HALLOWEEN HIGH JINKS

UTTER FILTH

LIP LOCK

BLUE BEVERAGES

I see that my colorist at Universal Press Syndicate is still into blue beverages. The last time it was blue beer.

Now it's blue milk.

NOW SHOWING ON TCM (TURD CLASSIC MOVIES)

JOURNAL WORLD

MIDDLE-AGED WHITE GUY MONDAY

HOSSY AT THE BAT

The outlook wasn't rosy for the Mudderville nine that day;

The score stood one to nothing, with one batter more to play.

The manager was desperate, as he fiddled with his ascot;

He was out of decent hitters, so he called upon his mascot.

The crowd could not believe their eyes, as the horse approached the plate;

Was this some wacky highlight reel Marv Albert might create?

But a plan that first seemed murky, became gradually quite clear;

And the strategy looked more brilliant, with every sip of beer.

Then from a thousand drunken fans there rose a lusty call;

It rumbled past the Burger King, it rattled through the mall.

"Knock it past the bleachers! Knock it past the rooves!"

For Hossy, mighty Hossy, held the bat between his hooves.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the ozone;

It whooshed right past the batter's box, like a Corvette through a tow-zone.

But Hossy just stood watching it, as still as drying paint;

"One strike for you!" the umpire said, and the crowd called out, "It ain't!"

The second pitch was just as fast, a spheroid out of Hell;

But Hossy was as static as the son of William Tell.

The ump, who was a Frenchman, yelled pretentiously, "Strike deux!"

Sarcastically, in unison, the crowd yelled, "Sacré bleu!"

"Disembowel the umpire!" yelled a nun behind the dugout;

Though Hossy couldn't disagree, he didn't want a slug-out.

Two thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hooves with dirt;

And they knew that this time Hossy's bat woud not remain inert.

The drool is gone from Hossy's lip, replaced by an Elvis curl;

He pounds his hooves upon the plate, and lets his tail unfurl.

And now the pitcher grips the ball, and now he let's it zing;

And now the smog is shattered by the force of Hossy's swing.

Oh, somewhere in the Universe, a gaseous orb burns bright;

A TV's showing Mr. Ed, and somewhere hearts are light;

And somewhere mares are laughing, and somewhere ponies shout;

But there is no joy in Mudderville - mighty Hossy has struck out.

FULL FRONTAL SATURDAY

MORE SCRATCH PAPER MELODRAMA

SCRATCH PAPER

MERCIFULLY SHORT INTERVIEW

As long as I'm reprinting original content from Hogan's Alley without permission, here's another little Q&A I did with them in Issue #14, back in 2006.

FULL CIRCLE

My third cartoon to appear in MAD magazine is in the new issue, and being in MAD is still a kick for me, since I read it as a kid. (In that particular way, it's more of a kick than being in the New Yorker, which I did NOT read as a kid.) An added kick with the current issue is the fact that it contains some Mort Drucker art, so I'm sharing space with an early cartooning influence of mine.

Back in 1995, Issue #2 of Hogan's Alley ("The magazine of the cartoon arts") ran a 2-page Q&A spread in which they asked a bunch of cartoonists the question, "Who was your first favorite cartoonist?"

I named Mort Drucker.

MIDDLE-AGED WHITE GUY MONDAY

WAMSUTTA

OBSCURE SPORTING EVENT

MONSTERS

TODAY ON DR. PHIL…

PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE HOSTS AND THE GUESTS WHO ARE ANNOYED BY THEM.

Join Dr. Phil McGraw as he tells his guest, Joe Blow, "No need for you to call me Dr. McGraw and for me to call you Mr. Blow. We're all equals here. I'll call you Joe, and you call me Dr. Phil."

Joe Blow: "Can't I just call you Phil?"

Dr. Phil: "We're equal, Joe, but we're not THAT equal."

THE HAPPY BUNYON

MORE SUPERMAN YUCKS

MAN OF STEEL

MIDDLE-AGED WHITE GUY MONDAY

CRABALOCKER FISHWIFE

SO SAD ABOUT MELVIN

SOUNDS REASONABLE

ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER BUM

MIDDLE-AGED WHITE GUY MONDAY

YOUR SHELL OR MINE?

MORE ASKING HUMOR

DON'T ASK, DON'T TELL