cute baby on the front of every package?

Everyone does love babies … until they have one of their own, at least.

Hmm, yes, like toilet paper companies, we might employ the age-old tactic of displaying the image of an adorable child on the packaging to draw consumers’ focus from the disgusting nature of the commodity’s use.

In fact, what about baby-shaped tobacco pipes? ... Can be cradled in the arms, cries to alert you when it's time to smoke—

But ... wait ...

This better be good, Inez! I'm on a roll here.

Babies … That gives me an even better idea.

Delaying the Inevitable

Boop!!

Ten boxes of J.R. Jenkins-brand “Nicolactics.” Anything else?

Nope, that should last me and hubby for the next couple of months.

Huh huh huh

But ma’am, these boxes contain twenty J.R. Jenkins-brand prophylactics apiece! That’s 200 contraceptives, total. Surely that’ll last you—

Two months, I say!

What Sweet Thang wants, my Sweet Thang gets.

And what Big Daddy needs, Big Daddy receives.

Jeepers creeps! Can you two quit trading innuendo and just check out already? This is the Express lane!

Whoa … someone didn’t get to use his J.R. Jenkins-brand “Nicolactics” last night.

… Or this morning.

… Amidst the partially melted butter stick and lukewarm maple syrup bowls left atop the breakfast table.

OK, you got me. No play for Mr. J. Har har …Can you now please move on with—

Or on the highway en route to the grocery store with the top down, under the tepid chemical spray of the whipping windshield wiper fluid.

Nor again in the back seat beneath a camouflage of road atlases, state maps, and old inspection stickers from the glove compartment in the lot upon arrival.

OK, OK, I get the pic—

Nor on top of the folding table in the employee break room upon sneaking through this grocery store’s seafood department after entering.

… Amidst the flipped ashtrays and abandoned hands of Gin Rummy—the tack of ancient coffee rings clinging to his back.

Uuggh. Come on, that’s just obscene! Nobody wants to hear you air your dirty, little escapades—

Sure they do … Just look at the crowd!

... Point taken.

Cash or plastic?

I’ll write a check.

And subsequently balance my checkbook in a leisurely fashion at the register before taking my purchase and stepping aside!

You’ve gotta be kidding me.

But not before I clip and sort these applicable coupons, honey bunch!

Jeepers creeps!

Meanwhile

[Fluuuussssshhhhh!]

That’s, like, the fourth time she’s flushed the commode in there. It’s almost like she’s trying to intentionally draw out the suspense.

Only delaying the inevitable, baby: Those two blue, parallel lines on that pregnancy indicator window, in there on the restroom sink.

Don’t get your hopes up.

I’ve have been pretty stressed lately, haven’t had time to exercise, and, with dating Beau, have had to adjust my daily routine. These are causes for one’s cycle being off, as well.