Glorp Gum

Admittedly, the artwork on this site is a kind of pathetic. I did tell you I was classically untrained. I don't care too much though; I don't have a complex about it; it's just cartoons; nobody pays me to do this (nobody actually even sees it). But the cartoons are the gist of this blog; my hobby. So I surf other cartooners (legit word) and sometimes I stumble across a source with art so good it pisses me off. In particular, it pisses me off that mine is so bad by comparison (It's fine if you think it's bad without the comparison--you dick).

Enter Glorp Gum Company, my latest source of pained reverence. Visit the store to see the artwork. Visit the whole site, there are fabulous illustrations everywhere. Buy some stuff. Buy me some stuff.

Brad McGinty, master illustrator of all things Glorp has this very stylized way of drawing that just makes me ache with envy. He hijacked (purchased) the "Glorp" brand and the style from the 70's, a decade I'm still certain will never be cool again (stoopid polyester bell-bottom pants), but you don't need to be a pioneer of a style to be a master of it. I love love love this guy's work. It's reminiscent of old underground comix like The Checkered Demon, which is clearly a product of psychedelic hallucinogenic pharmaceutical nuggets shaken in one hand and then eaten like bar nuts.

All that being said, and given my unbreakable attachment to the Sucky Seventies and given my admiration for this kooky style of art, I submit to you this poor, poor attempt...

 ...at softcore portoonography (also a legit word).

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Married

Why are we even still doing this?

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Cornbread

That's Cornbread. I'm married to Cornbread for thirty years now. I call her Cornbread because her tastes in food are very narrow. She eats like a toddler: chicken nuggets, and mac and cheese (I'm tempted to put her in a high chair when it's time to eat). I like loose Cheerios, hotdogs cut into pieces, and a good box of cheesy what-what as much as the next guy--but I like other stuff too.

I was raised on the coast. I like fish. She was raised in the boxed dinner aisle at the Kroger. She don't eat fish unless it's the filet-o kind served by a red-haired clown with a side of fries. All the panels above are her response to, "Honey, red snapper is on sale at the HEB. Whataya say? A nice piece of fish?" She makes a face like she smells a dog fart, then puts on her Hulk voice:

"TWO INGREDIENTS, PERDUE! ONLY TWO! NOODLE AND CHEESE! VERY EASY! NOODLE! CHEESE!"

Since I married Cornbread I don't get no fish.

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Rim Job

Seriously -- what's a rim job?
Asking for a friend.


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Mosey

The difference is ever so subtle.

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Wash Up

There is more on this subject, if you care that much about flygene. Get it? Flygene?

...nevermind.

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Operator

So call now. Operators are standing by .

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Buckle Down

Dirt Cup, my first born son, sent me a picture of a belt buckle. The buckle had what looked like a cross between an A4 and a T45 on it; like a jet in a coloring book. And it had "NAVY" printed on the fuselage. This buckle he presented was a custom piece, I could tell by the tool marks in the artwork. And it belonged to a pilot, an attack pilot, to be specific, it said so on the buckle; an announcement at the entrance of his pants. Pilots are like that, they can't wait to tell you they are pilots. I don't know why they don't just wear their fucking helmets full time, walking around like gang of cue balls wearing sunglasses. If Dirt Cup had been writing this post he would have led with that info: "I'm a pilot." That's probably all he would have written, and if I asked why, he would say, "what else needs to be said?" They're all insulting, arrogant drunks.

But I digress...

The belt buckle.
He wanted something of a similar design to the picture he sent me, a belt buckle custom to his profession. Well, Dirt Cup is a Marine and he doesn't fly a coloring book jet. And he didn't want any of that Navy shit on his buckle. But he definitely wants the part about being an attack pilot (*shotguns beer*throws can at girl*). So I came up with this:

The top ribbon on the buckle will have the term "DIRT CUP" embossed and centered. The bottom ribbon will have embossed "ATTACK PILOT". I'm assuming if Dirt Cup meets a midget and they didn't notice the fucking helmet on his fat head, they can look to his belt buckle and know this guy is about to shotgun a beer and throw the can .

 

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Bonus movie opening:

INT. BAR:

Shitty disco music plays over loud speakers. The bar is packed with a noisy, mingling crowd. Lots of Filipino women and dumpy sailors mill about. DIRT CUP leans against the bar with a long neck beer bottle dangling from his hand. A GIRL slips up to the bar to order a drink.

DIRT CUP
I'm DIRT CUP.

New Year

Mid way through 2018 I quit the news; I threw that shit away. It's nothing more than unimportant gossip and frivolous screeching "LOOK! LOOK! LOOK WHAT HE SAID! LOOK WHAT HE DID! COVFEFE!!". I still read headlines daily (so you better make them count), but I recognize there's nothing of import; nothing of real substance; the whole process takes me five minutes. Biggest news of 2018? The fed coming off of that prime rate of zero(ish) percent life support it's been on for a decade. The economy is fucking roaring. But you have to look for that news; it doesn't lead despite it's importance. Beyond that its just unbridled, hate, excessive admiration, and an army of attention whores.

*Hang with me. I'm going somewhere with this.

I remember when I first got on facebook. I was blown away. In the year leading up to facebook, if you asked me how many people I know I would have guessed forty, maybe fifty. Well it turns out I know about ten times that many. I actually know them. Grade school, Marines, college, work in Los Angeles, Memphis, Austin; I have facebook friends from every phase of my life. In the beginning I was overwhelmed. Well now I'm underwhelmed. I'm glad I made some connections, and not so glad about others (there's a cat-killer lurking there and I had almost overcome that horrible event). Now that platform is a distraction. In fact, all of them are distractions. And news that I loathe to hear sneaks in at me through social media. I don't want it. So I'm throwing that shit away too.

It's a new year. I'm going to read more books, draw more shitty cartoons, write more uninteresting, self-serving diatribes that no one reads, build more furniture. I'm going to watch more Netflix and Hulu. I'm going to ride my bike. I'm not going to stare at my phone; the screen is dark right now and I can see that greasy, single-finger swipe running right down the middle of it. You can look at your phone if you want to, but if you do it while you're sitting across from me, I'll fart in my hand and throw it at your face.


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Flies and Soup

So, what now?

cp