3/2: Electric Bugaloo

You just know that armorer is going to be a dick and make them clean their rifles like, a bajillion times.

That little chaplain's assistant chick is pretty bangin' though. 

 Damn, dude, that's harsh.

There were some concerns that it could have been.

It only takes the merest of encouragement to get me to crank out more of these things. If you enjoy it, I'm glad. If not, well, that's just like, your opinion, man.

Oh Go and Fuck Yourself

Here are some comics that I made that show our fellow Devil Dogs in the 3/2 urinating on the corpses of Taliban fighters. These may make people angry, but that is okay. If you're angry it's the first step to engagement, so there's that. Personally, I have no feeling one way or the other about the 'incident' and have full faith and confidence in the Big Green Weenie's fidelity and ability to bone the everloving shit out of these Leathernecks. Oh well, such is life.

 You and all your fancy goddamn words and learnin' and lookin' down on your bros.

 No one wants to be the guy that falls out and gets picked up by the Humvee in the rear and given the silver bullet.

I never can pass up a good pun.

Fuck All of This

Here is a comic that I made. It features our old favorite, UBL, a character I have not done in a while and so he was feeling neglected and I heard him weeping not so silently in his folder on my C drive. I couldn't help but be moved. 

Anyway, Christmas time is upon us and I must now turn my fevered attention to the construction of the yearly Toche Christmas letter. 

Okay, I Got Lazy Like A Sumbitch

Anyone else here divine the terrible omen that our future is just a mid-season rehash of the pilot "Homo sapiens, That's Not What My Wife Would Say."

Here's the rest of the shit that no one else is looking at so I can be done with it. Pilot episode here. 

Not Shit All To Do For The Next Five Days

I'm looking at a T-give (yeah, I'll resurrect that shit from the Ghost of Bloggings Past) with a high temperature of 70 plus and I'll take this opp (I'm calling opportunities opps from now on [Laid off from your career of 10 years? There's an opp for that. Kaboom.]) The only shitty thing (possible opp) to come from this is that the dogs still accrue ticks like a whore does chancres.

Comics, you say? Providing-eth. Arc-eth begotten here.

WANTCHU TO MAKE ME FEEL

So, yeah. Or should I say, "YEARGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH". Still haven't gotten over that Howard Dean moment. Here is the continuation of the Duke and Rusty saga. 'Bout to post mad grabbage on this here blog, son. 

Apparently some peeps from Russia or Burkina Faso like to check this out. 

Cool Story Co. starts here. 

Pretty Sure This Is A Solid Macro Plan

#OTPL

It's a DOUBLE DIP

The Lord is always looking out for his hos. 

Someone should get this guy some therapy, like, post haste.

Here are some new comics and if I'm not lazy enough, I will post up the continuation of Duke and Rusty later, but now I's gots to write!

ROCK LOBSTER!

Put an old lady in the ground this weekend. Don't feel there's too much to add to that.

Gotta Live My Life

This, all of this, is horseshit.

 Like DMX raps, "We all gots to go, but who wants to be forgotten?"

Steve Jobs died this week. And so a bunch of shitheads took to the internet to honor a man that ramped up conspicuous consumerism and mobilized legions of middle class, aspirants to cool-dom, white kids who desperately want to distance themselves from myriad other vapid and clueless white kids, and too cool for school visual artists who "just can't get the same level of creativity from a Windows-based OS/hardware" (as if MS paint hasn't been the breeding ground of the most innovative minds the innernet has ever witnessed). {Also, I'm making all this shit up, but haters are wont to hate.} 

At first, it slightly sickened me to see this kind of hero worship for Jobs, who was, in all fairness, just some guy who got lucky enough to get famous and then unlucky enough to get cancer and die in a public venue. Then, I just got angry at the stupidity of the masses who think that Jobs somehow enriched their lives with his baubles that diverted our collective attention from the fact that we're lifeforms with a shelf life. So get that new iPod, son. It'll totally make you forget you're harboring the nascent cancer cells that will metastasize and kill your bitch ass. Fucking MacBook Air, gonna give you the immortality you crave! Spend far out the ass in the hopes that someday soon "science", by way of your idiotic purchases, will yield some kind of miracle so you can keep leveling up in whatever shithole forum/game/digital simulation you choose to be a member of. 

Yeah, so fuck it, and fuck him too, because everyone goes and not all of us have the ability, or the good fortune, or the know-how to make bank by exploiting the vast reservoir of existential dread that first world cultures harbor.

Felicia's Grams died on Friday. Ain't a journalist out there going to give a fuck about her plight.

Can't Talk My Way Out of Anything

Hey, yo! Got some new comics for you if you ain't followin' the ole fb! Comics, more like Godmics, am I right? 

Anyway, here's the shit that I haven't done in a while because I've been like, crazy busy, son. Why, just today I wrote a shit-ton, drew some new comics, made a few of these, watched football, got a little drunk, and about to watch the Pack play and have a lil' bit o' the rotgut to help ease me into the Sunday night torpor that we all long for. Fuck all y'all, Columbus Day tomorrow, B, we gettin' mad tight tonight.

Flyswatters and Feet, Erotic Banter to Follow

Somewhere on the internet, footfags are spilling their chunky loads to this pic, right this goddamn second.

There's nothing really to report this week. I've spent all of Sunday sending out terrible links on facebook and feel a little spent. There is no moralizing, no should-dos, no feel guiltys, no any of that all shit that makes you want to tell me to go fuck myself with a bag of dicks. No politicizing, no amorphous edicts that I will decree and then spurn you because of your misunderstanding, no thing. No Nothing.

Nothing.

Packers won today. Cheesehead Nation, UNITE!

Beanbag Chairs and Stupid Stupid Shit That No One Will Ever Care About

So, I got this job. And at this job, I have to work with special education kids and teach classes and talk to teenagers and be the responsible male adult in the horrible world of adolescence where there are no rules and all the people have the spotlight on them at all times and everyone, everywhere is having sex with everyone else except for you and they all know it and rub it in your face at parties that you're not invited to and your dad is such a dick that he won't let you use the car and. and. AND.

 It rules. But it doesn't rule out of some misplaced sense of "Oh, yeah. I'mmabout to shit on all you because that's how it happened to me in high school." It doesn't rule for the money, or the benefits, or for the ability to be the bull elephant in the room for once. It rules for some other, more ephemeral and unsubstantial thing that can't be placed because to name it is to cheapen it and to cheapen it is to get a degree in engineering and just make MONEY and do all those things that you're supposed to do as a white man in a capitalist society built by white men.

It rules because of people like Mrs. Langston and Jones and Fray and all the other people who do God's work and serve and drain the essence of their lives away so that children can go to school and not be beaten or starved or maimed in some awful mechanism that would exist without the current bureaucracy.

Amen.

Falling Into Old Habits Is As Easy As Banging Old Wimmerns

It's the return of the shit. I took a brief hiatus to, you know, get my entire life flipped upside down and now I'm the goddamn Prince of Bel-Air. Not really, but hey, I got a beach on the back end of all the fuckery so it's p. sweet. I've started saying p. for pretty, deal. 

Anyway, we moved to NC again and are loving, and I mean physically (as in a carnal type of engorged member out and penetrating) the beach and all its minutiae: Tools, wildlife, shells, waves, tides, grass, fat rotisserie chicken-looking old women who come there and drink Bud Light in a can with a coozy as they sit around with their men-folk and berate the current Blackness of the Prez, younguns playing in the surf, and all manner of debauches washed away with a suitcase of Pabst and packages, nay cartons of cigarettes.

It has been one of the best and most fruitful times of the old existence 'round these parts.


When we moved, all the Alaska peeps chorused the same refrain, "What are you going to do for JOBS?" I was slightly peeved at this as that question is the one thing people say when they don't want you to go away, but want to pull at the rational strings of your mind because they can't come out and say, "Well, goddammit! If you leave my life will be devalued in some subtle sense that I can't quite place, but to bring up such an emotional thing would leave me feeling like I'm the Asshole, and my psyche can't cope with such a development yet." ANYWAY, I always wanted to tell these peeps, as well meaning as they were, that, "Hey, I've got a nip of the old gypsy blood in me and we've always made out (save for the Holocaust, but, you know, circumstance)."

There are things that happen in your life and you have to take them and ride the wave of it and wash up, somewhere, where things are going to be okay and children happen and lives unfold and myriad upon myriad shitty days pile up into a good life that you're sad to see go and then, and then, it just is the most beautiful and heart obliterating thing to ever grace the human stage.

To all the jobs asking peeps, well, there's no better way to put it than, "The Lord will provide."


And He did.

If We Were All Lyrical Genii We'd All Be Dead By Now

I watched Richard Rodriguez give two talks today. 

I want to kill living beings because of it. 

The injustice of my existence begs annihilation. 

Goddammit, Team Sleep! You're shit isn't helping!

Story starts.