I tried this comic entirely drawn and colored on my new tablet in order to save time. I think it actually took me longer, though. Hm.

This one even made the Awl.

Special thanks to fellow cartoonist and math-head Matthew Phelan for the peeing-in-the-pool metaphor, and to people everywhere who don’t understand how statistics work, giving me good cartoon fodder. This is the first of this project where I felt like I could’ve really improved the piece by going further into depth and explaining the issue more completely, but deadlines loom. Excuse me while I go draw some unhappy cats.

I took the CBEST test today in the first step to becoming a credentialed substitute teacher in California (and Oregon!). That was some embarrassingly easy shit, I tell you what. Though I did enjoy the essay question on “the little everyday things that make [me] happy.” Indoor plumbing! I also finished the test in two hours and ten minutes, which is a little more than half of the time allotted; I was the first person finished in a room of about 30.

My favorite question, though, was in the reading comprehension section. There was a little anecdote about why teachers should dress nicely for work, because if they show up in “dirty jeans and sloppy T-shirts” then students won’t respect them. One of the questions asked what the article’s author had intended for this sloppy teacher example to indicate. One of the options? “That the teacher is a dangerous extremist.” That was hardly the only time I was nearly persuaded to answer jokingly. The Magpie and the Fox fable was simarily enticing. I’m going to make a terrible teacher. I can’t wait!!

I’m still wrestling with the CSS and FTP and other acronyms I barely understand. But I’m also drawing some new comics so keep your pants on (please). Thanks.

Horrifying commercial #4,296.

If you know me, you probably know I now have consistent access to cable television programming for the first time in about six years and that this means I’ve been introduced to the Food Network in all of its bloody glory. As Amy Sedaris says, “when you’re alone and high in the night,” you can switch back and forth between the Food Network and the medical shows with the box on mute and everything looks just about the same. (But I’m also kind of convinced that watching has improved my seriously sub-par vegetable chopping time significantly.)

This also, of course, means I’ve been introduced to RayRay, that ever-grinning reminder of our continued march as a culture toward the lowest common denominator. (Not to mention those recipes take at least an hour.)

Now, I find Anthony Bourdain as repugnant as any of y’all, but I just had to block quote this for posterity…

Complain all you want. It’s like railing against the pounding surf. She only grows stronger and more powerful. Her ear-shattering tones louder and louder. We KNOW she can’t cook. She shrewdly tells us so. So…what is she selling us? Really? She’s selling us satisfaction, the smug reassurance that mediocrity is quite enough. She’s a friendly, familiar face who appears regularly on our screens to tell us that “Even your dumb, lazy ass can cook this!” Wallowing in your own crapulence on your Cheeto-littered couch you watch her and think, “Hell, I could do that. I ain’t gonna but I could–if I wanted! Now where’s my damn jug a Diet Pepsi?” Where the saintly Julia Child sought to raise expectations, to enlighten us, make us better–teach us–and in fact, did, Rachael uses her strange and terrible powers to narcotize her public with her hypnotic mantra of Yummo and Evoo and Sammys. “You’re doing just fine. You don’t even have to chop an onion–you can buy it already chopped. Aspire to nothing! Just sit there. Have another Triscuit. Sleep.. sleep..

That is all.

Roommates.com felt the lengthening arm of the law this week when the 9th circuit pinched them for discrimination in a suit brought by (who else?) the San Fernando Valley. The site provides a matching service in which potential roomies have the option of requesting matches with particular genitals and proclivities (more or less).

I feel like this is akin to telling a potential employer your age and then slapping them with a discrimination suit since they aren’t allowed to ask. Roommates.com provides no actual housing service, just a social matching one, not to mention that you can decline to complete any of the “discriminatory” fields.

OkCupid, you guys are totally next. Get rid of those damn drop-down menus, though, and everything will probably be fine.

Last week Radaronline.com broke the story that there’d been allegations of cheating on the open-book, take-home ethics final (there must be a j-schooler interning there). The story was later picked up by the Times and now everyone’s freaking out about the immoral Columbia j-student body. The strangest aspect of this story is that no one is attempting to address the central issue: how, in fact, do you cheat on an open-book, take-home ethics final? It’s also strange that people seem to find this surprising, though perhaps this surprise is just hiding their glee at watching the privileged falter. Or something.

A current j-school student has started a blog dedicated only to this topic, which I might express surprise at just to hide my glee at watching the privileged be idiots. S/he vehemently defends Mr. Sam Freedman, the unfortunate new professor lecturer of the ethics course. “He’s the captain and we’re just sailing on his ship right? As long as we get to our final destination, who the hell cares?”
No comments. Now that’s surprising.

Just kidding! Burritos are actually an American-born product, a streamlined to-go snack created in the 1840s in the Southwest: meat wrapped in a flour tortilla. My meatless version is a tastier take on this classic Southwest sandwich.

Just kidding! Burritos aren’t sandwiches after all! Or are they…? Via Dictionary.com:

sand·wich, n.
1. Two or more slices of bread with a filling such as meat or cheese placed between them.
2. A partly split long or round roll containing a filling.
3. One slice of bread covered with a filling.
tor·til·la, n.
A thin disk of unleavened bread made from masa or wheat flour and baked on a hot surface.

Thus burrito = sandwich according to internet dictiomonarians + me. Now that this matter is settled with a simple equation, let me continue with the eats.

1. Fry up some firm tofu + turmeric in oil. Don’t get the turmeric on your shirt because it will stain yellow and you will look like an idiot who got turmeric on their shirt, and no one wants that.
2. Fry up some cut up potatoes + onion + bell pepper in oil. Don’t burn your hand on the pan and then disregard the burn because you’re trying to act tough even though it hurts like hell and it’s red and blistering because that’s some second degree shit, there, man, and that’s not cool at all.
3. Fry up some fakin bacons in oil. Be careful. I stress this with italics.
4. Toast a whole wheat tortilla on the stove burner. When this invariably sets off your smoke alarm, wave at it frantically with a crappy Spin magazine. Discard this in paper recycling when finished. Thanks, Spin!
5. Chop tomato and slice bits from enormous Reed avocado.
6. On plate, bottom to top: tortilla, tofu, potatoes, bacons, tomato, avocado, sweet pea sprouts, tofu sour cream, tiny sombrero.

Done!