There is no such thing as a common news item that our breathless reporter Bud Buck can’t inflate into a major crisis. Witness the latest technological leap forward in the construction industry …

This is Bud Buck with Bud’s Newsbucket of News!

Your intrepid reporter has learned that the 21st Century Robot Wars have moved one step closer to reality with the development of sinister whirlygigs that have been built expressly for the purpose of stealing the millions of stable, high-paying jobs that we have long relied upon in the dynamic foam block construction industry.

Woe to you if you are an ultra-light materials builder. View the video below, and see the coming apocalypse!

Yes! Mechanical airborne demons have now mastered the skill of constructing vast, wavy-sided foam block corrals where we will all soon be quarantined, watching in helpless wonder as waves of infernal heli-stackers quickly surround us with Frank Gehry-inspired barriers of doom! Be afraid!

How serious is this? I see it as another giant step forward in our increasingly brisk walk towards total destruction. We have known for generations that this day would come, ever since today’s elders foresaw the assault as part of a widely shared generational nightmare.

Just like the wall-building robots, notice how much programming those monkeys need before they’re set loose! Blah, blah blah blah blah! But then they spring into terrifying action! If your children are still wondering what line of work they should enter – carpentry or code writing – wonder no more. The handwriting is on the undulating wall!

This is Bud Buck!

Ever been replaced (or merely threatened) by a machine?

I had a nice chat with Inspector Goatlock the other day. We were at the Farmer’s Market looking at produce and he appeared to be quite hungry. Still, I engaged him in conversation about his work and he told me a few things about a recent case he’d had. When I pressed for more details, he pulled a journal from his pocket and tore out a page, saying “Here … read all about it. I’ve got to find a stand selling rutabagas.”
The page read as follows:

One brisk December morning I was on a casual search for some loose hay with hints of red clover and weedy mix in a warehouse area on the outskirts of an eastern city when I noticed a crowd milling around the entrance to Michael’s Wholesale Furniture Distributors. An odd gathering, I thought, given that this was the week AFTER Black Friday’s “Door Buster” deal making. I ambled over and several members of the group turned at the sound of my hooves on the damp asphalt of the parking lot.

“Hey!” one of the millers-around exclaimed. “We found something you’ll really get into. Can you climb up on the roof to look for a hole?”

“During the night something crashed through the roof of our warehouse,” voiced another. “We think a passing aircraft has lost an important part! Maybe a piece of an axle of some sort. Airplanes have axles, right?”

“No,” offered a third. “It’s clearly from the gun turret of an alien spacecraft. We are under attack!”

“Nonsense,” blustered a fourth. “This projectile was launched by extreme weight pressures building inside the broken suspension of a passing boxcar.”

Intrigued, I quickly scrambled up on to the roof, but in spite of the initial claim made by the first person I spoke to, there was no hay. However I did find a small hole, and through a jagged opening I could see shattered ceiling tiles scattered across the floor of a warehouse chock-full of ugly plastic-covered sofas and ghastly settees.

Just then, a man appeared at roof’s edge. He had climbed up a hastily procured ladder that had been steadied against the base of a nearby industrial-sized wood chipper. He held in his hand a cylindrical five-pound chunk of metal. It matched the hole perfectly.

When I asked to investigate the artifact, he recoiled.

“What you hear about goats eating anything is absolutely false,” I said. “We’re actually rather picky.”

The strange object carried no telltale signs that would reveal its origin. Its roughly shaped ends suggested it had been violently sheared from a larger piece of equipment.

“Why would something so strange and inexplicable happen here? Camelot Industrial Park has got to be the quietest, least interesting section of Plymouth, Massachusetts!”

“Not so strange,” I said to the strange man. “It all makes perfect sense …”

The bottom of the page was missing. The moistened edge suggested that Inspector Goatlock had, in desperation, taken a bite from his own notes. And by the time I looked up, he had disappeared into the crowd.

What could explain the mysterious chunk of roof-crashing metal?

Although it’s clear that I have no formal direct influence over the economic policies of the State of Minnesota, I would still like to take full credit for yesterday’s prediction that the state will have an 876 million dollar surplus at the end of the next two years.

My reasons are simple. Nobody knows what really made this thing that hasn’t happened yet happen, yet everyone else is taking credit too. So why not grab some of the premature glory before it disappears?

So, how will I did it?

Easy! When even tougher future economic times were about to hit, I attacked consumer debt by cutting way back on my projected spending. A lot of people panic and focus on their actual spending, but changing that can be difficult and painful. Projected activity is easier to control, because it’s all about making assumptions. Once you get the assumptions right, solving future problems becomes simple!

I merely assumed I would start smoking next year, which made my personal deficit balloon. Then I predicted that I would quit the filthy habit shortly after starting, and instantly saved a boatload of money in the process. I then imagined that I would use the extra money to buy a small retail shop of some sort in a fantasized perfect location where it is predictably impossible to go broke, and conjured a rare midwestern typhoon with an extremely selective footprint that wiped out all my competitors. I then envisioned myself as a wealthy and beloved pillar of the community, hiring many deserving local people who I expected to be both highly enthusiastic about my strangely undefined business and intensely grateful to me for employing them.

Viola! Surplus time! Happy Days Are Here Again!

How have you saved the future economy from continued disaster?

Welcome to the first day of December! Time rushes wildly on. I was solemnly considering a closetful of carefully stored Christmas decorations yesterday when I was startled by a sudden knock on the door.
Of course it was our local public service alarmist – Bathtub Safety Officer Rafferty.

BSOR: At ease, civilian!

Me: I was at ease before you showed up. Now I’m worried. What’s wrong?

BSOR: I’m simply doing a house-by-house intervention in your neighborhood, reminding people that December is quite hazardous because it is a high gravity month. During a high gravity month, it’s best to stay away from ladders and keep your arms below your head at all times!

Me: I beg your pardon? High gravity? Isn’t gravity the same all the year through?

BSOR: Technically yes! But December combines normal amounts of gravity with high levels of friction loss, high ground hardness and high hanging decorations, inside and out. That’s a potentially lethal combination!

Me: Ah. OK, thanks. I’ll keep it in mind while I’m putting up the tree.

BSOR: Bringing a tree into your house is very, very foolish. There’s a reason trees live outside! All trees fall over eventually. Critters live in them. Trees can catch fire, and they are hit by lightning with surprising regularity! If a strange person had all these qualities, and you discovered he had been living in the forest for most of his life, you would not invite him into your house! And you certainly wouldn’t string lights around him and pile expensive things at his feet. For safety’s sake, do not open your home to a wild tree, and especially not during a high gravity month!

Me: These are cherished traditions and I don’t think we’re going to change anything to please you. Of course it’s always smart to be careful, but I’m going to go ahead practice all my usual December customs in spite of your nervous hovering.

BSOR: Hovering is inherently unstable. I never hover!

Me: Whatever you’re doing, it’s not going to work. Tree trimming, candle lighting and decoration hanging are going to continue around here, all the way down to putting up the holly and the mistletoe.

BSOR: Mistletoe? Mistletoe is one of the most dangerous seasonal health threats! Not only does it promote random, unfettered kissing among certain reckless individuals, but sensible people who are trying to avoid being caught under the mistletoe often wind up in the emergency room with sprained ankles and twisted backs! You might as well hang a loaded gun from the your door frame!

This conversation went on for far too long, and though it got a bit heated at times I felt a definite chill. It might have been the cold efficiency of the safety scolding I was getting from Bathtub Safety Officer Rafferty, or it might have been the fact that we were standing there with the door wide open on a day with a high in the mid-30’s.
I think I might be coming down with something!

What holiday tradition are you ready to drop, for safety’s sake?

There were plenty of amusing comments yesterday about Bart the Bear and his indignation over the possible authorization of bear hunting in New Jersey, of all places.
But there was one irresistible string of imaginative pondering that made me wonder … what if?

That’s just too good an idea to pass up. You asked for it.

If you were going to appear on the cover of a magazine, which magazine would it be?

It has been a while, but today we hear from our bearish friend who found a cell phone in the woods. For ease of reading, the message has been translated into English from its original Ursus Textish.

Yo, it’s me, Bart.

Ever feel like you had a price on your head?

I do, especially since I found saw this online article from New Jersey that’s all about killing bears – and it includes a picture of ME! Think I’m paranoid? Take a look!

They’re hearing oral arguments in a courtroom in Trenton this morning about whether the state should release more than six thousand hunters into the woods over the course of just six days to shoot animals that look JUST LIKE ME! I’m absolutely shocked. I didn’t know New Jersey had woods! And I can only imagine what New Jersey hunters are like. I guess they got to shoot some bears last year and liked it so much, they decided to try again – the first time in four decades that they’ve had two consecutive years when people could go out and kill my kind with no penalty at all! Sure makes a guy feel wanted, and not in a good way.

The Sierra Club says this is just a bit of recreation and should not be allowed. Because they had a bear hunt last year and have already “harvested” 592 of my brethren, opponents say this can’t be justified as an effort to get “nuisance” bears. And believe me, I’m all for thinning the herd when it comes to “nuisance” bears, because I’ve met a few! What’s a “nuisance” bear? Mostly, they’re bears who just don’t know the limits of another bears interest in their stupid adventures.

I had a “nuisance” bear bend my ear one night about some bee hive he located in a hollowed out stump in out in East Jesus. Yes, the bees were angry, and yes, the honey was sweet, and blah, blah, blah, blah. No I don’t care how many times you were bitten, and please, I’d rather not hear about how your stomach ached or the way your scat squished when you dropped it on the path a day later. Honestly.

But here’s the part that frosts me. The bears who give bears a bad name are the citified ones who can’t get enough of downtown, hanging around coffee shops and bus stops, getting their kicks by jaywalking and going through dumpsters in alleyways. The bears who get shot by hunters are the ones like me – bears who never leave the woods and spend most of their time minding their own business or cruising the Internet to find the latest blogger who’s using my picture without permission! Where’s the justice in that?

So please, tell the people in New Jersey to worry about controlling the growth of their own insufferable human population, starting with those obnoxious folks on “Jersey Shore”. I admit that I’m tired of the monotonous antics of “nuisance” bears, but isn’t delivering a death sentence a little steep for the sin of being dull? If those are the rules we’re playing by, there are a whole lot of humans with reason to look over their shoulders!

Lying Low,

Your friend,
Bart

Where’s the safest place to hide?

Dear Dr. Babooner,

I have always followed one simple rule – I never EVER hand over more money than I absolutely MUST, whether I’m buying a plane ticket, the latest flat-screen TV or simply paying my property tax bill. That’s why I brave pepper spray and gunfire to shop on Black Friday. That’s why I will spend an entire weekend comparing and contrasting competing airfares to Miami. And that’s what drives me to disparage and oppose any politician who dares to consider a tax hike of any kind!

My money is so important to me, I’ll devote whatever time and energy is necessary to pay less and get more, whether I’m at Wal-Mart, the airport, or just going for a walk down the cracked and broken sidewalks of my home town! Never pay more than the other guy. That’s the American way!

But during the post-Thanksgiving meal cool-down, as I was describing my latest victory in the money wars (we defeated a school referendum!), I wound up getting in a huge argument with my brother-in-law Larry about this very thing. He claims my low-cost obsession is misdirected, and never ending quest to pay less I actually wind up spending more than I save in terms of hours and emotional investment.

I told him the economic forces behind my compulsion are sound, and he countered by arguing that I’m nothing but a sourpuss who will die young having wasted far too much time agonizing over pennies. Imagine that! But Larry has always been a socialist and a bum. He actually shakes his head when exceptionally rich people die, saying that anyone who leaves this Earth with lots of money still in the bank is a “loser”. Then he cited some newspaper article claiming the Black Friday deals are actually not the best to be had. There might be some science behind that, but mostly I think he was breezily pulling these opinions out of his butt!

What are the worst things about Larry? He shops whenever he wants, buys what he likes and votes for Democrats!

I’m pretty sure that the essence of a well-live human life boils down to coming out ahead of everybody else in the constant battle over money, but it bothers me that Larry doesn’t see that. Since Thursday afternoon I’ve spent so much time thinking about his crazy ideas I’m afraid I’ve missed several attractive MONUMENTAL Black Friday Deals and failed to deliver an appropriate helping of scorn to a legislator who failed to sign the Grover Norquist No-Tax Pledge! I still know that I’m right, but I feel like I’ve lost my edge.

Dr. Babooner, how can I defeat my brother-in-law if he refuses play my game?

Frugally,
Miserable But Still Able Miser

I told MBSAM he may have won the economic war but his brother-in-law has come out ahead in the psychological contest to define happiness. At this point, the only way to get Larry’s attention and possibly win in this make-believe contest is to find a way to appear more joyful than he is, and happier in general than virtually everybody else.
Perhaps there’s a Door Buster Deal on attitude adjustments somewhere?

But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?

Today is the birthday of a guy with one weird imagination – the cartoonist Chester Gould, creator of the character Dick Tracy. Gould was born on this day in the year 1900.

I remember reading this comic strip as a kid and losing my way in the complicated parade of eccentric characters (Flattop, The Mole, Diet Smith, Mr. Intro) and strange plot twists. The relentless pressure of producing a daily comic strip for over four decades does not promote careful storytelling.

The part I remember best about Dick Tracy was how Chester Gould introduced unusual gadgets and devices into the strip, giving us the Two-Way Wrist Radio in 1946, which he upgraded to the Two-Way Wrist TV in 1964. Preposterous! Until five years ago, I was certain people would never be able to carry TV’s around in their pockets.

If we accept the idea that Chester Gould’s “space period” Dick Tracy was way out in front of our development of technology, expect to see magnetic levitation as a common method of travel across wide distances (Air Cars) and easy commuting to the moon (Space Coupe)! In fact, the story line had Dick Tracy’s adopted son (Dick Tracy Jr.) marrying a lunar resident (Moon Maid).

I admit I always liked the idea of magnet-powered travel. If it works for metal shavings on Wooly Willy, why not the rest of us?

Of course if Gould was a 100% correct predictor in everything he drew, men would have embraced the bright yellow trench coat long ago.

What’s your favorite comic strip?

Dear Dr. Babooner,

I’m hopelessly attracted to brainy do-gooder types who are interested in art, education, community and philanthropy. I can’t help it. When the words “not-for-profit” are whispered in my ear, I feel lightheaded and all my pockets get turned inside out. Needless to say, I’m widely known as a giver.

Anyway, I had this crazy dream that all my nonprofit friends came to the door asking for desperately needed help on the Very Same Day! While others might be delighted at the attention, I felt totally overwhelmed. I ran down to my basement and hid behind the washer for an entire afternoon while the doorbell rang incessantly. When I finally emerged I was covered with dryer fuzz and spider webs and looked like a cross between The Mummy and a lint roller that had been donated to an animal shelter.

I was just about to go back to answering the door, worried that my friends would now find me frightening and repulsive, when I woke up. But it made me wonder if it could possibly be a bad thing that I am so compassionate and generous.

Caringly,
Gil Tripp

I told Mr. Tripp he shouldn’t let one bad dream change his supportive lifestyle. Just because a deserving nonprofit organization asks for help, that doesn’t mean you are a bad person if you don’t come across. Nonprofits can’t afford to judge you – they can only be grateful that you are a philanthropist. Your support of any nonprofit organization is cause for celebration by everyone who works for the benefit of all, even if they never get a direct contribution from you.

But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?