Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Gingers Have More Fun

Calling all McBoners!  Have you ever wondered what it's like to be Kid Shay?  Sure, we all have.  Well, you can either pick up a pen and start drawing about a billion comic strips, or take a somewhat less arduous path via the iTunes Apps store.  I know things are tough for everybody and we're all tightening our belts these days, but if you've got $0.99 to spare, do our Akron homeboy Brett a favor and download his app, Make Me a Ginger, just launched this week.  All it takes is one buck and a few seconds to be sporting a red mane worthy not just of our resident cartoonist, but our official supermodel as well.  Stop wishing and make it happen, people!

Watch the video!

Get the App!  

With Make Me a Ginger,

Red hair's a snap!


Sunday, March 27, 2011

Peace Offering

Today's post about Wal-Mart's crummy pay scale really gave Kid Shay the blues.  Can't have that.  Here's something to lift the spirits of our resident artist:

Chan Marshall--musician, big game hunter

Cartoonists are a temperamental lot.  All smiles one minute, in the next they are smashing a hotel room to bits.  And you just never know what's going to set them off.

Here's hoping this small offering will keep the demons away...for now.


Everyone Wants a Piece of Lincoln; Jurisprudence Edition

Exhibit #343 and 344.  Lawyers with corny southern accents want a piece of Lincoln:


Not Trickling Down

Just glancing over the Forbes 400 richest Americans and noticing that the list is conspicuously littered with one surname.

4) Christy Walton - 24 billion

7) Jim Walton - 20.1 billion

8) Alice Walton - 20 billion

9) S. Robson Walton - 19.7 billion

98) Ann Walton Kroenke - 3.2 billion

136) Nancy Walton Laurie - 2.6 billion

That's six people in one family with a combined net worth of 89.6 billion dollars.  The company's CEO, Mike Duke, pulls in 6 million dollars per annum.

What, pray, does the average full-time Wal-Mart employee bring in on an hourly basis?

$11.75 an hour.

What, in Wal-Mart's opinion, constitutes full time?

34 hours a week.

I wish that these six Waltons could be made to live on $20,000 for one year.  That would make for some good reality TV right there.

Rah capitalism.


Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Victory at Indian Wells; The 2011 McBone Swimsuit Edition

Wow, what a busy week!  And what a good idea I had, swearing off junk food for Lent.  I guess I wasn't doing myself any favors noshing on Frito-stuffed burritos and Scotch eggs all year, because a new regimen paid immediate dividends. Turns out being 40 pounds lighter and able to move one's bowels from time to time will do wonders for the old energy and stamina. Who knew?

Slimmed down and sleeker than ever, I avenged my US Open loss to that infernal Spaniard, the soon-to-not-be-#1-ranked Rafael Nadal, in the final of the Paribas Open at Indian Wells. Okay, so Indian Wells isn't the 2008 Austrialian Open, but give me a break, McBoners.  Nadal and Federer (slayed mercilessly by yours truly in the semifinal) aren't exactly a walk in the park.  Fuck, a win's a win, and I whipped Nadal in three easy-breezy sets.  Hell, I even spotted him a set before kicking it into overdrive.  That's confidence for you.  Booyah!

Well, I wasn't ready to call it a week just yet, so I grabbed the trophy and booked it on over to Malibu to chillax for a minute and snap a few photos for the 2011 Swimsuit Edition.

I think you'll appreciate these shots for my renovated torso:

And the cross indicating my loyalty to the religion of Christianity. Yessir, nothing like kicking back in Malibu and throwing on an $800 dollar pair of shades to make things right with the umpire in the sky.

Fuck, was that supposed to be a five set match?

It's good to be champion.  Until next year, sit back, chillax and enjoy! 

See swimsuits past



Saturday, March 19, 2011

March 2011 State of the Yard

With the equinox just a day away and the thermometer on the rise, it's time to assess the state of the yard.  It was a tough winter, to be sure.  A layer of snow and ice blanketed the grounds of McBone Manor for most of the dormant season. As the days grow longer, the frozen crust has melted away to reveal a landscape with a whole lot of stuff going on.

There's some good stuff, like this:

And this:

 And some of the stuff is not so good:

 There's the save-the-planet stuff:

And then there's these little bastards, eating the stuff they're not supposed to be eating:

Thankfully, I didn't encounter a single one of these:

Oh, it will take a few weeks to whip this terrain into shape.  There is brush to clear and I think I'll try my hand again at planting a garden. I'm sure with the right kind of dedication I can at least double last year's bounty (2 jalepeños). As ever, the War on Squirrels rages on. 

Gonna be a wonderful spring.


Thursday, March 17, 2011

Giving 110%

Check out this line from the first half of the Cavs-Blazers game:

0 zero steals, 0 blocks, 11 rebounds, 1 assist.

Those are the numbers that the Cavaliers put up as a team.

That's not just one half of bad basketball in a long NBA season; that's a collection of millionaires unable to summon 24 minute's worth of hustle and teamwork. How they trail by a mere 30 points after such an historic display of epic godawfulness is a mystery that this blogger is too drunk to unravel.

Go Zips!


Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Now Tweeting

Jolly good tweet, old man.
It's official.  I am now officially overestimating my importance to the world.  I have lost control of the runaway train that is my ego.

Yes, it's true.  Just moments ago, I sent my first tweet.

Beamed from the deepest reaches of the solar system from a powerful transmitter located at my sprawling villa on Planet X, my tweet, four little words hurtled toward Earth with all the speed and power of a meteor the size of Rhone Island (our smallest state, yes, but understand that a meteor that size, should it strike our planet, heaven forbid, would cause devastation on a biblical scale).  Feel a sudden impact?  That was my tweet.  Part fiction, part fantasy, 100% McBone.

Unless you count yourself among my followers (latest tally: 1), you missed it.  Too bad.  It was McBoneriffic.
I'm not sure what I hope to accomplish with this move, other than satisfy my unrelenting need to be on the cutting edge, but I'm sure my first tweet shall not be my last.  I know I risk being seen as a 'sellout' to the many McBoners who would prefer that we 'keep it real.'  Understand, dear reader, that, in the face of changing technology and rampant narcissism, we hold true to our ideals.  Though paradigms shift and tweets fly by the billion, we will ask the robot who makes our sandwich, as we once asked the pimply teen, to kindly hold the mayo.


Wednesday, March 9, 2011

What If They're Right?

The exit is to the left.  No, no, YOUR left.
If they're right, I imagine the conversation will go something like this:

God: Rock McGraw!

McGraw: Right here boss.

God: Well, don't just stand there all slack-jawed and slouching. And suck in that gut!

McG: My bad.

God: Are you prepared for your final judgment?

McG: Yep. What's the verdict?

God: I never knew thee.

McG: Oh, snap.  That doesn't sound good.

God: Begone! I condemn thee to everlasting torment on the Lake of Fire.

McG: Ugh. Seriously? 

God: Seriously.

McG: Will I get to see my sometimes-popular wife?

God: Not a chance.

McG: Will there be music?

God: Yes, there's music.

McG: Will there be baseball?

God: Yes, baseball too.

McG: And snacks???

God: Yes, yes. All the snacks you can eat.

McG: Cha-ching! What time's the bus leave?

God: Your carriage awaits you.


Sunday, March 6, 2011

Not Broke

A little Michael Moore to get your Sunday blood a-boilin'.

Tax 'em!


Thursday, March 3, 2011

Open Letter to Dan Auerbach

Dear Dan Auerbach,

First off, I'd like to congratulate you on your continuing success as one half of the popular rock 'n' roll duo, The Black Keys. As a fellow Akronite, I applaud the hard work and dedication you've put in to maximize your formidable talents as a singer, songwriter and guitarist.  Hey, it's always good to see a homeboy make it big.  Furthermore, you, like me, are a graduate of Firestone High School.  All the best to you, from one Falcon to another.  All hail to the Green and Gold.

But the real reason I'm writing is that I've got a little beef with you.  Well, not with you exactly.  See, about 20 years ago my brother loaned your brother my copy of Castlevania 3.

It was a pretty sweet game, for its time.  Really one of my all-time favorites.  No surprise there, though.  Konami made a ton of awesome games for the NES.  I'm sure your brother got a lot of enjoyment out of it as well.  Heck, maybe you yourself strapped on Trevor Belmont's boots a few times to try your hand at breaking Dracula's curse.  No big deal on the loaner; I was happy to spread the wealth.

The thing is, though, I never got that back.  I don't want to freak out or get my dander up or anything, but my problem is that it's been 20 fucking years.  What should have been a good faith transaction between close friends took a wrong turn somewhere along the way.  I'm not sure why and I don't want to come off like a dick, but the bottom line is that your brother just up and kept the fucking game.  What's up with that?

I don't suppose he's getting a lot of use out of it right about now, is he?  I mean he's had it for 20 years--enough time to beat the game a hundred times over.  So, if you read this letter and it's not too much trouble, could you sort of give him a little nudge?  I know rock stars keep a busy schedule, but if you do get a chance, please tell him to send it back.  After two decades I'm kind of eager to know how things turn out for old Trevor.

Thanks a million,


PS: Cool beard

Wednesday, March 2, 2011


This is Uncle Ed.  Clinging to his upper body is the legendary FUN IN THE SUN 1982 t-shirt, not seen since being routinely tossed into the laundry in July of 2009.

Fun in the Sun 1982 t-shirt, ca. 1997

Steeped in 1,000 sweat-throughs, Uncle Ed's favorite t-shirt won its lofty status in the crucible of his white hot pits.

What fate befell this prized garment, washed and tumble-dried to near transparency after 27 years of weekly wearings?  A number of scenarios have been floated by friends, family and conspiracy theorists--each plausible and, as yet, unproven:

-Purloined by a covetous Uncle Pete.

-Disintegrated during spin cycle, merged with other clothes.

-Still in his possession, after color and lettering faded away, as a plain white t-shirt.

-Slowly lowered by Aunt Fay into garbage disposal.


If, in your travels, you should happen upon a lonely and very light blue t-shirt huddled against the rain, show no disdain.  Pick it up.  The FUN IN THE SUN 1982 t-shirt and Uncle Ed were made for each other.  It is his second skin.  They are one, and something so beloved deserves not this desolate fate.


Nemesis Blogger Discovered!

Dormant ponytail
Very few bloggers have the advantage of encountering their blogging nemesis, but thanks to some canny fieldwork by a pair of McBone operatives, I've finally found mine.  Perhaps you've seen him too?  The guy with the ponytail fluttering in his wake?  That's him, all right.  I've even learned his name: Dino.  He'll be the one tailgating you in his Miata, the one who keeps asking how much you make at that job, the one staring at your sister's chest.

Dino is Greek, can't you tell?  He blogs about it constantly.  He's been to every Greek place in town and always writes a review afterward.  He's a harsh critic, my nemesis.  He takes points away for infractions like 'lamb a bit pink on the inside' and 'out of ketchup.'  Go ahead; go on a date with him.  It's his treat at The Acropolis.  Watch him pat the hostess' bottom and slip her a fiver on route to his 'favorite table.'  He'll order for you and insist you 'gotta try the ouzo at this place.'  No, don't roll your eyes when he asks if you've 'read any Socrates.'  Try to be patient when he sends 'this garbage' back to the kitchen and asks for 'some actual Greek food this time.'  That's just Dino being Dino.

Whatever you do, don't ask Dino to locate Greece on a map.

It's safe to engage Dino in conversation, but don't be surprised when he whips out his blackberry and interrupts your story with, 'sorry, just gotta check on my capital gains real quick.'

Dino is 5' 3" but insists it's a solid 5' 8 3/4".

He universally addresses men as 'brah'

He universally addresses women as 'babe.'

Dino had a tryout for an indoor soccer team in 2006.  You can read all about it on his blog.  Five years later he trolls the over 30 soccer leagues of Cleveland.  His fake ID has satisfied officials that he meets the league's minimum age requirement.

Active ponytail
Here he is advising an opponent to 'stick to softball' after scoring his 12th goal of the game.  There he is belittling a teammate for not making the extra pass.  The referee?  The incompetent should give his $15 dollars back, if you ask Dino.  No, Dino does not want to go out for drinks after the game; he demands that the team abstain from alcohol during the season.

Dino has two nipple rings.

You may be surprised to learn that my arch rival campaigned for Obama, the candidate whose bumper sticker he deemed would score him the 'most tail.'  Be careful!  Whatever you do, don't let him seduce you.  He'll tell you anything to get in your pants, but believe me, no matter what you may read on his blog, Dino does not:

love the Indigo Girls

want to paint you

adore children

meditate daily

worship his mother

own a Greek island

If you should chance upon Dino in the future, please do not let on that you know me or my whereabouts.  My rival can be quite the clever devil, but for now I'd like to keep the upper hand.