HURT COMICS: It's Stupid Christmas in February--SPUNKCELSIOR!

You know, it's something when comics make me laugh harder on accident than they do on purpose.

First, DC's line of baby-faced porn stars in DCU superheroine drag, (via Johanna) from which I first read about it. And check the comments at Heidi's, too, if for no other reason than to see a guy compare being disappointed to the Taliban. No, seriously.

DC has set the bar so low, and yet they limbo under it repeatedly. They're going to need earthmovers to slither under after this.

Speaking of low bars, Marvel suceeds even where DC exceeds (again, via Johanna):
"Spider-spunk,
Spider-spunk,
Marvel sucks,
who'da thunk?"

Poor Graeme. There's not enough brain-bleach in the world. Thanks for taking the bullet for us, buddy.

ATF: Bring Me the Head of Norm Abram, or This Fucking House

Norm is the host of This Old House and New Yankee Workshop. There was once a sketch on Saturday Night Live, with the late great Phil Hartman playing The Anal-Rententive Carpenter. That carpenter was not Jesus, it was Norm Abrams.

Norm, a master carpenter, makes gorgeous things on NYW. He routs, he plunges, he dadoes, he rabbets. The man has probably never touched a Skil saw in his life. He could double the cost of any given exotic wood he uses and still only make 50 cents an hour on a chest, never mind the boat he built. In short, what he shows is only practical for a hobbyist. A rich hobbyist.

On This Old House, the impression given is that work crews are on time, with pants that fit, caring craftspeople, and uniformly white. The only Caucasians I have seen around my house are the builder, G, and a demolition crew mamber named Patrick, but always called guerro, the same word that got our adjuster in trouble on September 7th.

On This Old House, pans for new tubs are made from sheet copper, lovingly welded. On This Old House, all-white roofing crews hand-hammer nails into shingles, making sure to always hit studs. On This Old House, no one ever cries in frustration. On This Old House, no one is ever seen pissing up a rope, spitting in the wind, or pooping in the backyard.

This Old House is the fantasy. Subcontractos who steal from people who lost almost everything (but still won't take the dead fridge, dead freezer or dead pool), never come back "tomorrow", shake down residents for more money on top of the excess they already gouged from the builder, cover outlets with wallboard, paint trim with mop-sized brushes after knocking back Bud Lights, and shit in buckets are the hard reality.

Curse you, Norm Abram. Curse you.

I am happy to have the cause of the problems, but I could do without the problems themselves, even if they are a rich vein of what the fuck.

ATF: Dude, Where's My Tile?

King, the kids and I returned to the house this evening to work. After some excitement (by which I mean I cried and yelled in frustration over the first cabinet set in place demonstrating that the kitchen wall was not plumb), I found out I didn't have screws neccessary for securing the cabinets to the wall.
This was also after enthusiastic coaching on King's part, "The first one's the hardest! You're almost there! You did it!" which made me laugh even as I was swearing because it sounded like he was coaching me through labor.
Frustrated, I decided to switch to the job of dry-fitting the bathroom floors, and FOUND ANOTHER FUCKING THING MISSING.
King and I went all over the house looking for it, but it was gone. It was gone because the man formerly known as David, now known as That Fucker Who Overcharged for the Tub Surrounds Then Tried to Soak Us for More (or, more simply, That Fucker) used it.
He didn't buy enough, and instead of going back to Lowe's and getting more tile, he just dragged in what we'd bought for our floor and used that and didn't buy more to replace it.
That Fucker.
See why that's his name now?
That tile was $150. out of our pockets, and That Fucker took it.
That Fucker had the construction guy's third in command negotiate almost double pay because "it was going to be hard."
That Fucker's been paid already.
That Fucker has not returned to grout.
That Fucker's not allowed back in the house. Neither is J (who I believe is also The Mad Shitter). Neither is The Man With No Name.
I'm grouting the tub surrounds myself, and presenting that cost as something that comes right off the top of our final bill. I'm going to charge for the time I spent picking up the tile, too.
King called the general Contractor, G., and talked to him while I bawled like a fishwife in the background. "I want that tile back tomorrow!"
Now, I could go buy more tile. But then, the contractor will just let it sliiiide and not replace it. King is talking to him tomorrow, and if King fails to convey that I expect four boxes of tile to be in the house tomorrow and I WILL be checking, and if they are not there, that I will be making a call, and Nobody Wants That.
We changed the lock box, and only the electrician (who has not reappeared since Saturday) and the GC will have the combo. After the electrician is done, I'm not letting anyone in until I'm ready for the plumber to put in the toilets and sinks.
Another fucking day that I can't get something done because some fucker took something that wasn't there. So much for being nice and learning everyone's names and treating them respectfully, like hard-working honest people.

I am so pissed off I'm cross-eyed.