Play to Pay

Bizarro 05-02-21 hdrWB.jpg
Bizarro 05-02-21 WEB.jpg

Bienvenidos, Jazz Pickles, and whathaveyou! I hope you will enjoy the following specific combination of words. If you cannot read and understand English, perhaps consider copying and pasting it into a translation program of which many are available online, free of charge. If you understood that sentence, perhaps you should reassess your English proficiency.

Olive Oyl and I spent the past ten days galavanting around the US, visiting various family members whom we’ve not seen since before the pandemic. We visited opposite ends of the cultural and political spectrum—California and Oklahoma—and can report that they are very much as we left them; both have much to be proud and ashamed of. I’m lately of the opinion that the ends of those spectrums are really only exaggerated versions of what all of us have inside us somewhere.

There is a saying attributed to Ram Dass that is inaccurate but has a better rhythm than the way he actually said it—“If you think you’re spiritually enlightened, go home for the holidays.” It’s one of my favorite sayings because it gives you permission to get royally pissed off at people you truly love. Apparently, it even happens to yogis. And we all know that no matter how much you love your family, they can trigger you in ways that no one else can, and you’re suddenly 13-years-old again. 

This isn’t leading up to a story about my being triggered while visiting my family. That would be unkind. Instead, it’s leading up to my wanting to add modern airline travel to the list of things that will test your soul’s constitution. Beyond the obvious idiocy of making people go through the Cancer Scanner multiple times because they left a lip balm in their pocket, or the amount of precious water they throw away hourly when people like me forget to plan for their water bottle to be empty when they get to security (to protect us from, what? being drowned by a terrorist?) I think there’s a deeper philosophical issue at play. Somehow, we’ve become a society that values quantity of life over quality.  And it was litigators who did it to us.

It seems to me that America now operates on the premise that it is better to keep everyone safe, even if it makes everyone miserable. It’s length of life that is of paramount importance to us Americans, even if it means sacrificing the quality. If you don’t agree, here’s a thought exercise: 

Imagine that a company has invented something that would make virtually everyone in America’s life easier, would be used almost daily, would increase our leisure time and our ability to spend time with our families, increase our job opportunities, improve the economy, and save lives—but it would randomly kill 1000 Americans each month. Would it be allowed to be marketed? 

Most certainly not. The legal liability from 1000 deaths each month would be impossible to surmount. Additionally, if customers knew this thing was going to kill that many of them each day, most people wouldn’t want to have one. I mean, look at how many people are afraid to take the COVID vaccine, even though no one has died from it?

The punchline here is that the above invention perfectly describes the automobile, except they kill over 3,100 Americans every month, and many more are injured or disabled. Clearly, we have a lower level of acceptable risk than we used to. Much lower. But what will it do to us as a society? What important things might we deny ourselves because someone might get hurt? And what percentage chance of injury is acceptable?

We’re already denying ourselves the innocent pleasures of bringing a water bottle onto an airplane, wearing our shoes and belts through security, going grocery shopping without a stuffy mask long after we’ve been fully vaccinated. How dangerous are those things, really?

This isn’t some libertarian rant about freedom, it’s more about statistics. With modern technology, the chances of someone bringing an explosive onto a plane disguised as a shoe or a bottle of water is virtually nil. Yes, a dumbass tried to hide a “bomb” in his shoe once and failed miserably because it was a dumb idea in the first place. Must we forever pretend that taking our shoes off makes us safer because of one dumbass?

Back to Ram Dass, I’m just saying, try as I might, I can never make it through TSA without getting a little triggered and allowing my intelligence to get insulted. Also, we’re all damned lucky the Shoe Bomber didn’t try to hide a bomb in his ass.

Now let’s find out where Wayno was hiding his bombs in last week’s Bizarro cartoons…

Bz C 210426 P.jpg

As most of you know, this very difficulty led to the invention of modeling clay.

Bz C 210427 P.jpg

I have fond memories of my clown-printed, inflatable punching bag as a kid. The nose squeaked when you punched it, which led to a lifelong desire to punch clowns.

Bz C 210428 P.jpg

You have to admit he cleans up nice and his dress hooves look great.

Bz C 210429 P.jpg

It’s no surprise; he settled on that shirt.

Bz C 210430 P.jpg

If you’re a fan of the movie The Wicker Man, you may enjoy what Wayno has to say about it in his weekly cartoon blog post this week. I’m ashamed to say I’ve never seen that movie! Must remedy.

Bz C 210501 P.jpg

Now I’m wondering what happens if he ignores this advice? How much more dead can you get?

Hey, Jazz Pickles, that’s the end of the thing we do here each week. Thanks for doing it with us—whatever it is—until we’ve finished. If you find that we are providing you with enjoyment, feel free to express it by visiting some of the links below. We will experience gratitude at the news.

Until next time, be a good person and see how that works for you.

BIZARRO SHOP We have new stuff in the shop that’s fun and cheap!

… Bizarro TIP JAR

Signed, numbered, limited edition prints and original Bizarro panels  

PEYOTE COWBOY WEBSITE

SUPPORT Peyote Cowboy

PeyoteCowboy on Facebook

Peyote Cowboy Instagram

DIEGO PIRARO FINE ART

Bizarro Cartoons on Instagram 

King Features Subscription + archive access

Previous
Previous

Rolling Bones

Next
Next

That Tapping