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Worldwide Ace » Toonzone: The Gated Community

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Toonzone: The Gated Community

15 September, 2003 (18:22) | Creativity

I love cartoons. I have everything from The Emperor’s New Groove to Spongebob to Cowboy Bebop: The Movie to Scooby Doo on DVD. But my favorite animation is the stuff found on Adult Swim. I love it so much, I spend at least 30 minutes a day on a message board at http://forums.toonzone.net reading through all the posts.

Last night, Toonzone was called a Gated Community on one of the filler cards on Adult Swim. This spawned a whole discussion of what that meant. This is what I thought it was…

I actually like the idea of a gated community, and I’ll tell you why…

7:00 AM, Daddy walks out onto the lawn, deftly avoiding the sprinklers and, smiling at his neighbors in their name brand slippers and robes just like his, he grabs his imported New York Times that’ll he’ll retreat into the dining room with and read over his coffee and pancakes.

8:00 AM, Daddy pulls out of the driveway in synch with the neighborhood, smiling and waving at his wife and 2.3 kids, the perfect nuclear family, and heads to another day at a job he’s been trained to do.

8:30 AM, Mommy slips lunches of Peanut Butter and Jelly and Bologna sandwiches into the children’s knapsacks give them sweet kisses on the cheeks. The boys skip of to school, smiling and trying to hide the pain of the beatings they got last night because Daddy had been drinking while the girls all gather at the street corner to gossip as they hurry to school.

9:00 AM, the Milkman comes and fills up the empties, giving Mommy a little extra cream, if you know what I mean.

11:00 AM, the postman rings twice for his special delivery, if you know what I mean.

3:00 PM, school lets out and the boys come running home to grab their mitts and bats and then sneak off to the video game arcade to spend the money they stole from Grandma before church on Sunday. The girls wander over to the high school, where they give out “favors” to the football players behind the field house for leftover lunch money and a possible date later. A few boys slink off to study Islam so they can properly rebel during teen hood.

5:30 PM, the garage slides open and a tired Daddy strains to smile at Mommy as he contemplates pulling out the gun he bought with his NRA club membership discount at Harold’s Gun Emporium (you know Harold’s… their slogan is “if you need to shoot something, we can help!”) from the glove compartment and filling his lying, cheating, good-for-nothing, can’t-cook-worth-crap wife with lead before suffocating himself with carbon-monoxide poisoning. He doesn’t because he’s afraid the neighbors might hear and what would they think.

6:00 PM, the kids have come home and are washing up for dinner (some of the girls are doing laundry), which will be late again because Mommy burned the soufflé again when she got distracting thinking about how she could successfully transplant the mailman’s penis onto her husband without serious repercussions. Daddy is upstairs cleaning himself up and staring into the mirror with a handful of pills wondering if it would be easier that way and if crazy people were well taken care of in asylums.

6:30 PM, dinner is finally served, and besides being slightly burned and the chicken being dry, the conversation isn’t bad, though the kids have picked up on the subtle hints about divorce, affairs, gay rape in prison, and one of the Disney mascots getting pregnant during their last trip to Orlando. Daddy starts yelling about how he wants to go live with his other wife in Vegas and Mommy starts screaming at Daddy that he needs to join the hair club for men or maybe the dick club for men, oh wait, he’s already a member of that one. The kids begin to cry, but Mommy and Daddy yell at them to shut up and threaten to hit them if they don’t before everyone finishes the meal in silence.

7:00 PM, with dinner and the dishes done, Mommy and Daddy go into the living room where Mommy reads her romance novels and sips her martini and Daddy watches the evening news and sips shot glass after shot glass of bourbon with a dash of chambord to taste. Mommy occasionally mutters something like “suitcase” or “Reno,” but when Daddy asks “what?” she merely responds “nothing” and then slightly more quietly “cock.” Meanwhile, the kids slink upstairs where the girl slips out her window to go lose her virginity to the QB, but makes sure to grab a first aid kit for the bleeding she’s heard so much about, and the boy takes a long cold shower because he still feels dirty from the rousing game of Lone Ranger the priest played with him in the confessional on Sunday.

11:00 PM, by now, the streets are empty, the kids, though they’re supposed to be asleep, have snuck down to the living room where they turn on Cartoon Network and watch AS while thinking up annoying posts that will aggravate the haughty old fogies on the Toonzone message board they go to and think that since they can laugh and enjoy this programming which their parents deny them so much, they can wait a few more days before stabbing their parents and running off to prostitute themselves in the nearest major city. Upstairs, Mommy and Daddy have turned on their smaller TV which they keep up there so Daddy isn’t aggravated by the incessant playing of The Little Mermaid and The Lion King and turn to Cartoon Network where they watch AS and formulate uber-intellectual posts that will belittle those annoying youngsters on the Toonzone message board they go to and think that since they can laugh and enjoy this adult programming in their slightly to raging drunk state that they can avoid locking their kids in the car, pushing it into a lake to drown them, and running off to the Caribbean with their “secret” lovers.

See, the truth about a gated community is that they’re the same as any white trash trailer park or twisted back alley apartment building, the difference being that all the dirty little secrets are hidden behind white picket fences, Mary Kaye cosmetics, and pristine smiles that shine so bright, you can’t see the suicidal depression that’s so blatantly in their eyes. So before you go calling us elite, keep that in mind.

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