Hell: Day 3

As Ziggy continues his foray through this Lynchian nightmare, he encounters a surreal, frightening image that is so arbitrary, so shamelessly cruel that we cannot take it to be real. In fact, it seems designed merely to terrify and unsettle him. If we were to allow for the possibility that this image is real, then. . . no, I cannot. I'm not strong enough. Nevertheless, rejoice with me, beloved readers, for our descent into Hell ends this day.

The Clutching Beanie Feels Loved

Wow - Ziggy's special Clutching Beanie is really getting a workout this week. I think it's one of those folding models that changes color when you flip it inside out. "I need it to pay off my ATM fees!" Ziggy explains nervously. Don't worry, Ziggy - we're with you on this one. Many of us recognize the monetary benefits of having a special Clutching Beanie, and a few of us even have special Clutching Beanies of our own, or some other FDIC-recognized equivalent.

Today, though, Ziggy seems to be retreating into his beanie, almost fetal in his craving for security. If things keep going this way, he might have to use the thing to cover his nether regions when he's naked and homeless.

C is For Carnage

Yes! There's nothing better than sudden, unprovoked wrath from a deranged stranger, one who sees threats in the clouds and omens in the rainbows. This wrinkled old coot doesn't want to pick a fight, but goldarnit truth and virtue are at state.

The War of the Fortune cookie was a long one, a hard one. Many died, and none lost more than those near the Mongolian barbecue, between the bar and the ice cream machine at the Water Lily. A glance at this image ought to keep the memorials modest enough.

Fire Sauce

"Dave" has built his chili palace of torment, pain and internal hemorrhaging - a proud fact that has not escaped the notice of his menu. The escalated pricing scheme for increasing levels of anguish only proves that Dave is the reigning monarch of this hellish mound of capsaicin and promises of future diarrhea. Even the napkins are laced with habañero extract. Meanwhile, Ziggy awaits his meal like a death row prisoner, keeping company with the sort of gustatory masochists who would frequent a place like this.

Bottles Not Books

Holycrapholycrapholycrap - the door must have been opened for the Apocalypse, because today's Ziggy is everything that I could have ever wanted, and it's a multi-panel endeavor to boot! It makes me forget yesterday's self-plagiarism. Presented, unmodified as always, as originally printed. This wonder requires a panel-by-panel, stream-of-consciousness analysis:

Panel 1 (after the unmodified-as-always throwaway panel in all its hospital-green splendor): Look! Ziggy's buying a sizable stack of books! That book on stress avoidance should come in handy. "Plink! Plink!" the excitable keyboard says as if in agreement.

Panel 2: "Coping With Persecution"! No way! "Plink! Plink!" Don't forget stress!

Panel 3: Anxiety and embarrassment. Pshaw! "Plink!"

Panel 4: Oops! You forgot your bag, Ziggy! Beep. . . beep. . . beep. . . - like some kind of fiendish water torture, it rains upon you.

Panel 5: Ziggy wipes sweat, tears and shirt lint all over the exit doors as he frantically shakes his fanny in a horrific parody of surrender. The Man converges upon him, prepared and eager to do their civic duty by riddling him with lead and anger.

Whoever said that Ziggy wasn't the darkest comic in the papers?

Vicarious

This is barely even satire. The worst news stations, particularly local news, try to shield you from bad news, but the national news stations have no such options. That's why most national news stories are about events happening far, far away, or to imaginary people in the future ("is [substance] in your water? Find out at nine!"). If the parents of the major news networks, most of whom manufacture weapons, wanted you to hear the news that applied to you and that would affect your future, they would report it. It's good this is my last post for the day because now my ire is up.

Pocket Full of Shells

Poor Ziggy caught a virus from a sadistic seashell.

Ziggy and the Mothers of Invention

Actually, this is about the only cliched cartoon situation that we've seen Ziggy in for the past few days. Nevertheless, the cartoon archetype of the psychologist's couch is an important one, provided that you're The Far Side or a Johnny Hart strip.

No - the numero uno newspaper comic cliche is banality, something which Ziggy regularly attempts to deliver in spades but manages nonetheless to be interesting. Geez - can I see a Cathy without talking toilets? Or a Mary Worth without characters buying ineffective drugs from psychedelic vending machines? On the first day of this blog Ziggy was held captive in a bank by the bank's employees. Cliche? Hardly.

I can already picture Freudy McBoredbeard's recommendation: break the fourth wall, once a week, until the feeling of déjà vu subsides.

Pass the MD

A few weeks ago, as a result of this incident, I recommended that Ziggy seek out a new source of medical care. Unfortunately, Ziggy searched via pawn shop ads, so it seems that he's in the same boat. But every cloud has a silver lining: This "doctor" hasn't been to medical school, so he doesn't know that patients who ask questions can be punished through misdiagnosis:


"What are all of those strange jars doing in the corner? And why are you handing me a blank waiver? Why the enormous collection of bear traps and matted pelts decomposing in the janitor's closet? And why was your receptionist selling cigarettes in the lobby? Why, why, why, why, WHY?!"

"You have Tourette's. You'll need a lobotomy. I'll get the saw."


Remember, if it quacks like a duck then it's a quack like this doc, if you catch my drift*. But the discovery that Ziggy's physician may be more "special" than "specialist" seems to have gotten Ziggy in full-on strangle deathgrip mode - look at his right hand clench involuntarily. You can't see Ziggy's eyelids but they're twitching like hummingbird wings.


* I honestly won't blame you if you don't.

Find Something To Pacify

Everybody in Ziggy's neighborhood got a copy of this book for free, left anonymously on their respective kitchen tables in the dead of night. It mentions no author, no publishing company and has no jacket price, but contains information on Ziggy's life that is far, far too specific to be just lucky guesses: Ziggy, did you think that your dental floss malfunction went unnoticed?

All of this is just a build-up to the book's main point: a plead for fraternal alliance against the scheming, tricksy world. Suddenly, everything makes sense: Ziggy's world is like The Truman Show, only instead of keeping him in a bubble mystery world, the totality of humanity has contrived to make his life as surreal and horrific as possible.

Is the Book Man Ziggy's friend, or the real enemy? And is he crouching right behind Ziggy's chair, clenching his fist and breathing shallowly? We may never know.

On a related note, I once read a book called The Paranoid's Pocket Guide, a nifty little tome with all sorts of information to keep you up at night. A prominent page features a chart of bacteria counts on common household items. The rest of the book offers helpful tips like (from memory): "When staying in a hotel in an unfamiliar city, wait a few minutes after entering the building to turn on your room's light. That way people outside won't know what room you're staying in." Great stuff.