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August 9, 2008· June 4, 2008· December 11, 2007· November 06, 2007· November 04, 2007· August 04, 2007 · June 04, 2007 · May 24, 2007 · May 21, 2007 · April 10, 2007
This blog is in response to a comment left by Shannon (not the 2-D fictitious character but the actual three dimensional Shannon the character is based on). I will start by quoting him, although, it can also be seen below for those of you who seek further confirmation.
“You know...I have to say...There is a LOT of hyperbole in the comics...I'm NOT obese, John. The comics are funny, but for those of you who don't know me...Don't trust everything in the comic...” Shannon.
It is true. Real life Shannon is not obese, I have a crazy uncle that’s never actually locked someone up in a “Fumbly Wumbly”, and I’m also not as stupid as the character based on me (Gary). Although I admit I had to look up hyperbole before I was 100% sure what it meant. It is an obvious and intentional exaggeration, which seemed fitting. I have been obviously and intentionally making fun Shannon’s fatness since high school. Only recently have I found such a wonderful medium to portray such exaggerations in the form of comics. This is exactly what comics are. Humor is often conveyed best in exaggerations. It’s not funny to make fun of someone who is only moderately fat. I know a lot of people a lot fatter than Shannon. So why do I make fun of him? It’s because Shannon is a good sport with thick skin, he knows what hyperbole is, and well, he is kind of an ass. So it’s fun. If I made fun of someone who is actually obese, they would probably kill themselves. Why I don’t I just not make fun of fat people? It’s because I’m also kind of an ass. But probably not as much of an ass as Shannon.
So, we have it cleared up. Comics are exaggerations. Don’t believe them all. In fact, don’t believe most of what I say. I am big on exaggerations, that is what makes me a cartoonist. My friend Dave however does look exactly like a thumb.
You know how when you really want a girl/guy to like you, you try to sit next to the ugliest people in the room, so that when they see you, you become beautiful by comparison? Well, I am trying to do the same thing to my wife, but with baby names. We hope to have a child in the near future, so clearly we are talking about names.
My strategy is this: Constantly suggest the worst names to her for about 4 to 7 weeks, and reject all of hers. Next, I casually mention the name I really want, (Benjamin) and she will assuredly jump on the idea because at least I’m not naming our kid Hindenburg.
I'm not the best writer, but I want everyone else to know what it is like to eat chicken fingers from one of our local restaurants. I will do my best.
There is an energy of pure happiness in heaven. Chicken fingers were carved out of that energy and placed in my Styrofoam basket only to inevitably be put in my mouth where the bits of chewed chicken would procreate with each other and give birth to greatness. Greatness in my mouth. I dip the chicken in the sauce. The sauce can not be described by it's color. It has no color. It is the color of joy. It tastes like all of the good parts of every season. The coziness of winter, the excitement and independence of a summer road-trip, the rustling leaves of fall, and the bright beauty of spring are all felt surging through my tounge and then dissipate to the rest of my body. The salt on my fries tantalizes my tounge as the individual morsels of salt play hop-scotch, jump rope, and play on the swings. The happy friendship soon escalates into more, as the salt begins to discover new feelings it didn't know it was capable of feeling. My tounge senses the love and offers the bits of fries a soft cushion for their love making. I put the bread in my mouth, dipped in the joy sauce. My tounge responds to the passionate cries coming out as bread interacts with salty fry, sauce rushes like a waterfall over chicken bits, bread, and fry and the food begins to experiment with things they never before have. My tounge absorbs their lust, their love, their passionate release as they succumb to feelings they can no longer suppress, and will inevitably leave them with a feeling of daunting, yet somehow, satisfied guilt. I swallow, and my mouth is at peace. It is satisfied. It is wrapped up in a blanket in front of a fireplace contemplating what book it wants to read before putting himself to bed.
President George W. Bush Monday promised his Turkish counterpart that the United States would cooperate to combat Kurdish rebels making attacks against the military units of Turkey. The president made this announcement right before we ushered in November, which brings up the question, "Are we only helping Turkey in an attempt to increase the Thanksgiving holiday spirit?" I wouldn't put it past him, and frankly, I don't thing it's such a bad idea. Maybe he could make a surprise visit to Israel for Hanukkah. I wouldn't be surprised to see the New York Times print a story more or less like this in a another week or so:
"Our military aid in Turkey may just be a small taste of things to come in December. Records show Bush was dissapointed when he was advised he would have to cancel his plans to invade 'Santa-Landia' next month, as he was told that this was not an actual country, but one he had made up and drawn on a map with a crayon last Christmas. He subsequently forgot it wasn't a real country and had developed a foreign policy with it.
Following the cancellation of the invasion on the fake country, Bush called a meeting and asked for alternatives. Bush reacted with hostility to suggestions of 'Following a more traditional route, and hanging up Christmas decorations, and possibly putting up a Christmas tree,' in lieu of changing foreign policy. However, President Bush was calmed when they promised him he could put the star on top of the tree"
I hate my brain. I was trying to think of a way to replace it, but my brain outsmarted me. I realized, as is probably obvious to all of you, that my brain would never let me think of how to replace him. At least my brain wouldn’t, my brain is needy. See, my brain controls what I dream about. Dreams are our escape from reality. The possibilities of our dreams are endless. There are absolutely no restrictions! Last night, I dreamed that I was watching somebody who could type quickly.
Granted, the woman in my dream was typing faster than most people I have seen in real life, is that the best my brain can come up with? I wasn’t even the one typing. In fact, the only thing I actually did in the dream was lean over and say to someone next to me, “Hey, she can really type fast.”
I was very impressed with the typing in my dream. Stupid brain. Why is he letting that impress me? I could think of 7 things right now that would be more impressive:
Those were great ideas. I should be a brain.
Dear A Writer's Block fan(s),
You will now see banners advertising other web sites on A Writer's Block.com that I have posted here as part of a "banner exchange program" that allows me to advertise on other web pages, thus allowing more people to discover and enjoy the hilarity of this website. It is shameless, I know. As I can not control what advertisements are displayed here, I recommend that nobody actually click on them. All that I could control is whether my site was "kid safe" or not (allowing only "kid safe" advertisements) however I think that the CLOWN/STD issue is a little close to home for kids . I also think that a person should be a little older before they start laughing at Lincoln's assassination.
You will inevitably see many advertisements for personal ads, but if you are feeling lonely and thus are tempted to click on the ad, let me suggest the following more successful approach to meet women.
It is a full proof method, you find a nice girl, and you will probably end up learning a new skill. Girls, I have not left you out. I didn't mention you because you don't really need to do anything to find a guy. I just recommend staying away from hobby lobby if you want to meet a sincere one.
A Writer's Block.com has a whole new look! It was a little bit time consuming, but I had alot more free time this week to spend around the house. In fact, because my finace was out of town, I had to come up with all kinds of new activities to fill the extra time, and honestly, I learned quite a bit. Here is a list including some of the many things I learned.
I normally try not to be so personal when writing these blogs, however, I feel like it is somewhat necessary for the readers to be able to, in a sense, peer into my soul. Therefore, I figured I would let you all see my attempt to write one of those really gushy letters to my girlfriend, and her gushy response:
My dearest Sarah,
Thy Lips are like sweaty tuna that twitches and throbs after me. When I look at them I imagine the large heaps of hundreds of dead and dying dolphins that would get caught in the nets searching for a tuna so fine and beautiful.Even though I have never eaten tuna, I wish to tear through thy lips like the editor of the last Ludicrous music video ripped through the footage looking for something that didn't make him look autistic.
The beauty of thy eyes is comparable to the explosion of the challenger. No matter how many lives were lost, it would be worth it for the beauty contained within those speckled glassy sphere-like things that some humans have began to call "eyes".
I feel for thee what Ike probably felt for Tina before the beatings began. I can only imagine that it was probably love.
Thy one and only,
John Reedy
Dear lover,
You are the emu egg amongst all the chicken eggs of the world. If you knew emu eggs like I know emu eggs, you would know that the emu egg is larger and yokier than the chicken egg. And I prefer my eggs larger and yokier. I will build you a nest and sit on you. And while others would try to inject you with growth hormones, I refuse. My love requires no genetic modification.
You are the rescue boat to my indigenous islander unsatisfied with her living conditions. Unhappy with the limited food options of mango and pomegranate, I had eaten the island's former inhabitants. Rendered alone by my own desperate and gluttunous actions, I ranted my frustrations to a nearby palm tree as I resentfully pooped on bamboo leaves. I intrinsically knew there must be more civilized ways of defecating. Your love has brought me the toilet. Once a canabal, your love has shown me the delights of the sandwich, the bowl of cereal, the emu omlett.
You are the Blink to my 182, the Ben Folds to my Five, the Beat to my les.Mad love,
Sarah
This blog will be in reference to the newest cartoon featuring a bowling pin. I wanted to clarify my purpose for having posted it. The reason being because I know that many of you are thinking "Wow, how political of him...he cares about bowling pin rights and is showing America that it is wrong to abuse helpless bowling pins that can't choose their own destiny". However, sorry to dissapoint, those people are all wrong.
If anything, my opinion is quite the contrary. I am trying to show that they are far from helpless and that they could really achieve all sorts of things. But because they were "born" bowling pins, they choose that profession because it is the safest and because that is what is expected of them, so they just do it and live a mediocre life. We could learn alot from this cartoon... Are you living the life of a bowling pin? Now you see, there is alot to learn from these cartoons... Shame on anyone who thought my cartoons would all be as mindless as making fun of clown's with STD's and Abraham Lincoln (that bastard). Now, don't expect me to just lead you to the answers every time. From now on you're on your own, maybe there is "more than meets the eye" to alot of these cartoons. Maybe "penguinocity" is a measurment, maybe he isn't just a clown with aids. Ok, that one I'll give you, he is just a clown with AIDS and ...ha ha...oh...that one still gets me every time.
So my roomate's dog pooped in my closet and I thought it would be funny to put it in the toilet and try to convince him that his 3 week old puppy was toilet trained. However, once I put it in the toilet it just looked like human poop...so now I wonder, you think I could poop in my rommmate's closet and convince him that it was his dog?
So there was a girl I was working with, and everybody always hated her, and finally, she got fired! I was very happy and wondered...hmm...why did she get fired? Was it her constant tardiness? The fact that she was hardly ever at work? Then, I heard someone tell me a story about her. Apparantly, over the weekend she threw a brick through the windshield of a police officer's car. After I heard that story I was pretty sure I knew why she got fired.