Just overheard a little boy talking to his mom about how excited he was for the Easter egg hunt this year. I can still remember that excitement as a kid. I loved Easter. Growing up going to Catholic school was confusing and I’m still not totally sure how the whole rabbit, eggs, and zombie Jesus stuff all ties together; however, I remember always being very excited for the egg hunt. Finding all the eggs was the only thing I cared about. I think deep down that’s what motivates every kid. An innate need to find the egg. A residual sperm instinct. Every kid at one point was the best egg-finding sperm in a load. They wouldn’t be here if they weren’t. When you think about it, a group of kids having an Easter egg hunt is like an egg-finding all-star team.
So if you have kids, and are planning on an Easter egg hunt this year, hide those eggs like the FBI is looking for them. You’re dealing with professionals.
I wrote a Valentine’s Day movie last year for the 48 hour film festival.
As I took the last sip of my morning coffee, the poop I had on deck approached the plate and was ready to take some cuts. This was not a good time to be stuck in gridlock on the freeway. I tried my best to make it to the next exit before my deuce did the same, but as we inched along, I began to realize I wasn’t going to make it.
Your mind goes to a weird place when you realize you’re going to shit yourself. Especially when you’re stone sober and driving a truck. Could I somehow shit in the empty coffee cup? No. Out the window? Absolutely not. But then an inner strength I didn’t know I had took control of me. It’s been 10 years since I crapped myself, and I didn’t want to break that streak, or have one in my underwear. So, I clenched my cheeks up tighter than an alter boy and somehow made it to a gas station. Sweet victory. I felt like a king on his throne; and with a triumphant push, I let slip the logs of war. Not today, poop. Not today.
Twinkle twinkle little star,
I met your mother in a bar.
Tripping balls, we were so high,
I didn’t know she was a guy.
An actual conversation I just heard near my bus stop:
An old woman is pushing a shopping cart of stale bread outside of the homeless shelter downtown. She throws crumbs to the pigeons.
A very disheveled man approaches the woman from behind.
MAN: What the fuck are you doing, bitch?
The woman ignores him and continues feeding the pigeons.
MAN: I told you you can’t be feedin’ these pigeons. They carry diseases.
The woman turns to face the man.
WOMAN: Nigga, you got AIDS. Worry about yo self.
Two people are walking down the sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder. The sidewalk is only just wide enough for this to be possible. A man walks toward them from the opposite direction. As they near each other, a social contract kicks in. The people walking shoulder to shoulder must convert to single file as they pass the man. No one has to stop. No one has to change course. It’s a good system. It works.
But a lot of people seem ignorant to this unspoken rule. So spread the word. Sidewalks are for two-way traffic. You can’t come skipping down the sidewalk with your friends, arms linked and oblivious to others around you. This is not Oz. That is not the yellow brick road. You’re in a big city with a lot of foot traffic. Show some common courtesy, pull your head out of your ass, and get the fuck out of everyone’s way.
This is my creepy ass cat, Squid. He likes to sit in the neighbor’s yard. I went to pour myself a cup of coffee and noticed him staring at me. He’s been staring at me for about ten minutes. Just watching me drink my coffee. I don’t feel safe anymore.
1. In many cultures it’s considered bad luck.
2. What if you end up just wounding the spider and it gets away? Then you got a pissed off rouge spider in your house. You gotta sleep sometime.
3. Say you do kill it. Now you have a ghost spider on your hands. There’s no stopping a ghost spider. You might as well move away and start over in a new city.
I collect product from clothing donation bins for a living (probably because I dropped out of community college 3 times). Here’s my day: I drive to a bin location (usually in a grocery store parking lot), I grab the bags of cloth, and throw them into my van. Easy. But, the other day I was doing this, and as I was throwing a bag into the van, it ripped open and the contents flew all over the place. But the fucked up part is, it was like 400 pairs of little girl panties. I’m a large creepy bearded man in a crowded parking lot, standing by an UNMARKED WHITE VAN, making it rain little girl panties like some pedophile who hit the perv lottery. As I look around, there are at least a dozen people that saw this happen. My initial reaction was to get into the van and leave as quickly as possible, but that would’ve probably made things worse. Instead I decide to franticly run around shoving the panties into an empty garbage bag. As I’m getting the last of the panties into the bag, I notice a very visibly upset woman staring at me while talking on the phone. No doubt calling the police. Luckily I was able to get all the panties into the van and leave before the cops arrived. I don’t think anyone got my license plate number. Only later did I realize, who the fuck donated 400 pairs of little girl panties?
Just finished drawing this for a friend’s birthday.