Saturday, September 22, 2012

A Truth Too Monstrous To Comprehend

General Halftrack moments before he disappeared. In all subsequent daily strips, the General was played by the leader singer of a popular Beetle Bailey cover band recruited in secret. Readers never discovered the truth until it was revealed in an episode of Behind The Laughter that aired in 2015.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Your Handy Guide To The SCOTUS Fuck-up On Obamacare

The Conscience of a Liberal

After dipping, he's going to make you taste it
“Awake!” Paul yelled, after a few seconds of tugging on Ezra’s chain and receiving no response.

“Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D demands that you awake!”

Matt looked up from the opposite side of the chaise lounge, his sad beard dripping. He had fallen asleep in his water bowl again. Soon he felt the yank of his own chain.

“Matthew! Wake up, Matthew! Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D demands that you see why Ezra will not attend me!”

Matt pulled himself of the cushion he slept on. The morning was already hot and the leather pouch Paul let him wear was already filled with sweat. Matt sniffed the air cautiously. He smelled old chicken salad and death. Edging around the flailing bulk of Paul, he could see Erza face down on the patio, his bare ass presented to the sky.

“Dr. Krugman,” Matt ventured, “I think something is wrong with Ezra.”

“Wake him. Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D demands his morning pail of mimosas.”

Matt nudged Ezra’s side with his foot. Ezra toppled over, a thin river of blood, shit and semen dribbling out of his gaping asshole.

“Dr. Krugman, I think he’s dead.”

“Nonsense. Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D never told him he could die. Quickly, Matthew bring Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D his computer. Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D  must blog about this tragic failure of the disgusting  American for-profit health care system before the Supreme Court rules! SCOTUS must know! Damn you, Scalia!”

Matt found the laptop, half-buried under the pile of empty Chardonnay bottles, fast food wrappers, squeezed-out lube tubes, and raw cookie dough hunks melting in the merciless sun that was always piled up next to Paul. Matt made no move to clean them up. Paul would just scream at him if he removed it before his questing fingers scraped the last of the cookie dough from the deck.

Paul grabbed the laptop from Matt greedily and balanced it on his distended, hairy stomach. The computer slid off and Matt caught it.

“Sweaty. Damn this heat! Matthew! Remind Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D to write another column about the global climate change crisis! Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D must find away to get through to those rednecks and fucking teabaggers that it shouldn’t be hot in late June. We are doomed, Matt! Doomed! Take the bus! Matthew! Buy Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D an electric limo. Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D demands an electric limo!”

“Dr. Krugman, should I call an ambulance for Ezra?”

“Most certainly not. An ambulance trip costs, what three, four million dollars? Just roll him off the side of the deck. The poor and the downtrodden of the city can find a use for every part of him, like when dear Elizabeth dresses a buffalo.”

“Whatever you say, Dr. Krugman.”

“And where are Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D’s mimosas? You know He must write! Only He can save this country!”

“Right away, Dr. Krugman.”

“Wait, Matthew. My darling Matthew. First call UC Santa Cruz and find a replacement for Ezra. Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D is sure they have someone as honest and loyal and intelligent and thin and beautiful as he was in the student body. Have him brought to Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D immediately!”

Matt scurried off to find a telephone, his chains clanking, bare feet slapping on the rooftop. Quietly, too quietly to be heard over the furious hammering of Paul’s typing, the bruised lips of Ezra whispered, “Go Banana Slugs.”

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Classin' Up The Joint

Leda And The Swan
William Butler Yeats

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.

Being so caught up,

So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

A Bad Idea Whose Time Has Come

An Immoderate Man for Moderate Times.

(Live Free or Diet with the slogan assist.)

Monday, February 6, 2012

Thursday, January 12, 2012

"The Whole World Will Know My Name!"

“You know I want to,” Harold said, turning away, “but it feels wrong.”

Ricky, reclining nude, leaned forward and gently caught Harold’s earlobe in his teeth and then began to suckle it. Harold closed his eyes and groaned. Ricky’s hand ground into Harold’s half-hard penis through the thick denim of his jeans. He let go of Harold’s earlobe and whispered into his ear, “Harold, oh Harold. We can do whatever we want. We are adults. We can make decisions for ourselves.” His breath was hot in Harold’s ear, tongue moist as it darted in and out, a promise.

“Can’t we just do it with our hands?” Harold pleaded. He was weakening, his protest becoming feeble as his penis grew harder. Ricky undid the button of Harold’s jeans and slipped his hand inside, unzipping with his thumb as he went. The dorm room was dark, a chair pushed up under the door knob. Harold’s roommate was gone for the weekend, but it was stupid to take chances.

“I can’t put a baby in you, Harold. Stop being such a girl. It’s 1977 and we can do what we want.” Ricky stroked Harold’s erection quickly, and then bent to lick off the milky pearl of Cowper’s fluid that formed. Harold shifted his dancer’s hips and let Ricky pull of his jeans and underwear.

“Just don’t hurt me, Ricky,” Harold said, turning over. On all fours, he looked back a Ricky, expectant and afraid, his cow eyes glistening in the dark.

“Just relax. I went to Catholic school. I know what I’m doing.”

As soon as Ricky slipped his penis in, Harold ejaculated forcefully, shuddering and moaning.

“Yeah, you like that, cunt?” Ricky grunted, thrusting. “You like it when I fuck your cunt? Yeah. You like getting your cunt fucked? You fucking whore. Stop fucking crying, you goddamn pansy. Faggot. Faggot whore!” Ricky fell over backwards onto the filthy rug.

While Harold struggled to his feet and pulled on a robe, Ricky pawed through his own jeans that were puddled on the floor. Harold pulled the chair away from the door and stumbled out of the room, the light from the hallway slashing across Ricky . Ricky lit the joint he found, and stared at the ceiling. Harold came back in as he was almost finished. Harold lay down beside him and Ricky passed him the joint.

“How does this work,” Harold asked, “Do I do you next?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ricky said, yawning. “I’m not a faggot like you. I don’t take it in the ass.”

“Fair’s fair,” Harold whined.

“Shut up, Harold. I got big dreams and being a faggot like you isn’t one of them.” Harold began to sob. Ricky ignored him. “I’m going to find some dumb bitch to marry and pump her full of kids. I’m gonna be lawyer. Maybe go into politics. This country needs somebody like me to set commie faggots like you straight.”

Harold’s sobs became low laughter, rising steadily in volume. Ricky sat up, and began pulling on his clothes. Harold was howling with laughter by the time he got dressed.

“What’s so goddamn funny?” Ricky asked.

Through the peals of laughter, Harold managed, “You’ll never be anybody. No one’s ever going to take you seriously.”

“Why not, faggot?” Ricky kicked him in the leg.

“Your name,” Harold managed, “Your stupid name.”

“Yeah, yeah. Everybody laughs. But I’m going to change it. And faggots like you won’t ever laugh at me again."

With a final kick, Ricky Cumfart stormed out of Harold’s room.