We made it baby!

After the Rifftrax Christmas special last year I came back home with an idea for a cute little inside joke/cartoon in my head.

I sat down, doodled the thing out, gave it some color then shared it across the internets. I figured a few people would be entertained with it, but amazingly it got a good 300 views and was even tweeted by one of the writers of the show.

Then life moved on, I drew a tasteless Furby cartoon and we all tried to survive the great Yeti attacks of Christmas 2009.

Last week someone dug up my old cartoon praising its tree like ways and noticeable lack of having an account of any kind. Which finally made me decide, I should put that sucker on a T-shirt.

Naturally I didn't want to put to much effort into it, so in enters Cafe Press where everyone goes to make quick t-shirts on the internet.

It wasn't too hard to set up, just upload the image and make your selections for what to sell (I also stuck it on a clock and apron because I thought it was hilarious, as you can see my sense of humor lies somewhere in the spectrum of Vaudeville and a hyena that got into a nitrous oxide plant).

Then Tweet about the shop and you're on your way (okay since I had no plans to make a cent off the shirts it was easier because there was no entering monetary info).

This is taking too long. Just skip to the good part.

Here's my design on a T-Shirt!

And because just one other twitter friend has so far jumped on the accountless tree bandwagon I'll be one of only two people in the world to own one.

It was so much fun to do, and cool to have a copy of my work I can advertise a bit better maybe if I make another popular design (perhaps a bit more accessible to those who can't make a certain live event) I'll do more shirts.

*******

Now I want to switch gears completely and talk about the bowl of supper from last night. More specifically I'd like to talk to Madison Avenue guys, meet me at Camera three.

Hi, I'm sure right now you're all patting yourselves on the back for what you thought was a winning pass to the endzone but I'm here to wave this yellow flag in your face and call you for holding and unnecessary douchebaggery.

See, I know in your little world it's only men who watch the Super Bowl spending 9 months revving up with their mural sized TVs, bathtub salsa and a recliner that should reside in Versailles. Women are something on the fringe, possibly the suppliers of chips who otherwise just, I don't know, knit sweaters for cats in the background.

How else to explain the round of horrific, dull, mind numbingly misogynistic commercials this year.

You may all want to sit down for this because I'm about to rock your world. Women actually watch the game.

Quick! Someone get the smelling salts!

Yes, not only do they see these commercials calling them all harpies and soul destroyers out to devour those bros whose money you want some even tune in just for those. And you just insulted half of your possible buying power Dodge, Dockers, Doritos (I love how the three worst all start with a D, they're the Triple Douches), Bridgestone and Budweiser (oh right in your world women never drink beer too), actually it might be even higher than half as women seem to make many of the purchase decisions in the household.

If you were a chemist would you get to keep your job if your new drug worked only 65% of the time and the other 45% of your consumers died off?

You need a better illustration of what you're doing to yourselves? Take out your wallets, remove your money, now set half of it on fire. That's pretty much what your "Bros before Hos" attitude is doing to the bottom dollar.

The super bowl has almost next to nothing to do with football in this country any more. Sure some tune in for what is supposed to be the best game of the year (which is highly debatable anymore, last night really felt like a college game to me to the point where I was waiting for a college ad to pop up) but it's become much more than that.

Like New Years, people gather not to usher in the New Year with a celebration to embrace change but an excuse to get trashed, eat comforting food and hang out with friends.

The super bowl has become a chance to party hearty and who's job is it always to plan the parties (at least according to Wal-Mart), that's right the half of the population you spent all night insulting.

I think this flowchart nicely illustrates just what I'm getting at (found here):

You played hard (or not really at all, judging by that contemptible Dodge ad, seriously was anyone even trying or did you just dig up a 1950's comic?) and as they say there's always next year. But I'm thinking you need a few years out before you're ready.

Maybe send you back down to the minors to perfect your dunking skills and then we'll see about letting you back into the rink.

What do you mean I'm mixing sports metaphors? I'm just a girl, right Madison Avenue, I don't know nothing about that football stuff. Now if I were you I'd get out of here before I'm called for kicking you all in the nuts.