Thankfully, though, I finally faced the hard truth that all hoarders should realize. Posterity (or a future archeologist) doesn’t place any value on old Halloween costumes, video props, VHS tapes, old stag 8MM films, various scraps of drawing paper, neuro-linguistics training cassettes, broken electronics, or the collection of random cables and chargers to connect said broken electronics.

Looking at all those boxes, I decided it was time for some serious Swedish death cleaning. “Let Go, Let God,” as they say, which ironically presents a whole other philosophical debate when spoken by an atheist seeking to toss out old rubbish.

While wading through the boxes, I discovered one small dust-covered box. It was a collection of comics created when I was 14-23 years old. I thought I lost all these 3 moves ago, but here they were, paper and ink reminders of a young artist’s early cogitations.

Sure, they’re horribly drawn, half-assed comics with barely coherent concepts, yet being the shameless fool that I am, I submit these for your amusement (or horror) to get a glimpse into the early foundations of an artist.

Looking back at these now, if I had a time machine, I probably would travel back to drop all this art nonsense and become a plumber. But alas, no sense in crying over spilled ink.

The Rotten Teenager Years

Here’s a collection of cartoons created when I was 14 to 18 years old. You can see that I studied wayyyyy too many Mad and National Lampoon magazines. Also, there’s a heavy dose of Socialist and Anarchist ideologies, which I guess came from my love of punk rock music.

These would have been much better if I had spent as much time studying spelling and grammar. For crying out loud! I was too lazy to pick up a dictionary to learn how to spell Beaurocracy…er…I mean, Bureaucracy? Agh, teenagers.

Speaking of anarchists, one of my first published cartoons (Andy Anarchy) appeared in the “Fifth Estate,” which was a U.S. anarchist-anti-capitalism paper, based in Detroit, Michigan. I think I submitted to it upon seeing its listing in an old Artist’s Market Guide compendium at my local library. (Oh, those crafty kids and their well-stocked libraries!) My second published cartoon (Smut Banning) appeared in my local hometown paper, The Star Gazette, long before they were taken over by the lousy Gannett group.

My parents laughed about that one. Although I vaguely recall that while attending church, my Dad had to disavow any knowledge of “some rotten cartoonist that shared the same last name.”

After reviewing this batch of adolescent applesauce, I’m sure you agree with my 12th-grade math teacher, Mrs. Fisher, who, upon seeing my art (or mostly my math homework), used to proclaim, “Eegads and little fishies!”

Go west, Young Man…Just Go, Will Ya?

Somehow, despite these poor attempts at political cartoons and commentary, my folks still encouraged me to continue my pursuit of becoming an artist.

My guess is they urged me to attend college as a ruse to get my “nogoodnik” ass out of their house. Unluckily for them, I stuck around for a couple of years, attending community college and playing in rock bands.

Eventually, I “shuffled off to Buffalo.” The University of Buffalo’s art program, to be more exact.

Here are some cartoons from that time.

You can see that my art abilities are progressing slightly. Although the progress was slowed, due to my penchant for beer drinking and various rock band forays.

Note the comic about playing in bands in Elmira, NY. The old man featured in the comic was the infamous Walsh Maholick, owner of the greasy restaurant and bar, Maholick’s, which had a stage that all the top Elmira bands fought over. Why, I have no idea, since the acoustics in that place were really awful.

There are also a couple of examples of the cartoons that I got published in the UB campus newspaper. That was fun while it lasted. I got dropped after one of my comics offended almost everyone on campus. I don’t have a copy of that cartoon, which is probably a good thing since it was a really poor attempt at satire. (Not that any of these included examples are award winners! Oy Gavolt!)

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I hope these samples of ink-soaked silliness didn’t horrify you too much. I thought from a purely biographical approach some of you would find them humorous.

I’m promise I’ll be back with some truly well-crafted comic hilarity next week.

However, as I mentioned previously, I’m shameless and not afraid this week to suffer the slings and arrows for my misguided artful(less?) past. Feel free to string your bows and start aiming.

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One should never be afraid to admit to one’s own idiocy. Especially when you can get a cheap laugh from self-deprecating humor.

This failure in admitting to your own asinine qualities is a huge problem with the United States, if not the world. Too many folks would rather be arrogantly and pridefully wrong than admit to their own imbecilic shortcomings.

Obviously, this explains the chowderhead mindsets in our government, as well as the TechBro oligarchs. All of them think they’re endowed with some magical higher wisdom, when in fact, they’re all morons. The only reason they’ve risen to such great heights is because there’s so damn many even dumber suckers on this planet.

How else do you explain all those books and guides for Dummies and Idiots?

I’m also convinced this is why aliens have avoided any contact with Humanity.

I mean, seriously, if you were them, would you want to stop at the Universe’s equivalent of a vermin infested, poorly managed, brawling-patron-filled Waffle House?

I think it was Eramus of Rotterdam who correctly summed up humanity with his quote, “In the land of the nincompoop, the half-brained man is king.”

Hmm, I might have gotten that quote wrong since, after all, I’m an idiot.

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The attached painting was based on a person I saw while attending a hotel Thanksgiving buffet last year. Honest to God, this man looked like a character from a Tin Tin cartoon. Maybe there was a Belgian comic convention in town and I didn’t get the invite. But whatever was the case, this man, who trounced around the hotel dining room in a large blue military trench coat, with his bushy jet black eyebrows and a matching untrimmed cookie duster mustache were truly fantastic. His facial hair was counter balanced the shock of white hair that topped his head. If ever there was a character to paint, he was it! As for the background, such a person required a mysterious setting.

Once I finished the image and after a few months of staring at it, I was inspired to create the following short story.

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Faustus Leandro kept his breathing shallow during his morning inspection of the necropolis. Either the fog rolling off the Targus River was acrid and foul, or the crematorium was dispatching a few customers this morning.

The latter was the more likely, since he didn’t get any air quality warnings of it being higher than their usually toxic levels. Then again, over the last decade, the government has been less than consistent with releasing daily reports.

Faustus suspected they were trying to hide the true nature of the dangers in the air. Ever since the end of the US-Chino war they stopped including radiation levels and atmospheric pressures in the reporting. Given how many nukes were released in that war, it was foolish to think the atmosphere lacked residual radiation.

Faustus continued on his walk.

It was quiet and desolate wandering through the mausoleums and above-ground crypts. Other people’s fear of mortality compels them to avoid traipsing around in burial grounds, but Faustus found them to be comforting, solemn reminders that the chaos and pain of life is only a fleeting moment in the infinite.

Within these walls of Cemitério do Alto de São João he found an escape from the mayhem of a collapsing civilization. There were no man-made catastrophes, no food riots, no oil or water wars, no babies crying from hunger.

The only disruptions were the occasional grieving and wailing of mourners.

The quietude of this place was what initially brought Faustus here for walks. For years it was a routine that helped him to deal with the crumbling of the world. This was especially true after he was replaced at his pipe-fitting job by the AIx-37, the latest automaton that quickly took over all manual labor.

But instead of fixating on humanity’s dwindling usefulness, Faustus chose to distract his mind by observing the lost art and architecture of the sepulchers.

This cemitério held the best examples of those in all of Lisbon.

Such as the Viscount of Valmor mausoleum, with its bold angles and ornate cornice befitting the royal bones tucked inside, the mausoleum of Commander João Ferreira dos Santos with its blue marble Roman columns pointing up to the statue topping the dome that is his wife standing with arms open wide in grief at his death; or the Mateo Benito Garcia family mausoleum whose edifice is a combination of Rococo inspired stonework fronted by an Art Deco ironwork entrance. These were just a small sample of the visual delights to be found in this burial place.

Faustus had spent almost ten years meandering and gazing at these memorials. He had traversed this place so often that he’d memorized the locations and names of the inhabitants and thought of them as fond silent friends.

However, for the last three years, these morning walks had become part of his assumed duties as self-appointed caretaker of Cemitério do Alto de São João. The original caretaker, Javier, left after being informed that the city was bankrupt and could no longer pay his stipend.

When Javier relayed the bad news to Faustus, he mentioned that he’d also have to permanently lock the gates of the cemitério since it would become a target of grave robbers. Faustus shuddered at the possibility of losing access to his ruminative utopia. That’s when he asked Javier if he could volunteer to take over as caretaker.

Javier was happy to oblige the wish. After a brief training on the duties involved—sweeping, trash emptying, crematorium cleaning, and the occasional grass cutting—Faustus was given the keys to the gates.

Faustus remembered what Javier said as he walked through the gates for the last time.

“Today, you can leave on your feet, but eventually you’ll return on your back.”

Faustus snorted at the memory and stepped through the smelly fog.

In a way, he was thankful that the city went bankrupt. While this meant that they couldn’t pay him a stipend, more importantly it meant they also couldn’t afford to place one of those damn AIx-37s here to parade the grounds.

This left him to freely walk amongst the crypts, inspecting each one with a careful eye, as if he were a homeowner scrutinizing a prospective new dwelling.

He noted that some of the above-ground crypts were badly in need of repair. Many had broken windows on the doors from old attempted grave robberies. The curtains on the windows were deteriorating. The faded photos of loved ones hung askew in the crypt entrances. Worst of all, the city’s acrid pollution was taking its toll by eating away at the masonry.

Such was the consequence of human malfeasance at the end of the 21st century, which was closing like a coffin lid on mankind. Humanity had pounded in their fate in just under 100 years with nails made from avarice, gluttony, and hatred.

The cult of Trump sped this along and worked like a cancer to poison the United States with pollution, disease, and war until it became a ruined, irradiated hellscape. Unfortunately, like any cancer, it metastasized and spread its malignancy around the globe.

Unlike the United States, which quickly committed national suicide under the misrule of Trump and his followers, Portugal had managed to hold off for fifty years to avoid the hazards facing the countries who fell to corrupt oligarchs and autocrats.

Portugal, having prior experience with the dangers of dictatorship during the 20th century, resisted nationalist and fascist pushes in its politics longer than many of the members of the EU. Yet eventually, they too fell prey to lies of strongmen when the byproducts of man’s disasters arrived mid-century. People’s good sense in leadership took flight when the seas rose enough to constantly flood Lisbon and the southern coast. By 2070, Portugal had become like the rest of the planet: anarchy and disorder.

Faustus was glad that at least when he was a child, his parents had taken him every summer for visits to the beaches of Faro. At least his memories couldn’t be drowned in 10 meters of sea water.

He tried to pull his mind back to more tranquil thoughts while he strolled the cobblestone paths of the cemitério.

As he rounded the corner of a path and headed towards the tomb of Ary dos Santos, through the mist, he thought he saw a figure sitting on the bench next to the tomb.

As he got nearer, he saw that it was indeed a man sitting the bench. This surprised him since it has now become such a rarity to see visitors, especially when he hasn’t opened the front gates!

The man, who was of dark complexion and rail-thin in build, was dressed in Victorian garb from the late 1800s.

A pair of highly polished, pointed-toe shoes led up to high-waisted, black flannel plaid pants. Above that, a dark grey double-breasted vest encased a fine white silk dress shirt topped with a red cravat. Over it all, he wore a black frock coat, and crowning his head of grey tinged, curly hair was a black silk top hat.

If Faustus didn’t know better, he might have thought that a resident from an old crypt decided to take a morning stroll.

The man stood up from the bench as Faustus walked up. This allowed Faustus to more closely scrutinize the man. He looked to be in his mid-thirties but had somber eyes that expressed an experience that seemed far older.

“Hello Faustus.” The man spoke in an English baritone.

Faustus was taken aback by this. “Uh…Bom dia? Do I know you? How’d you get in here? I haven’t opened the gates yet!”

The man spoke again, although directing his comment in a more reflective mutter: “Ahh, small details. Small details. Why is it people never see the obvious?” He turned his gaze back at Faustus.

“Why, dear Faustus, let me put your mind at ease. My name is Mortimer D. Owuo. I’m here to collect you.”

“Collect?”

“Oh come now, surely a man who has spent so much time perusing the domain of the dead must be able to recognize one of its functionaries?”

Faustus stood there somewhat flabbergasted. He began to think that this man was possibly perpetrating ruse to distract him while a criminal associate was robbing one of the tombs.

“I can assure you that I’m no grave robber, nor do I have an accomplice prowling through the dusty remains of a crypt.”

“How’d you know…” Faustus queried in puzzlement.

“…that was what you were thinking? It’s a simple parlor trick. When you’ve been around as long as I have, it comes naturally, or unnaturally, depending on your view.”

Faustus grew slightly pale as he comprehended the situation. Mortimer then rolled his eyes as if bored.

“Yes, yes, I’m here to do that kind of collecting. I’m what you’d call a grim reaper. Your name came up in my little book, and here I am.”

Mortimer produced a tiny notebook from an inside pocket of his coat and waved it around in the air.

“Now, be a good man and come along.”

Faustus finally found his voice.

“BUT I, I, I’M NOT READY, MISTER REAPER! I FEEL FINE! Fit as a fiddle! All my walking! Good for the coração! Mãe de Deus!” He then thought about his duties and responsibilities to the cemetery as if grasping for an excuse. “Who will oversee this place? There’s nobody else to care for it!”

Mortimer considered the protestations emanating from Faustus.

Mortimer replied,“True, it would be a grave injustice to remove someone who respects and takes great care of these memorials to the deceased.”

Mortimer paused as he looked around. “Hmm. Perhaps there’s a solution I can offer you. Oh, and please call me Mort. It’s less dreadful sounding than all that formal “Mr. Reaper,” “Messier Death,” or “La Santa Muerte” stuff. It gets so tiresome.”

“These last two centuries, I’ve grown weary from my time as a reaper. Man’s capacity to efficiently kill in ever greater numbers has made my job…um…far too…diff…uh…EASY. I could really use a change of careers, like maybe being a cemetery caretaker, for example.”

Faustus realized the bargain the reaper was hinting at. He considered his options: accept the infinite unknown of death or accept a job as a grim reaper. At least with the latter, he could come back here now and then to look in on how the cemitério is being maintained.

Mortimer added, “Don’t worry, I’d take excellent care of this place.”

“Tell me more…uh, Mort, about being a reaper. It seems like a job that may be too large to handle.”

“Oh, not at all! You merely look at the names that appear in your little book, then make sure those people get on their way. There are perks too! Free travel! You get to see the world and meet all kinds of people. Oh sure, they’re either dead or in the process of dying, but still, it’s a great job for those who enjoy helping others.”

“Free travel?” Faustus thought. He was puzzled by that. He wondered if this involved an unlimited Eurail pass. He always wanted to see more of Europe.

“Yes. Free. And no, it doesn’t involve trains, buses, or rideshares.”

Mort’s ability to read minds was starting to annoy Faustus.

“If you want to see how you’ll be getting around, take a look over at the in-ground graves.” Mort then pointed to the field of graves that were behind the tombs on the path.

Faustus could see a large, pale, somewhat bony, white horse wearing a black saddle. It was grazing on the grass growing in that area.

“That’s your ride. Her name is “Despair.” She’s a lovely ride but can have a bit of an attitude if she doesn’t get her fill of graveyard grass.”

“De, de…Despair?” Faustus sputtered. The thought of riding a horse gave him second thoughts about this offer. He’d never ridden a horse in his life and was nervous at the prospect of trotting the globe on this gaunt trotter.

“Pip, Pip, you’ll be fine. I wasn’t much of an equestrian when I first accepted the position either.”

“Wait. You aren’t the original Death?”

“Ha! No, no, no. There’s never been one Death for all humanity. Being a reaper is more like a freelance temp job, except the temp position can last centuries. Also, there’s not just one person handling all of the earth; there are dozens of us. Additionally, some are assigned to handle only certain religions. Trust me, you never want to take a position in the Jehovah’s Witness division, unless you like answering endless inane questions from dead, joyless sad sacks.”

“I once considered moving over to the Hindu or Tibetan divisions since I heard that they don’t do much of anything. But then I saw how much paperwork is involved in processing endless reincarnations! Eeesh. No thanks! I’ll stick with the standard Reaper division. Lots of travel and you get to make your own hours, that is, once you get a handle on meta-multidimensional temporal distortions.”

“Meta-multi what?”

“Don’t be pigeon-livered, Faustus! You’ll do fine! After all, would you prefer to keep living and have an interesting change of careers, or would you rather I cast you off into being just another lump of dust in the wind?”

Despite his misgivings, Faustus preferred the former option.

“Ah! That’s a good fellow!”

More mind reading to annoy Faustus, who tried to speak quicker than he could think in order to stymie Mortimer’s parlor tricks.

“Alright, I accept!” he blurted out. “What do I need to do? Do I need to sign any paperwork in blood?”

“No. There’s none of that. I only need to hand you a couple of items and introduce you to the lovely Despair.”

They started walking over to the mare. Faustus tried to impress upon Mortimer the various duties required to upkeep the cemitério.

“And don’t forget to wash the edifice fronts. Especially after the acid rain. There’s also trimming of ivy. And…”

Mortimer put his arm around Faustus’s shoulder as a way to put him at ease.

“Tut, tut, dear boy, I’ll take great care of this place. Nothing to worry about. I’ve got centuries of experience in the old graveyard biz.”

As they got nearer to the horse, who was happily munching away on the grass of the dead, Mortimer pulled a few items from his pockets.

“Faustus, here are the items that will make you officially a grim reaper. First, we have your book of names.” He handed Faustus the small pocket notebook. “You’ll check this every morning. It will list your itinerary of names and addresses of who you’ll be collecting.”

“This tiny book will hold all the names?” Faustus held it up in curiosity.

“It self-updates. Wondrous bit of magic, heh? Who needs a smartphone when you have a magic notebook! Next, here’s a pencil to check off the names.”

“Is it magic? Does it self-sharpen?”

“No. It’s just a pencil. Don’t overthink it, pal. Also, you also get this: a pocket scythe.”

“Pocket?”

“Ever try riding on a horse while carrying a large scythe? It’s a cumbersome pain in the ass! After a century of complaining, some of the other reapers and I convinced the head office to downsize for better portability. Now when you come to collect a person, you only need to unfold this handy little unit, wave it over their head, and—poof!—their soul travels off to eternity! Easy peasy.”

Faustus was visibly impressed.

“And lastly, it’s time for you to get to know Despair. Dessy old girl, say hello to Faustus. He’ll be your new associate.”

Despair stared down at Faustus. Her eyes gleamed with starlight. She shot small flames from her nose and huffed at him standing there.

“Now, Dessy. Be good. Faustus here just wants to be friends with you.” Mortimer then produced a small burlap bag from his coat pocket.

“I almost forgot to give you these. They’re treats for Dessy. They’ll ensure that she takes an immediate liking to you.”

He handed the bag to Faustus, then gave Dessy a pat on her muzzle.

“Don’t worry, Dessy, my friend. I’ll see you when you visit. I’ll be here.” Mortimer then turned back to Faustus. “If you have any questions, be sure to ask Dessy; she’s a font of knowledge. Au revoir!”

Upon saying that, Mortimer Owuo faded into the mist. Faustus stood there with the mare, who nudged his arm holding the burlap bag.

“I guess we better get more acquainted, heh?” He opened the burlap bag and looked inside.

He grimaced as he pulled forth a rotten human finger and held it in front of the horse. Dessy greedily snatched it from his hand and chomped it down. Afterwards, she trotted in a small circle, made a strong whinny, and turned back to Faustus. She then made a guttural rumble as she cleared her throat.

“Why are you just standing there? Hop up on the saddle. And don’t be stingy with the fingers!”

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I hope you enjoyed that. I welcome any readers to create their own stories to go with my painting. Those that are fabulous, I’ll append to this post!

Cheers,
Ed

Zeke was about as close as my wife and I will ever get to having a son. We raised that boy, showed him the world, trained him, and hopefully made his stay on this Earth highly enjoyable.

But alas, Zeke’s absence has been hard to come to terms with. No walkies, no belly rubs, no watching him perform tricks to get a snack, and no watching him run on the beach.

Zeke absolutely loved the beach. He would run with wild abandon. He’d investigate every aspect of the sandy shores; sniffing washed-up kelp and dead crabs; chasing seagulls; running up to other dogs for a seaside butt sniff; and occasionally wandering over to folks picnicking on the beach to see what kind of snacks they brought. He enjoyed all the gifts that a coastal trip brings to a dog.

Ironically though, the one thing Zeke hated, or feared, was water. He disliked getting his paws wet, so he’d do everything in his power to avoid the surf, or any other water for that matter.

Although sometimes he’d be faced with a wet quandary when following me on the shore. If I crossed over a small beach stream or pool, this would force him to consider his options. He could either try to jump over the water or suffer a quick trot through it in hopes of minimizing his paw dampening.

It was this love of the beach that I decided to try to capture. Instead of letting loss and mourning deeply depress me, like when my mother passed away in 2019, I decided to creatively channel my grief into painting a triptych of my furry best friend. This was my way of having him eternally enjoy his favorite place. I also created the painting for my wife, Deb, who also deeply misses Zeke.

Each painting is an 8”x8” canvas hinged together and backed with felt. It’s my strange twist on a gothic altar triptych. Here are the images a bit larger, if you’re interested.

Unlike my cartooning, my painting style is more realistic. To me, it’s an artful attempt at necromancy to capture a small piece of this unique dog’s soul. The creation of these paintings has helped me to process his passing.

Zeke’s demise is yet another reminder of the brevity of life. Sorrow and loss have become emotions that visit me far more than I’d like. One would think that the deaths of my parents and friends over the years would have hardened me up a bit to the specter of death, but no. I’m still overly sensitive to life’s cruelties.

However, this time around, I’ve seemed to develop some new quirks in my grieving process.

First, my internal filters are gone. I now find that while dining out at a local restaurant, if the waitress asks how the food is, I’ll volunteer a brutally honest response.

“Your chef has helped me to define the word ‘inedible.’”

“I swear, this is the best shoe leather I’ve ever tasted!”

“I hope your toilet has plenty of flushing power!”

You get the idea.

Life is too short for soft-peddled lying and false expectations. Make sure every bit of food that touches your palate gets your full attention.

Next, I’ve found my patience is completely shot, especially when I’m waiting in line or driving. Granted, as my wife will attest to, I was already far too aggressive a driver for the passive-aggressive roads in the Pacific Northwest, but now, Fuhgeddaboudit! Out of the way! I have life to pack in!

Pity the poor slob in front of me whose reflexes have slowed them down in operating a vehicle, a movie ticket machine, or a grocery checkout line.

“HURRY UP ALREADY! NO TIME! NO TIME! DEATH MIGHT STRIKE AT ANY MOMENT!”

My wife must be a saint not to notice how insufferable I’ve become.

Speaking of my wife, she’s also feeling the effects of grief. Except she’s mostly internalizing it—until she goes to sleep. That’s when her unconscious mind decides it’s time to externalize her emotions.

We discovered this one morning when we woke up and began chatting about our previous night’s dreams. We both experienced a fitful night’s sleep full of combative dreams.

Apparently, while both of us were deep in REM, we were in reality having loud, unintelligible arguments with each other!

Geesh, I hope we weren’t disturbing the neighbors. Then again, I do vaguely remember yelling in the night, “No! You shut up!”

Agh, grief.

The Bardo

Regarding death, I’ve adapted the Tibetan Buddhist view of death as being merely a state of existence between two lives on Earth. It’s better known as The Bardo.

I learned about it as a fan of musician Laurie Anderson.

Take a listen to her album “Songs from The Bardo” to learn more. Also, listen to her album, “Heart of a Dog” which gives a relatable tale about dog ownership, life, love, and the Bardo.

Once I started studying this concept, I found it much more comforting than any of the dichotomous heaven or hell finalities in death offered by other religions.

Honestly, I’d much rather think that, in some way, someday, after I pass from this current state of being, that I, too, will meet up with Zeke in another form. My guess is he’ll be reincarnated as a beach Lifeguard.

Just don’t expect him to save you if you’re flailing around in the water.

The Zeke Book

I’m using Zeke’s death as a motivation to kick my creativity back into gear. I’d been futzing around for some time on creating a book that was a compendium of my Zeke-inspired comics.

Zeke’s passing let me know I need to get my act together and finish this book. It only requires 6-10 pages of comics to be complete, so expect to see those new cartoons appearing in this column soon. I gave myself a two-month deadline for completion. Please hold my feet to the fire to meet it.

To that end, here’s a comic for the very last page of that book. I won’t lie that it’s a downer, but hey, that’s life.

It was the hardest 4-panel cartoon I’ve ever had to create while sobbing my guts out.

Take care my friends. I promise future cartoons will be much more uplifting and funny.

Ed

If you’ve followed the exploits of Zeke, enjoy doctor shows, or like figuring out medical paradoxes, you’ll find the following fascinating.

Last year, in April, Zeke had to go in for his annual dental exam and cleaning. Before the vet does this they do a quick check up and blood draw to make sure it’s safe to anesthetize the dog. It was after the blood draw that I was notified by the vet that Zeke’s dental would have to wait. The blood analysis showed Zeke having anemia and also his liver enzymes that were far too elevated.

This concerned the vet and lead her to believe that he possibly had liver or kidney disease. She prescribed that we place Zeke on a hepatic diet, which required buying (from the same store the vet worked at, of course.) an expensive food made for dogs with liver issues. Plus she said we should give him a liver supplement called Denamarin, which contains SAMe and Milk Thistle, the same stuff you can find in any human liver supplement, but at twice the price.

Because I love my little Zeke and wanted to be a good doggy daddy, I bought the expensive food and pills in hopes that it’ll help his condition.

I also asked the vet for an alternative to Zeke’s flea and tick medicine (Triflexis) which had doubled in price. The vet prescribed Simparica. We set Zeke up with a prescription gave him his first tablet at the start of May.

As for the new food, Zeke is one damn picky dog. When I dished out the hepatic food to him, he looked at the bowl of dry kibble, then looked at me, made a snort sound, and walked out to the living room, disgusted that I would offer him such bland crapola.

I had to admit, after looking at the ingredients which consisted mainly of corn meal, rice bran and vitamins, that I also wouldn’t find this appealing if evolution had designed me for mainly eating blood soaked meat, organs, and other fresh food.

I worked to make this crud more appealing. I boiled up chicken breasts, spinach, broccoli, carrots and peas, cooked some eggs, then ground the whole mess in with the dry food. I froze it in vacuum sealed packets so Zeke had food ready for weeks.

Zeke happily dove into this when it was warmed it up.

One problem solved.

But while that was going on, I kept an eye on Zeke’s health for any other abnormalities. Towards the end of May I noticed Zeke was developing tremors. I wasn’t sure if this was due to the liver issues or the switch to Simparica.

I did some further research into Simparica. It turns out the drug has reported incidences of dog deaths from its use. I decided that, given Zeke’s liver condition, it might be better to err on the side of caution and stop his use of this pesticide based drug so that we could rule it out as a cause of the Liver/kidney disease.

As for his diet, he continued on it for two more months, until Zeke’s next vet appointment to check his anemia and liver enzymes. During that visit, the vet checked his blood work and found his Liver enzymes improved but his anemia still worrisome. Outside of saying that the Denamarin wasn’t really doing anything other than sucking cash out of my wallet, the vet suggested we keep Zeke on the Hepatic diet.

Everything seemed fine until one morning in early September when I awoke to find Zeke trembling on the couch, which was covered in his vomit.
Zeke’s health had totally crashed. He was jaundiced looking, shaking, lethargic, and refusing food or water.

I was convinced he was bitten by a brown recluse spider since I found a huge one our bathroom room that morning. We rushed him to the Pet ER. To read more about that part of Zeke’s health issues, check out this story.

The vets were convinced we only had a few days to a week left of Zeke’s life.

However I refused to believe that and slowly nursed Zeke back to health over the rest of September, October and early November.

Side note: A dog’s recovering from a Brown Recluse spider bite can last anywhere from 8-12 weeks, if that’s what indeed happened to Zeke.

During this time, the vets wanted to perform all kinds of invasive tests and biopsies on him to find the reason for his liver and anemia issues. They thought it could be a GI issue, or cancer, or half a dozen other things other than my mentions of a possible spider bite.

Whatever it was, I decided that it was foolish to put Zeke through a bunch of painful tests if he was possibly at the end of his life. We rescued little Zeke from a kill shelter when he was 2 and since that time have given him a nice full life that he otherwise wouldn’t have had, so we just accepted every extra day of life was a wonderful gift.

I’d rather have my little buddy be comfortable and be surrounded by as much love as I and my wife could give him than have him endure procedures just to satisfy a vet’s curiosity. I also dumped using that Hepatic diet and switched him to wet dog food that was full of gravy and meat. This made Zeke very happy.

In December, we had yet another vet appointment to check Zeke’s condition. The vet performed more blood tests. Zeke was still anemic but now his liver seemed less of a problem since the function was in normal range.

Zeke’s vet, who I started calling “Quincy” since she had a tendency to toss around as many medical conditions as the old Jack Klugman show, had concluded that Zeke had autoimmune hemolytic anemia (IMHA).

She wrote up an estimate for further blood testing to be sure of the diagnosis and also wrote up a treatment plan for Zeke. I told her I’d think about this course of action.

Due to Zeke’s multiple diagnosis being thrown at me from every direction, I was thoroughly confused, perturbed, and worried by it all.

Over late December and January (2026) Zeke’s health seemed to get much better. He was putting on weight, not looking jaundiced, and was starting to return to his usual spit and vinegar attitude.

Even though there were visible improvements, I read further about IMHA and became concerned enough about the disease that I was convinced that Zeke should get those other tests at least for a proper diagnose IMHA. It’s better to know what for sure about his condition in order to be emotionally prepared for what may be in the future. Especially since dogs with this disease have a high probability of dying from a painful heart attack or embolism, things I didn’t want Zeke to experience.

Therefore, last week, I set up the in-office appoint with the vet to test Zeke and discuss his treatment. Zeke was none to happy to be heading to the vet. After all that he’s gone through, he’d now developed a pretty good case of white-coat syndrome.

Even though I tried to ease his worries and calm him as we were at the vet, he still was a shaky, panting mess. Thankfully this visit only involved a simple blood draw and no day-long stay.

We met the vet and discussed his health history. Next, the vet wanted to see how his anemia levels were doing. She took Zeke into the back to draw his blood while I sat in the consultation room. I could hear Zeke’s growls and thought, “Yep, that’s my boy! Little squirmy Tasmanian devil!”

Afterwards Zeke was brought back into the consultation room. Together we waited ten minutes for the blood test results. Zeke paced around the room.

The vet finally came back into the room. She had a look of bafflement on her face.

“Good news, although I’m not sure how, but Zeke no longer shows any signs of anemia or liver disease!”

I was very happily relieved, and also as equally confounded as the doctor as to what the hell had caused all his issues over the last ten months. Food? Drugs? Cancer? Spider Bites? A series of misdiagnosis by incompetent vets?

The vet wouldn’t comment on the latter hypothesis.

But whatever it was that caused this calamity, it was finally over. The old Zeke was back.

Currently, there’s only one thing about Zeke that still concerns my wife and I. I use the word “concerns” but perhaps a better verb would be “offends,” since Zeke now has a habit of letting loose the most foul smelling, room-clearing, eye-watering, what-septic-tank-of-hell-did-that-come-from flatulence that I’ve ever had the displeasure to dip my nose into!

He seems fond of saving it up for nighttime when we’re all sitting on the couch and watching TV.

I’ll be sitting in the middle of the couch. My wife sits on the right of me, and Zeke will be curled up to the left of me. After a few minutes, Zeke bends his head up and looks longingly at me as he turns to offer me his belly for a nice rub. He looks so cute that I can’t help myself but to rub that little dog belly.

That’s when, after I start patting the belly, a slight smile curls on his lips and signals to me that I’ve fallen for his little joke yet again; I’m now pressing down on the devil’s bagpipe which plays the discordant whine—of farts.

I guess it’s a small price to pay to have Zeke back to being healthy.

Although my wife has a quite different opinion about our malodorous pup.

I wish I could say that’s how this story ends. But unfortunately, 3 days after I made this post, Zeke’s health took a major turn for the worse. His anemia had suddenly gotten worse. We rushed him to his vet, which was a pointless waste of money and time since they basically said, after running a bunch of expensive tests, to “rush him to the Pet ER. They can do a blood transfusion on him.”

No shit Sherlock…er… I mean, Quincy. Tell me something I don’t know.

We got Zeke to the Pet ER. They also did a slew of tests. Unfortunately, they found that his liver was too damaged to come back from, this of course impacted his anemia which made a blood transfusion into a pointless procedure if his liver was too far gone.

So we took Zeke home, made him as comfortable as possible, then set up an at home euthanasia, which took place yesterday morning.

Currently, my wife and I are devastated. That’s as close as I’m ever going to come to having a kid, without the college costs.

After we put Zeke down, and then buried him in a backyard grave that I dug, I got thinking about the cascade of events that led up to this. I know I shouldn’t have and instead should have focused on all the good times we had with Zeke, but I instead let grief evolve into anger.

Angry over what, you say?

I’m angry over the fact that none of the damn vets who we’ve seen over the course of last 7 months, not once did any of them think to run a urine bacteria test on Zeke to see if he was infected with Leptospirosis. I looked over all his health records. Not one test in that regards.

This is a bacterial infection that is widespread in the wet Pacific Northwest. It’s so bad that the Washington State Department of Health has an ongoing warning about it. You’d think that if a dog shows up with symptoms of this infection, that any qualified vet would run tests for the disease. But apparently the slap-dash, incompetent, low-budget, private equity owned numbskulls that we had for vets assumed that Zeke’s yearly inoculation against Lepto would protect him. I guess they never bothered to learn the facts that the shot only covers 4 variations of the bacteria strain.

It would have been better to do a test just to rule it out as a possibility for his anemia, but what do I know I’m just a flunky cartoonist.

It wasn’t until we chatted with the Home Euthanasia vet, who relayed her experience with leptospirosis, that we saw the obvious Occam’s Razor of Zeke’s health issue. Sadly, by then it was far too late to do anything since he was too far gone and the grim reaper had arrived on the scene.

Overall, this experience has taught me two important life lessons.

First, do your research and find a qualified vet, that isn’t some schmoe factory set up as a money scam by a private equity firm. (I’m looking at you, Banfield Pet Hospital).

Next, appreciate, enjoy, and love every moment you have with your special furry friend (or any other loved one for that matter) since you never know when they’ll head off to that great dog park in the sky.

Love you, Zeke. You were the best puppy ever.

To see that year of Zeke’s life in photos go here.

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As for today’s comic, I’ll stop dillydallying and get right to it.

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I apologize if I caught you off guard with that last panel and didn’t provide a warning. Given the horrors of what we’ve been experiencing here in the US, I thought a shock to the system was in order.

I only wish more people would wake up to see the reality of how the Trump administration and its oligarch enablers are trying to change our country. It especially enrages me since my ancestors can be counted amongst the founders of the United States. So I’ll be damned if I stand by and do nothing while some racist schmucks try to ruin that legacy.

Also let’s not forget the proud immigrant heritage of the great melting pot of diverse knowledge and ingenuity that enriched our country far beyond the class and racial limitations that constrained other nations.

It’s this diversity in cultures, religion, and ethnicity in the US population, which I believe gives us a unique strength to withstand the attempts of a fascist takeover by small-minded, racist Christian Nationalists.

Our differences are what unite us. No amount of fear, intimidation, or propaganda will overcome that.

While I was sick with the flu I came to this conclusion as I took that time to start diving into Hannah Arendt’s “The Origins of Totalitarianism.” At 900 pages it’s a giant tome of a book. But if you wanted to know everything about the racism, antisemitism, imperialism, tyranny, authoritarianism, and their mechanisms throughout history, it’s THE book to have on your shelf.

If you find the size of that book too intimidating, then let me suggest that you read two other books. First, there’s Timothy Synder’s “On Tyranny” which is a quick 128 pages to take in. After that, read Jason Stanley’s “How Fascism Works.” Both are great books to bring you up to speed on the evils of tyrants and the twisted minds behind the Trump Administration.

Arendt’s book offers far too many theories and historical analogies for me to discuss in any thorough detail in this little column. However, as I stated, the one premise made clear to me was how much Trump and his gang of raging imbeciles will never be able to totally install fascism in the US.

In all the other nations in the world where fascism has taken root, the one thing that made it so easy to accomplish in those nations was the fact that the majority of people all had shared commonalities regarding ethnicity, religion, and cultures.

But here in the United States, we’ve striven to be the complete opposite: a beautiful, chaotic mess of a people who will fight for their right to be different.

If you don’t think this is true, I challenge you to visit any part of the country and pick an argument with someone over their favorite local food, sports team, hobby, religion, or, dare I say it, choice of pet.

The other thing that gives me hope in our country is what we are currently seeing in how the residents of Minneapolis are responding to the evils of ICE. They’re banding together to confront and oppose the overreach by Trump’s Gestapo and helping to protect their neighbors from being attacked and abducted.

This isn’t the only place in the country where there’s been resistance against these lawless authoritarians. Portland, Los Angeles, Lewiston, and many other cities refuse to bow down to this tyranny.

These protests will spread as the evils of the Trump Administration become more and more apparent, as the concentration camps become more exposed. Trump and his gang of imbeciles are deathly afraid of more Americans seeing the truth of their ugly evils. That’s why they’re spinning as many wild lies as possible in the hopes that they’ll belittle the movement and the truth. However, Trump and his goons have already lost this battle when over 50% of the country is standing against Trump.

Because of this, I firmly believe that the U.S. will never fall fully into fascism. However, as the history of our fighting spirit has shown it does put us at a higher risk of breaking into civil war. But before that happens, let’s all work to defeat and remove Trump via all legal means necessary.

Remember: Illegitimi non carborundum

For me, the test is how well a bed can be comfortably shared.

Here’s a story about that.

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By the way, my wife loved this comic.
At least that’s what she said. However last night, I noticed a couple of extra pillows laying on our bed.

I hope you got a laugh from this little story. I realize during this very fraught time in the United States (and world) that it’s damn hard to find any levity in the things around us.

I’ll admit that even though my humor gauge is pretty wide, I’ve also been having a tough time staying lighthearted. In fact all the rage, disgust, and emotional turmoil I feel about this country is really welling up in me. To that point, I’ve considered that the best way for me release those feelings is by doing what any other artist would do. Which is to sling handfuls of paint at a canvas while screaming ancient Celtic and Italian curses, in the vain hope that the splatters summon forth a dark vendetta against the imbeciles and thugs ruining our country.

But if that magic doesn’t occur, I’ll just settle for expelling this poisonous miasma from my skull and onto a canvas. Who knows, maybe this will push my art to a new level.

Anyways, I just wanted to let you all know that there might be some pretty disturbing art appearing here in the future, or at the very least, some cartoons with a bit more savage, but still funny, “malagnitá.”

You’ve been warned. :)

As part of decreasing that chaos and starting out the new year a little less cluttered, I decided to clean out my office by tossing old files and other junk.

While going through my crusty pile of files, I came across this old holiday chestnut of mad-cap laughs. This “game” was based on a real-life experience that, if I remember correctly, was from 1986-87.

Oy gavolt. It seems like eons ago, back when I was still thinking scratchboard was a nifty medium to work in. Take note of the zip-a-tone screens and the paste-up lines from the layout of this that were captured by the stat camera.

Ah, archaic technologies, how I miss thee.

Happy New Year!
Ed

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Now that' I’ve dispensed with the holiday wishes, let’s get down to the goofiness.

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Holidays were made for Puns-akimbo!

Now onto some tasteless cartoons that have been hanging around my office. I was meaning to post these a few weeks ago but got tangled up in making a 6 page comic for the next issue of The American Bystander. More on that in a moment.

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As I mentioned above, I have a 6 page comic coming out in issue #31 of the American Bystander. I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but let me just say it’s a riff on “A Christmas Carol” and stars a certain nasty orange-faced Scrooge. In fact, the comic seriously roasts his chestnuts and I’ll be amazed If the comic doesn’t land me on a DHS watch list. If you’re curious to see it, let me suggest that you go out and buy issue #31 of the American Bystander.

On that note, let me again say happy holidays and let’s all try to stay positive about the coming new year!

Cheers, Ed

Let us thank the stars that evolution is really slow when it comes to brains and limbs. Otherwise, humans most definitely would have a very short stint as Earth’s apex species. Of course, that standing may end soon thanks to AI. However there’s still a small window of opportunity for man’s best friend to grab that title. They only need to make one small little change in their anatomy.

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I could have gone very grim with this idea, but honestly, we all currently have far too much grim reality staring us in the face. No sense in adding to that stress.

However, just for squints and wiggles, consider for a moment what would happen to our world if dogs got a lot smarter and gained the ability to build tools and/or weapons? Humans would be done for.

That’s one reason why I’ll continue to treat my little dog with as much kindness as I can muster — just in case he wakes up one day with a nice pair of super flexible thumbs.

Cheers,
Ed

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If you’ve been following my comics, you’ve then read that in September, my dog Zeke had a dire health emergency. We knew his liver was in poor condition due to his breed, but we were unprepared for his sudden decline.

It all started on a Tuesday morning. I woke up at 6 a.m., did my workout, and then prepared to take a shower. Right as I was about to step into the tub, I noticed there was a big half-dollar-sized deadly Brown Recluse spider climbing around in it.

This freaked me out. I ran out of the bathroom and threw on some clothes. I then went back into the bathroom to trap our eight-legged pest under a glass and take it outside away from the house.

When I returned to the house, that’s when I noticed Zeke had thrown up all over the couch. He continued to throw up the rest of the day. He stopped eating, developed tremors, and became extremely lethargic.

I was concerned, so I made an appointment with our vet, and he was seen two days later. Meanwhile, Zeke refused all food or water.

When the vet appointment arrived, it proved useless. We unfortunately chose a vet that is part of a private equity-owned, basic pet care facility that lacks adequate diagnostic capabilities and emergency preparedness.

The most that the place could do was prescribe an antibiotic, a painkiller, and an appetite stimulant. Since Zeke was showing signs of severe anemia and possible jaundice, the vet suggested we go to an animal hospital for full testing on what was going on with him. The next day, we took him to the Pet ER.

The vet there performed a round of blood tests along with an expensive ultrasound test. Other than showing how anemic Zeke was, everything was inconclusive. The vet thought Zeke might have a type of lymphoma cancer, but would need further tests to prove that.

I told the vet that we found a spider in our house on the same day Zeke’s illness began. However, the vet examined him and found no signs of a bite, so they did not believe the spider was responsible for his condition.

The veterinarian suggested conducting costly tests, such as biopsies, instead. However, I figured if this was the last dance for Zeke, so be it. I wasn’t going to submit the poor little guy to more trauma if all it was going to do was prove the cause of his oncoming demise.

Instead, I asked the vet for more pain and appetite stimulant meds, and would make him as comfortable as possible.

Due to his lack of nourishment, Zeke lost about 2 pounds, which is a lot off a 20 lb. dog. He also had difficulty walking and had zero strength at jumping, even though he’d try, only to land with a thud on his side and scare my wife and me half to death.

I then spent much of my time trying to get him to at least drink water and try eating food, any food. I spent a lot of money on various foods, desperately trying to find something he would eat.

Thank goodness for that appetite stimulant the vet gave us. Sure, it was a growth hormone and could make a cancer accelerate, but it worked well at getting Zeke back to eating. We began with small 2-ounce servings of baby food, licked directly from my hand. I considered that eating out of my hand was probably Zeke’s way of seeking comfort as he felt lousy.

This went on for about a week. Gradually, he began to eat more and more. I transitioned him to a soft dog food, primarily consisting of gravy, made by Nulo. The following week, he began to regain his appetite without the stimulant. He began rebuilding his strength, but remained unsteady and often overestimated his jumping abilities. Thud from the bed. Thud from the couch. I admired his determination, even if it was nearly suicidal.

At week seven of Zeke’s recovery, I noticed a healing wound on his tail.

No doubt about it. The wound displayed all the characteristic signs of a necrotic bite from a Brown Recluse spider.

It takes about eight weeks, if treated in time, for a small animal to recover from the bite of a Brown Recluse. Luckily, the antibiotic the vet gave us for any infection she thought he might had, also stemmed the bite necrosis and venom from further deadly effects.

However, it was also on the seventh week of recovery when Zeke deemed himself healthy enough to do a “wellness” check on Mister Peepers.

Being only 80% back to normal is what we think caused his little rocket to stay deployed, or as my wife likes to call it, “a visit from Mister Peepers.” The technical term for what Zeke experienced is Paraphimosis. It can have serious complications for a dog and most times requires a trip to the ER.

Overall, the last eight weeks have been traumatic for Zeke, my wife, and me. For a few weeks, we were despondent over the possible demise of our little fur baby. We talked about what Zeke has brought into our lives and what we’d miss about hm. We also started planning for where we’d bury him in the yard.

And now he’s pretty much back to normal as we chase him around that same yard, in a desperate attempt to quell any long-term visits by Mister Peepers.

Crazy.

On a related note, spraying sugar water at, or applying lube to, your dog’s penis brings a relationship with your dog to a new, much weirder level.

As for going back to my local pharmacy and being tagged as some kind of beast-abusing freak after declaring that the lube was for my dog (oh, that was fun.), my friend Brian calmed my fears by saying, “At least you weren’t also buying peanut butter with the lube.”

A note about the comic

Lately, I’ve been reading and admiring the works of Jules Feiffer, which offered a lot of help in how to tackle this crazy tale. Feiffer was a master at comic reductionism, cutting out all the fluff and getting right to the guts of a story. No frames. No backgrounds. Just characters and dialog. That seemed the best way to approach this, so thanks for the guidance, Mister Feiffer.

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Preachers, realtors, used car salespeople, and all politicians have built empires from the hopes and dreams of others. Of course, the growth of the empires of the preacher and the politician relies more heavily on the skillful use of demagoguery and dishonesty. That’s why it’s always important to be wary of anyone who is selling a dream.

At least with cartoonists, we only sell laughs — at dirt cheap prices, which is ironic since we have to go to great lengths to search for our inspirations.

Much like a miner panning for gold, cartoonists and writers, as well, are constantly panning for comedy gold. But instead of backwoods streams, we tend to sift through the crowds at restaurants, bars, and county fairs, where finding valuable nuggets of humor only requires a keen eye and good sense of hearing.

Cartoonists and writers especially appreciate hypocrisy, the motherload of satirical humor. And where’s the best place to find these treasure troves of comedy? Within the magical thinking and immoral charlatanism of religion and politics, of course.

An update regarding my dog, Zeke

Some of you might have learned that my little dog, Zeke, a Chihuahua/Parson Jack Russel mix, had his health take a turn for the worse.

I wanted to let everyone know that thanks to a combination of drugs, nuturing TLC, and the dog’s own sheer force of will, Zeke has managed to trot past the graveyard and has regained about 70%-80% of his health.

Although he still has a condition (the big C) which will shorten his life, at least Zeke can still momentarily enjoy his battles with the backyard squirrels. Those little bastards have taken note of his condition and are mocking his slightly wobbly, somewhat emaciated fearsomeness.

On top of that, Zeke’s also had another medical emergency this past week which ended in a most ridiculous and hilarious fashion. That story and what we’ve been dealing with is getting documented in a comic that I’m currently working on, so stay tuned.

Stay fearsome and wary of magical thinking,

Ed

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As if you couldn’t guess, I’ve never been picked to serve on a jury.

But honestly, I’d love to get chosen as one of the “Twelve Angry Men.” However, every time I was called, I got bumped off for one of the following reasons.

• The lawyers didn’t like that I took jury duty as an opportunity for courtroom sketching practice.

• I made way too many references to Cop and Lawyer shows. Who knew lawyers hate that?

• I wore a Black Flag punk rock T-shirt.

• I figured out what a case was about during the jury selection process questions. It turned out to be a criminal case of a Drunk driver hitting a cyclist. When it was my turn to be questioned, I told the defense lawyer that I was an avid cyclist, then inferred the Defendant was more than likely guilty since every driver in this damn county drives like a drunken lunatic!

Damn my honesty! Maybe someday I’ll make the cut.

But in reality, we are quickly moving to a sad time where RFK Jr. and his anti-vaxxer MAHA minions’ idiocy will replace firearms, cancer, and suicide as the leading cause of death amongst children.

Every other day, a new misguided horror in healthcare is announced by Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s Department of Health and Human Services. This includes firing numerous HHS employees and defunding programs that were on the brink of significant discoveries. Additionally, there was the cancellation of the mRNA vaccination program, which puts us all at risk if the H5N1 bird flu were to jump to a pandemic level. As further proof of Kennedy’s dangerous double talk and charlatanism, he also claimed he’d find the cause of autism by September, but then dismissed the very team that was researching it!

Where once we had qualified health professionals and scientists working to cure and stem the spread of disease, we now have a misinformed pack of imbeciles who think everything originates from an imbalance of nutrition, or a dire need for raw meat smoothies.

My dear, departed mother, as the Head Nurse of a local hospital ER, dedicated her life to caring for people. If she were alive now, she’d be boiling mad at Junior for his ignorance and contempt of real science and medicine.

Perhaps that’s one of the reasons why I keep mocking him, to give me some solace in thinking that somewhere in the afterlife, my comics are keeping mom smiling, instead of bitching to St. Peter every other moment as to why “that jackass” hasn’t done himself in yet from all of his the raw milk drinking, sun burn tanning, bear meat eating or sewage swimming!

My guess is the only thing keeping RFK Jr. alive is the same blind, evil buffoonery that kept the quacks in the SS Medical Corp going, but as they met a grisly end, so too will RFK jr. and his minions.

My money is on a E. coli taking him out.

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This story is 100% true. There was a room in my dead neighbor’s home which was devoted to storing enough porno mags to fill a Barnes and Noble, that is, if said Barnes and Noble was run by Al Goldstein or Larry Flint. Crazy, huh?

The free speech absolutist in me briefly considered buying the whole lot of magazines and then opening a local smut shop. But alas, that get-rich-quick scheme is a bust thanks to magazine-buying porn purveyors have mostly moved over to internet porn.

Although I guess I could have bought them and patiently waited for a renewed nostalgia craze in old time skin mags, but god forbid I should die before I could cash in. Were that to happen, my estate sale neighbors would mistake MY x-rated souvenir investment as a pack rat’s perversion.

No thanks.

As it stands, I have far too many books about nude painting, deranged artists, and radical philosophers, that’ll create enough of a stir amongst the uptight, starched collars in my neighborhood!

By the way, when I mentioned the obscure tool collector, there was a tool at that estate sale which was so odd I had to buy it.

If anyone knows what this is, please let me know. I think it’s either for shucking peas or it’s a medieval device that pulls wisdom teeth.

Cheers,

Ed

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I have to admit, Zeke amazed me when he turned this comic over to me for posting. All those drawing lessons I’ve given him seem to be paying off.

Also, his observations are spot on about the stupidity, toxicity, and dangers from fireworks being blow up during the driest and hottest time of the year. He must be reading all those environmental magazines that I subscribe to. Not sure when he reads them, maybe at night when my wife and I are asleep.

Zeke expressed an eagerness to create more comics, as he put it, “to ease my burden.” He says it’ll only cost me better dog treats and infinite belly rubs.

I told him I’ll think it over.

May you have a quiet and restful Fourth of July,

Ed

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This cartoon is mostly 100% true. My new phone really is almost that small. Unfortunately though, in regards to the auto, my wife wouldn’t let me have a minuscule sport car if she couldn’t also ride along in it.

Have you been feeling the need for a digital detox? Let me know in the comments.

Cheers,
Ed

Let's all work to remind Donald Trump that no man can be king in the United States of America! Protest against his idiocy with pride and faith in the US Consti…

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Which may explain why the Republi…

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