There is something to the fact that all of those slurs in panel three are the kinds of things that one might come up with if they felt they’d gotten the raw end of a deal and were looking for someone other than themselves to blame for their misfortune.
Yes, in this comic I proclaim my belief that Spider-Man has radioactive blood. If you care to argue this point, I will have to entreat you to listen, refer to you as “Bud,” then draw your attention to the theme song of the ’60s Spider-Man cartoon, which bolsters my point.
Also, yes, this comic makes a pretty strong anti-Trump statement. If you’re offended, I’ll point out that I wrote the comic in 2012, three years before he announced he was running for president. That at least proves that my position has remained consistent. And, I mean, really, his casino went bankrupt. A CASINO! The one business where people literally come in and give you money without getting anything back in return.
That’s two Buffalo wing comics in a row. The irony is that I’m not actually that fond of wings. The fried chicken is really just a substrate for the parts I do like: the sauce and the breading.
If only someone would come up with a product that was all sauce and breading. Some sort of buffalo dumpling, perhaps. It would never sell. Nobody’s going to buy, and then eat, “Buffalo dumplings.” It sounds like a euphemism. I don’t know what for, but nothing good.
I didn’t live in Phoenix when I wrote this. Now I do, and I have a greater understanding of what a society run by retirees would be like. Living forever might sound nice, but be aware, you will spend that eternity eating dinner at 4:30 PM.
This one’s based on a real conversation, one in which I was in the wrong. Working at a theme park, you get really familiar with hand sanitizer. I know a lot of people don’t like the stuff, but I suggest you spend a work day touching things that have been touched by thousands of strangers in just the last hour. You will learn to appreciate hand sanitizer.
While I was working there, stories began to surface that the alcohol in some sanitizers could be absorbed through the skin and affect the user as if they’d been drinking. I am skeptical, but the possibility did nothing to curb any of my coworkers’ use of the stuff.
For the record, the items MacraMayhem carries on his back are two giant knitting needles and a crochet hook. I considered having knitting needles come out of the backs of his wrists like Wolverine’s claws, but that would have been genuinely menacing, and for one of my villains, that is unacceptable.
The Pepper’s Ghost illusion was originally used by charlatans to make people think they were looking at the dead, brought back as ghosts, which don’t exist. Now charlatans use the Pepper’s Ghost illusion to make people think they’re looking at the dead, brought back as 3D holographic projections, WHICH ALSO DON’T EXIST!
When we were kids, my younger brother developed a diabolical strategy for winning at Monopoly. If I asked if he wanted to play, he’d say yes, but only if I would set up the board. I’d carefully count out $1500 per player in various denominations and organize the deeds so that the banker (me) would have an easier time later on.
When the game was ready, my brother would look at the board, say, “You know what? Naw. I don’t feel like it.” Then he’d go outside.
Yeah, technically we didn’t play the game, but I can tell you, as I sat there, putting all of the bills away, I didn’t feel like a winner.
In my experience, most of the time, when someone says, “Well, if it’d been me, I woulda . . .” they should be saying, “Well, based on the limited information I have, sitting here, safely removed from any consequences, I like to think that in that situation I woulda . . .”
Ninety-nine percent of the time they’re just bragging about what a badass they imagine themselves to be.
One of the few exceptions to this that leaps to mind is a comic I knew a long time ago who was driving stoned, and rear-ended someone on the way to a gig. They guy he rear-ended was cool about it and just exchanged insurance information without calling the cops or mentioning the still-lit joint in the comedian’s ashtray.
Everyone who heard the story agreed that the guy had been very kind. The comedian who rear-ended him agreed, and said if it’d been him who got rear-ended he’d have immediately faked a whiplash injury and threatened to call the cops unless the guy forked over a huge amount of money as quickly as he could get to an ATM.
The Christmas-themed tie is the most useless gift I can think of. Even if you find the rare one that an adult would actually want to wear, and you give it to someone who dresses formally and would be of a mind to put on a Christmas-themed tie, if you give it to them for Christmas, they won’t have any rational opportunity to wear it for at least 11 months.
Fart candles are a thing. Sometimes I think we might be ready for an asteroid to come and shake our Etch-A-Sketch.
Anyway, if the deodorant industry is to be trusted, fart smells don’t appeal to men any more than flowers. No, if they want to sell candles to men, they should come in “Cool Wave,” “Arctic Blast,” and “Fresh” scents.
Back when I had my office job, we used to have these little hour-long socials at the end of every Thursday. During one of them I was talking to a couple of my geekier coworkers about the casting news coming out of the film they were making at the time of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I mentioned that they got Alan Rickman to do the voice of Marvin, which I thought was brilliant. A coworker standing all the way across the room, talking to someone else, shouted over at me, interrupting my conversation and calling all of the attention in the room to our exchange. Here’s what everyone heard us say to eachother.
Him: Who’d they get?
Me: Alan Rickman.
Him: Who’s he playing?
Him: What’s this in?
Me: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
Him: What’s that?
Me: Man, why do I even talk to you?!
I lived in Orlando for many years, and never went to Medieval Times. It seems strange, given how much time I’ve spent writing about a highly fictionalized Medieval England. It’s just that if beer, roasted chicken, macho posturing, and the smell of horse poop had appealed to me I probably would have never left farm country.
That said, when we first moved to Orlando, there was a lower-cost non-name-brand alternative to Medieval Times that went out of business. Its former building, an extremely fake-looking faux castle, just sat there gathering dust for years. Missy and I talked more than once what kind of crazy home could have been made inside that shell.
I based this comic on a coworker. I noticed myself tensing up and being defensive whenever I had to interact with him. I looked around and saw that everybody else did the same thing, and as such, every person that coworker ever dealt with at work was tense and defensive. To him, it must have seemed like the whole world was tense and defensive.
I made an effort to be looser and more friendly the next time I talked to him. Not surprisingly, he made me regret it.
I had the goatee long before I started losing my hair. I grew it because of Blackadder II. I figured if facial hair could make Rowan Atkinson look dashing, it was worth a shot.
The first time many of my relatives saw me with the beard was at my paternal grandmother’s funeral, in something like 1993. At the gathering after the service one of my cousins gave me a hard time about it. I proclaimed that my facial hair was the future, and that eventually, many of his friends would have the same facial hair. I am proud to say that I was right.
If that seems like an inappropriate conversation for me to get embroiled in at my grandmother’s post-funeral gathering, you should know it was catered with the contents of her fridge and freezer, and my aunts and uncles were all around my cousin and I, divvying up grandmother’s stuff, arguing over picture frames, and pulling up chunks of her carpet.