Wonderful Horrible Smells

I think the one on the right is Cajun, and the one on the left is from the Tennessee.

But maybe they’re just flies and ‘horrible’ isn’t the same word in their language. Like “Oooh, that feels horrible, do it again.” or “Oooh this shit tastes horrible, is there any left?”

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Ho -- Her Name Is Ho

You remember those pulp fiction porno periodicals from the old days? Those cheap, well-worn mags full of sexy stories that were all created by guys who didn’t actually have sex? There were tons of titles out there (I said titles). Great stories poorly written. Girls saying dumb shit guys want to hear, dumb shit girls never say. Girls getting paddled for being bad (I was actually paddled often for being bad; I don’t see the appeal). You ‘member? You ‘member.

I certainly remember. Those were the golden years of my pubic metamorphism. I broke out of my childish cocoon little head first reading those stories (never you mind where I found them). Sure pictures are fine too, but reading has always held that clear picture with me in it, where I get to play Cockmaster 3000 and drive the fast car and rescue the non-English speaking girl fresh off the boat then have her feign embarrassment because she is—get this—too wet. Pfft.

I found this website that has a hoarder-grade collection of these old pulp fiction covers. They’re absolutely fantastic. You’ll piss away a whole day trying to get through them. They’re not all smut titles (I said titles) but most of them have a bit of the old wink wink nudge nudge in them. They were the inspiration for this weeks panel. I should go ahead and write that book…

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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.