Cravings.

Fruit in a jar
you're my lucky star

Rumble in my belly
I'm craving that jelly

i need that wholesome fruit
to make the brain compute

Give me all the flavors
for my tongue to savors

Grape and peach
the taste I'll leech.

Is that lime?
Then I've got them time.

I like it on toast
but I'd eat it on roast.

Just let me spread
till I'm well fed.

If a friend you want to make
put jelly in a cake

But if you hide your jam
I'll likely scram.

Luckily I've got preserves
held in my reserves.

So don't frown
if in jelly I drown.

I'll die made in the shade
smothered in marmalade.

http://www.comicbookresources.com/?page=article&id=17878

How I Wish I'd Spent My Summer Vacation

Hanging with Robin, Batman, and Superman is either the greatest time ever or the gayest. Maybe both...

http://goodcomics.comicbookresources.com/2008/08/25/snark-blocker-a-day-in-the-life/#more-18446

Reflective Comics#27

As a young boy I saw my parents brutally murdered before my eyes. We were leaving the local cineplex, when, out of no where, a speeding car ran over my parents. I was a little boy, and the image was forever burned inside my haunted mind. On the rain slick pavement at the movie theater I shook my fist to the sky, and I swore vengeance that day. I would wage a war on those that took my parents from me-those that robbed me of the normal, happy childhood the son of two gold mine owning astronauts should have had. I swore my revenge on the automobile.

That night in the parking lot, after watching Taxi Driver 2: Oh, You Were Looking at Me, I became a man. Not just because of the parents dying by being run over, but also because I drowned my sorrow in a wave of cheap, loose women. It did not fill the gaping hole in my 8 year old heart. No, the quick, moist love of a tart could never replace the love of a mother that new the effects of zero gravity. My mother. I can still see the streets mashed with her brains, and her ribs that poked out of the side of her body, like a delicious looking meal. I would never feel her hugs again. Nor would I feel a spanking for my father, whom I was slightly less depressed that he was dead. However, in for a penny in for a pinch, I swore on both their graves to have revenge, and revenge I would have. On cars. Dreaded four wheeled death mobiles. I was also against motorcycles and 18 wheelers, anything between 2-18 wheels was an enemy, and anything with one wheel if it had an engine. That I would also destroy. Perhaps it wasn't the wheels, but the engines themselves. No, it was the wheels and engines combination. Also, fighter jets where an enemy, not if they were flying, but if they were rolling, then, yes revenge would have to be had on them as well. Hovercrafts were open to debate and mood of that day.

That horrible night, I was carried to the hospital inside an ambulance. My last ride inside one of the vehicles I had sworn vengeance upon. It was my prison. The dark womb of death. I could feel the walls cave in around me, I was inside the belly of the beast, my fits and rantings were hampered by the EMTs, who gave me a shot of Thorazine to calm me down. I don't remember much from the rest of the night. I remeber my parents dying, it's what drives me, I remember lsoing my virginity in the movie theater parking lot right after my parents died, and I think I remember eating a chicken sandwich sometime in the middle of the night. That could have been a dream thought. It was a really good chicken sandwich. The last good meal I ever tasted. Ever since then, after my parents died, food tastes like ashes. Happiness crumbles between my fingers. Anti-depressants only make me more depressed.

Since the ambulance ride, I have only ever been on a bike. The family's once trusty butler Wadsworth picked me up from the hospital on a tandem bike. I say once trusty butler as Wadsworth died from a heart attack, due to all the biking I forced upon him. Now I have a better, trustier butler named Gene. It was Gene that helped me on the beginning stages of my training for war. Boot Camp. Using the last of my parents fortune, I biked to Europe, no easy feat. There I learned at the foot of trained automobile manufacturers. I learned how to build the enemy to better destroy it. In the process of working on the assembly line, I learned how to make better a car. Yes, I made a better enemy, tougher to kill, cheaper to make, but I had used my inheritance to bike to Europe. Biking to Europe is hard, don't judge me, you don't understand. There's nothing but water between America and Europe, and I biked. So, yes, I built safer cars to make a fortune. I hate cars, but I hate being poor even more. My war on automobiles is an expensive war, and I needed the scratch.

The factory I worked at building cars was shut down due to child labor laws, because they had hired me, a ten year old boy to work the line. Rich again, I sat out on my quest to learn more about every kind of car all over the land. Japan, Russia, South America, a factory here, a show floor there. I spent my teens as a car salesman adapting my mind into the sick frame of someone that would actually buy an automobile. I don't like to talk about my teens. The dark places my mind went. I nearly lost myself in the sick thoughts of car owners. Their dirty dreams of taking turns at 65 miles per hour, of flipping up the emergency break and going into a slide. The purr of the engine as it accelerates to 88 mph. The thudding sound my mother's body made as it crumbled the front end of that mini cooper. Horrible dreams. My teen years, nothing but bad memories.

My early 20s, back home to Detroit. Fully trained and ready to smash cars. I walked the streets punching and kicking tires, the cars didn't seem to mind. My war was useless, I was trained to fight them, disassemble them, make the world a better place, but I just didn't know how to begin my counter offensive. One night, aimlessly walking, as the enemy taunted me with it's high beams, low beams, and caution lights. It came to me. It helped that I myself was run over by a car. I felt the pain my parents felt, the bumps and bruises. I did not die, but I had a few owies. I called Gene. He was busy, but would pick me up when he was free. That night, as I road on Gene's handlebars, I had an epiphany. I knew what I had to do. Cars are cowardly, superstitious when placed on a lot. I must make them fear me. I shall became a Vandal. From that day forward, I knew I would win the war.

2001 A Brick Odyssey

Only Lego could make that movie watchable.

R.I.P.

Here's some thing's I did last week:









Here's some things I'll be doing this week:

Travelling Salesmen

Dear Oliver,

Greetings my old friend. It has been some time since we last corresponded. My travels have taken me into the some truly interesting places. I have seen lands that show that this can do country of ours is a wonder. Some areas take instantly to my invention, while others view it with a vague skepticism, as though it were a device used by jackanapes. Some of these mountain men and women seem so backwards compared to our hustle and bustle life of Boston. If it weren't for my companion, the red faced German, Iron Jaw McGraw, I fear I would be lost in these dark places. Even McGraw proves to be both a blessing and a curse. A blessing in his strength and protection that he provides me on my travels from those that do not that what I bring them is not mysticism, but the future. However, the people are frequently just as afraid of him as they are of my tool of tomorrow. My invention, what I believe you call the "ass wiper", you always were cheeky, but what I have dubbed "toilet paper" seems to be catching on these parts.

I must say, the feeling I get when I show these people a roll must be how grand Prometheus must have felt bringing fire from the gods to mankind. They stare at the paper in a most peculiar ways. Many think me a witch, so it is a boon to have Iron Jaw along as my bodyguard. He is a most faithful traveling companion, he has even given me some delightful nicknames which I think you will find most amusing. Often times he will say "Don't judge me by the faggot, he just pays my bills" and point his thumb in my direction. The cad! Other times, when McGraw and I are alone on the road, after I have unfolded a jolly tale of one of the adventures you and I have shared basking in the gardens or wrestling in the hay, he will mutter under his breath "pillow biter." Which I do find odd, as I don't believe I have used a pillow that regularly on this adventure. Regardless, I believe you two would get along swimmingly.

Some of the local townsfolk view McGraw with an air of trepidation. The man has the most uncanny ability to bite anything with gleaming his white teeth. They are so radiant I once saw my own reflection in his hearty smile. In the town of Donkey Trail, North Carolina McGraw ate four iron horse shoes for breakfast every morning. The people of that town would insist upon a nightly show of McGraw's feats before anyone would slide toilet paper across their backside.

Another myth that has sprung up around my bodyguard is that he bare knuckle boxed and killed a Sasqutach, and that McGraw knows a secret recipe for Big Foot Stew. In almost all the villages we have seen, they have asked the man for a boxing exihibition. McGraw looks forlorn at them, grits his teeth, and denies them the experience due to some oath taken in the last year or so. The man can be a mystery. For a man that has seen so much of the world and its various cultures he can be positivley pedestrian. If we happen upon a larger town he always insists we stay the night, then he disspepears for hours to filthy eateries where they must have copious amounts of food. I'm not sure of the where he goes, he simply asks if I'm sure I won't have any of his "sloppy seconds," I assure him that I abhor sloppiness of of any kind,to which he retorts "Your loss." What a marvelous fellow! A truer man I have never seen.

For all his robustness, he does have one weakness. A rash around his private bits, "picked up in some town or other from some floozy or other." he says. The man must constantly scratch that region of his body or adjust himself. It's how our deal was made, I as a scientist, will help cure the man of his disease in return for his protection against the hordes of misunderstanding. A fine friendship forged for all time!

The work I am doing is of the utmost import to mankind. No longer must we use our hands or take a chance on a leaf. Some see my invention as a failure, they say it tears to easily and dirties the fingernail, but I'll take a dirty nail to a handful of feces, wouldn't you say chum? that's one of the reasons I am writing to you. My invention, while still new, and if I must say, exciting, may be undergoing a revision. I am working on the thinness of the paper, creating a thicker ply which I am dubbing Toilet Paper Mark II. Still, I don't want to destory the minds of these locals too soon, I must ease them into this luxury, allow them to try toilet paper Mark I before I move them too far into the next stage of evolution with Mark II.

In the town of Cow Lick, West Virginia the people were so dumb founded over Mark II, that they strung me up as a witch. We set up shop next to a tonic salesman. The villagers gathered round to see what fancy acoutrements were coming in from the cities. That's when I sang the song "when you go to pop a squat/don't worry a jot/ this is toilet paper/ it's a handy dookie scraper," etc, but the people so used to using their own hands found it appalling. One man, Jed Turner, threw a bottle of his recently bought Thunder Tonic at me. Actually, the tonic salesman did well that day as bottles would be purchased from him and then flung at me. I'm not ashamed to say I was quaking in my boots, McGraw was off galavanting around no doubt, and I was put upon by the bum's rush. The town, led by Turner, had me strung up and prepared me for a tarring and feathering.

There is no due process of the law in these backwards little towns. Yet, I do not judge them, for they are so unused to our city ways and speedy life. No, they are quaint creatures that are being dragged, kicking and screaming into this future world of the 19th century. They prepared one of their witch tests for me, something about a line of arse kickings to see if my bottom turned blue, but if it remained a rosy pink then I would surely be a witch. After a few kicks my rump did indeed become the color of twilight, to which the town believed I had shape changing abilities. The vat of tar was prepared.

Of course my curly red haired, mustashioed savior arrived just in the nick of time. In actuality, I could have sworn he participated in the keister kicker line, his words, not mine, but due to the doubling over of pain, as one stray kick hit my testicles, I do not remember much of that event of my life. I do remember McGraw arriving, not with a mad warriors bellow, but with a bit of a sigh and the mumbling of "Here we go again." The man raced to my rescue in the nick of time, and he became a whirling dervish of violence. It seemed as if each hit sent a townsperson flying in all directions, as if they were being knocked into the air like ten pins. Eventually, McGraw succumbed to their numbers. Something to do with the weakness in his groin area, he had to stop the fight to administer to the unbearable itching. To save my life McGraw broke his oath of boxing. A bout was arranged he would fight a bear for the delight of the townsfolk. I was kept imprisoned until a bear could be secured, after a week, McGraw and the town finally caught the biggest brown bear anyone in those parts had ever seen. It was yet another two weeks before the match could begin. Something about Iron Jaw needing time to train, but I never saw the man so much as lift more than a mug of beer. Perhaps he was distrought over breaking his oath, and that's why I would often see him in the arms of women, whom he was surely confessing his sins to.

Just when I thought I would never leave my cell or see the light of day again. A jury rigged ring was made in the town square, all the men and women of town put on their sunday best for the exhibition. The bell was rang, and the bear set loose on the barechested McGraw. Oh how the man glistened with sweat. The bear struck first, raking his claws across McGraw's back. McGraw struck back with rapid body blows to the bear's midsection. The rapid fire haymakers caused the bear to vomit in the ring, to which the most mighty smell of alcohol permeated the entire town. The bell sounded and the first round was over.

Round Two was a rough round for McGraw, as the bear had him pinned against the ropes, and worked over McGraw's face and bread basket. McGraw freed himself when he stomped on the bear's toes. After that, the bear seemed to be wearing down. Had it been McGraw'a plan to take the beating and tire out the bear? I thought I was doomed to be dipped in the boiling hot tar for sure. The round ended in McGraw's favor when he bit the bear on the snout.

Round three began with the bear gnawing on McGraw's genitals. Apparently, this was just a useful plan to deal with the itch, as McGraw deemed it tickellish. Then, spinning his fist like a tornado, McGraw popped the animal on the nose. My day of rescue was at hand. McGraw delivered an uppercut to the bear that sent him flying out of the ring and into the crowd. The town began to panic, in the mayhem, McGraw ran to free me from the jail. My delightful savior bit through the iron bars, snatched up my sack of toiletries, grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and we lit out of that town in a hurry.

McGraw had broken his oath, but not completely, the match was a hoax, we met up with the bear some distance down the road. Apparently, he and Mcgraw are old friends. Money was exchanged, and McGraw and I headed on to the town Burp Breath, Kentucky, where I write to you now.

I urge you to write me back friend Oliver. Tell me the delights of town life. I miss home so, but I also miss my Vivian of the alabaster skin. I think you will both find me changed upon my return, for I have grown more rugged since last we supped. My trip is half over, and will be returning in a matter of months. Please write to the next town on my agenda, which is Yellow Falls, Kentucky. Curious name. I miss you greatly my friend.

Sincerely,

Maxwell Toilet

What Makes A Man A Man.

64% Comic Book Guy

12.3% Johnny Five


15% Barney the Dinosaur


10% Barney Fife

33% Steve Urkel

16% Booger

And it all adds up to this rascal right here:

She pulled his dingle dangle from his pants and began to move her hands about it as if she were unreeling a water hose.

"This is moving too quickly. There's a murder investigation going on--and you're the number one suspect."

He was homicide detective Jim "Bull" Malarkey, and she was former prostitute turned stripper turned law student turned crusading district attorney Fem Fataley.

"You don't really think I killed those men do you? They died in such horrible ways. They were stabbed in two places right? Their heart and their pee pee. Stabbed with a prop Klingon knife from the old Star Trek TV shows, right? How could I an innocent girl do those things?"

She had a point, she was a good girl. this was their second meeting before they did the bullfrog act, most bad girls go for it on their first interrogation. She has the kind of fake boobies you took home to meet your mother.

Talking about the case should have been a turn off for Malarkey. All he had on his mind lately was finding the killer of these men, especially since the killer had murdered his partner Sweet Tooth Johnson, he was good police, knew how to keep brutality out of the papers. Still, he found any and all words coming from between Fem's sweet crimson lips to be sinfully delicious.

"Oh your wiener...it's so...erect."

They made hot nasty all night long, using a variety of kinky toys, and sometimes just regular things, not actually kinky, but kinky because of the context of the situation. Like an empty roll of toilet paper, and a Trivial Pursuit game board.

In the morning, Fem had left Malarkey to sleep late. She left a note saying she had an early appointment. Malarkey knew he had over stepped a boundary. He had seen a perp in the buff. He had touched the perp, yes, he had put hand cuffs on the suspect, but it was not to make them hit their head as he put them in the car, like usual. No. They had done erotic things. Possibly illegal erotic things depending on the state and time of day in that state you happened to find yourself. Spent, Malarkey went back to sleep.

On the way out from Fem's apartment, Bull noticed something. A collection of Star Trek memorabilia. Perhaps that was a clue. If Malarkey could recall the facts the murderer was some kind of science fiction fan. Dune or Highlander, Malarkey wasn't sure. He'd have to check his notes. Then he remembered he had to meet his ex-wife for lunch. She probably wanted more of that Malarkey charm in her life. well, the Bull had a new gal now...supposing she wasn't a murderer.

At 2:30 Malarkey went to the mall to meet his ex-wife, Whiskey Malone. Whiskey was one of those gals that had a rough life. She lost the use of her legs in a tragic teenage accident while working at Krispy Kreme. She told everyone that the accident was caused when the glazer leaked all over the floor and she tripped, but in reality, she was making whoopie against the oven, and the boy holding her up slipped. Ever since then she's harbored a strong hatred of men. All men except Malarkey, whom she loved to the point of stalking him.

"I hate your guts Bull."

Bull sipped from his afternoon lunch of a vodka slurpee.

"That's not true babe you go through my garbage every night."

"Yeah, and I can smell that another woman's thing has been on your thing."

Hmm, Marlarkey had even put on an extra layer of tightie whities to prevent Whiskey from smelling that rotten fish smell.

"Why did you call me to meet? I'm working a tough case and I can't be distracted right now."

Malarkey was getting a good look at his ex's melons beneath her her baby t-shirt. For a paraplegic brain surgeon/astronaut she sure did dress like a teen age prostitute.

"I had the day off, I was getting one of my Star Trek props cleaned. Blood had gotten all over my Daqtagh, you know, Klingon knife."

She took a bite of her hot dog, but instead of just chomping, she slid the cylinder into her mouth and back out again, eating the hot dog like someone trying to turn someone else on might eat a hot dog. Across the table, Malarkey was playing her game by taking his index and middle fingers and putting them on either side of his mouth, then sticking his tongue out in and out like a dyslexic ant eater. A priest and a nun walked by.

"I really hated your ex-partner. I'm glad he's dead, whoever killed him should get a metal. I wish I'd killed him. I could have. I'm very good with a knife, especially a Daqtagh, I bet he was stabbed in his wee wee hole. That's the kind of man he was.

The eroticism was too much and the former lovers became lovers lovers again. They barely made it into the unisex rest room, tearing at each's others clothes, with Whiskey riding piggy back since she couldn't use her legs. The panting and gasping like chubby children running a mile could be heard out in the food court.

"Your hoo-ha is drenched."

"Don't even get me started on how vaginally excited I am right now. Use your digits to play with my pink slip and slide."

"I think I am close to ejaculation."

"Not yet hold off on letting your seamen flow, wait until I reach my moment of excitement too."

"Too late."

As Malarkey zipped up his britches he got a call on his walkie talkie.


"Malarkey are you there over?"

"This is Malarkey, go ahead."

"We got another victim, you better get over to the skating rink."

This had to stop, these murders couldn't go on, Marlkey was sure if the killer kept killing and no one stopped them, why they might kill everyone, and Malarkey was pretty sure that was a bad thing.

"I'm on my way, have a rainbow sno-cone waiting for me when I arrive."

"Don't go Bull, lets be in an intimate relationship again."

"Babe, from this moment on I'm a one gal guy, but if you come around somtimes and I'm kinda lonely I bet we could do things to each others private parts on occasion."

Bull left a weeping Whiskey to go pick up her recently cleaned Star Trek memorabilia.

To be Continued...

Ode to the Schnozz

I could pick you all day
sitting in traffic, what the hey

I'll just tighten my buckle
and dig in to the knuckle

Hoping for a krusty,
stared at unjustly.

First with the index
feels as good as sex.

Up my nose
upon passion's throes.

Got one hooked on a nail!
It leaves a slimy trail.

Grabbed one that was gooey.
Pedestrians think me screwy.

I love the pleasure
nothing else can measure.

I hope digging for gold
never grows old.

Life's full of bad,
but picking my nose is rad.

Judge me if you must
for me, it's picking or bust.

Bok Bok

For Kalisgirl, sketches chronicling a chicken's growth:

More in the link: http://kip.miekeroth.com/kip/?p=4#more-4