Monday, January 30, 2006
Monday Lite: Serving Size = 1/2 Cup
Something occurred to me today as I was sitting down at breakfast.

Image hosting by PhotobucketIf the Cap'n were to take off his hat, what would happen? He'd lose his eyebrows completely for a start. Although the shadowing does suggest that they exist independently of the hat-material floating in space. And the eyes themselves, well, they could go either way. I don't know if they're attached to the top of the nose and rest outside the front of the hat or if they're attached to the lower brim of the hat and simply rest on the bridge of the nose but either way, they are clearly not in any way fixed into sockets.

Apparently he's got white hair, but with all the crazy geometry going on, I'm not so sure his skull doesn't just stop right there where the hat begins.

The shape and cut of that collar is something else as well. Perhaps the unorthodox placement of his eyes counteracts the potential peripheral-vision problem one would normally associate with a solid wall of material from one's shoulder to their temples. The only real conclusion one can reach is that the collar is designed to hide something. Perhaps a scar or a hickey or a tattoo or something. Maybe young Ensign Crunch was horribly disfigured by the knife of an overly amorous senior seaman below decks when he initially fought off his advances; perhaps the collar covers his ears because he has no ears, cut off as a warning to other young swabbies who would dare defy the future Cap'n's nemesis and his deep, sea-borne hunger for the touch of supple young flesh.

That preposterous mustache growing directly out of his nostrils is so obviously false; this is a man with something to hide. He's clearly got stories to tell. How'd he lose his fifth finger on his right hand? Does he have a left hand at all? What's with the speech impediment preventing him from saying the word "captain"?

No, he sits there, smiling, shilling for the Quakers and their peacenik hippie cereal, gorging himself on milk and milled corn trying to stuff the pain down while cutting the fuck out of his gums and palate. He accepts the pain as both a reminder of past trauma and as a rebuke for the worthlessness he feels as a living, breathing two-dimensional... thing.

Oh, I curse the riddle with no answer...

Who are you, Cap'n?

This post on the Narcissus Scale: 9.6 (in the end, this is only a "what I had for breakfast" post)



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