Hi, this is a comic strip saying that a father didn't show his son pornography when he was a child. Have a great Sunday, everyone! Bye!
Slylock Fox and Comics for Kids
"Max, you're puzzles are terrible. I barely even had to try with this one. Now, my girlfriend, your girlfriend, and I are going to head to that lighthouse. I've always wanted to do it in a lighthouse."
Karen Moy and company are making vicodin sound amazing. I want to take some vicodin and experience what Tommy is feeling. Vicodin: It's Makes Everything Better!
This is the city. Redemption City. Built in the Middle East as an apology for western colonization after World War III, there are a million stories in this city and this will be one of them. It was two in the morning and most of the city was asleep but the Northern Karaj Harbor was bustling with activity. In one of the warehouses, two men, one with a handtruck approached a massive crate surrounded by five other men.
“That’s a big crate,” one said.
“Filled with the finest drugs in the Middle East,” the one with the handtruck said. “Let’s take a peek and make sure our cargo is still intact.”
They pried open the lid to the crate and moved the various fruits covering the drugs to the side. “They look safe to me,” the one chuckled. “That’s some big-ass fruit in there.” The man looked away to grab the lid.
“Yeah, like you’re so petite,” a voice said, coming from the crate.
The two men looked down and saw a pineapple and banana pointing guns at them. “You’re under arrest for drug trafficking” the banana said. Other officers began rushing into the warehouse surrounding the men and the crate.
“Good work, you two,” Chief Morse said as he bent down to shake Pineapple and Banana’s hands. “This definitely puts a dent in the Great Pumpkin’s empire.”
“Maybe for a day. Within 24 hours, he’ll have twice as many drugs as this out on the street,” Pineapple said, despondent.
“We’ll get him, Piney. This is a huge start,” Banana said.
“In other cases, there’s one that we would like you to take a look into,” Morse said.
“What is it?”
“A missing person. I’ll give you the details when we get back to City Center.”
“They do when the missing person is brown,” Morse said as he walked away.
Decades ago, when Persia was created from the ruins of war-torn Iran, Iraq, Turkmenistan, and Afghanistan, the constitution included preference to Islam. Persia was split at the Karaj River into West Persia and East Persia. One government controlled the country as a whole but each side had their own governments but appointed delegates for the country to serve as the overseeing government. The chain of command was further complicated by the President and Congress of the United States being very involved despite Persia being a wholly sovereign country. The preference to Islam was given, again, as an apology.
“So who are we looking for?” Banana asked.
“Shanzay Younan. 17-years-old,” Morse handed Banana a picture. “She’s been missing for a little more than a week. Local police has told the parents that they are looking and investigating but the parents aren’t so sure.”
“Local police?” Pineapple questioned. “She didn’t go missing in Redemption City, did she?”
“Is that even in our jurisdiction?” Banana asked.
“We cover all of the District of Wisconsin and Mieville is in Wisconsin,” Morse said. “You are going to have help on this case.”
“Help? Why would we need help?” Pineapple asked.
“Mieville is a small town and they may not take lightly to answering questions from pineapple and banana detectives from Redemption City,” Morse explained.
“Who is it?”
“Caitlyn Bilko. She just transferred from New Assyria.”
“Bilko. Where do I know that name?” Pineapple thought.
“Probably from my father,” a voice said. “His picture is hanging in the hall of heroes on the way to department.”
“Edmond Bilko, of course,” Pineapple said.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Banana said, extending his hand to Caitlyn and using his charming voice.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Caitlyn accepted.
“Here. Let me get you the case file,” Morse said. Caitlyn stepped toward the desk.
Behind Caitlyn, Pineapple smacked Banana on the arm. What are you doing? he mouthed.
What? She’s cute, Banana mouthed back.
Just because you are shaped like a dick doesn’t mean you have to act like one.
Banana was taken aback. How dare you, sir. I did not choose how I look.
“Are you two coming up with a strategy for looking for this girl?” Caitlyn asked, noticing their gesturing and mouthing words.
“Yeah,” Banana said. “Just bouncing ideas off each other.”
I love the look of panic on Lucky Eddie in the second panel. "Oh, no! She doesn't like earrings!! If I lose her then how will I be able to fulfill my fetish of the top half of a woman and the bottom half of a fish?"
I'm going to be honest. Zombies are the stupidest movie monsters. Nothing about them makes sense and I find it hard to believe that something that shambles around could be perceived as a threat. As for what is the superior era of movie. That's all opinion. My school of thought is that the classic horror movies had to do more with less. They were able to accomplish a lot of things with limited technology and, in a lot of cases, limited money. Modern horror movies rely on 'jump-out-your-seat' moments and use technology to impress the audience and, to me, that causes the writing to suffer. Bottom line, in my opinion, classic movies are better but there are a lot of modern movies that are really well done.
Ryan and Max walked down the road toward the creek where they always hung out. Ryan was only a week away from turning nine and he was getting excited about his birthday. "Are you going to have a party?" Max asked. "Invite some friends over, get a giant cake, open tons of presents?"
"It'll be a small party. I'm only turning nine," Ryan said. Ryan and Max had been best friends since Ryan was born. They had always hung out together and they knew everything about each other. Max was there when Ryan got punched in the eye. Max was there when Ryan got run over by a bully's bicycle, Max was there when Ryan was thrown up on while riding the bus. Max was generally unable to help Ryan avoid things like that. While Max could talk and touch things, he was also just a cat.
Max was a tangible figment of Ryan's imagination. A lot of kids had them. Ryan, as an infant, created an orange tabby cat who could talk and who wore a leather jacket. The two of them arrived at the creek and began climbing a tree and onto a platform that Ryan and his friends had built in it. It was supposed to be a tree house but no one really knew how to do that so they settled for just a simple platform.
"So what are you deciding?" Max asked.
"I haven't decided yet," Ryan said. "It's a hard decision. You're my best friend but I want to be a filmmaker."
Max lowered his head. "We should finish the tree house," he suggested softly. "Remember Shelby? He had that club house thing in his backyard and you were scared to climb the ladder into it?"
"I was six. It was really high up," Ryan said, as they sat on an unguarded wood platform at least twenty feet off the ground. "I think it would've been nice to finish this tree house but it's too late now. The three of us barely fit up here anymore."
"Remember our detective agency?"
"How could I forget? We had to make up mysteries to solve."
Back in second grade, Ryan and his friends started a detective agency. They spent several recesses solving made up mysteries out on the playground. They tried to make it work but it ultimately failed like so many other eight-year-old business ideas. It did give Ryan story ideas that he wrote down and thought would be good movies when he got older. Ryan enjoyed writing and had been praised by teachers since Kindergarten about how inventive his writing was. His writing had been encouraged by his teachers and parents so it was something that he truly believe he could make a future out of.
"Hey, Ryan. Max," shouted Alex, one of Ryan's friends. Alex had turned nine a couple months ago and with his birthday, his imaginary friend, Toro, a cow with the head of a bull, disappeared. Alex climbed the tree and joined Ryan and Max on the wooden platform. "What are you guys doing?"
"Just talking," Ryan said. "Remember our detective agency?"
"Yeah," Alex chuckled. "It was terrible."
"Did I show you my new story about our detective agency?" Ryan suddenly remembered. "I finished it a couple days ago."
"No. I can't believe you still write those," Alex said.
"Come on, let's go to my place. You can read it and then we can go over to Aaron's," Ryan said. The three of them began to climb down the tree and began walking back to the neighborhood of houses. "My Mom bought me this comic book. You should take a look at it. Maybe you'll like it."
As they all walked back to Ryan's house, Max thought about everything he had been a part of in Ryan's life. He thought of when he was first created. It was interesting to see that he was a normal cat, just able to talk and wearing a leather jacket while other kids had combinations of animals, hybrids, odd-looking humans, amorphous blobs. It was also interesting that this boy, who didn't necessarily need an imaginary friend, had one. Max thought about the eight birthdays he had witnessed and when Ryan learned to ride a bike. Ryan learned to ride a bike just last year and did it without training wheels because he thought that a seven-year-old with training wheels would look silly. Max thought about all of this but knew what was going to happen. Ryan had a bright future in creativity ahead of him and Max couldn't be the one thing to stand in his way.
Well, it's finally over. The man who said that Mexicans were murderers and rapists (some are good), the man who said he has the best words, the man who has insulted just about every single person in the country, is the Republican nominee for President of the United States. It all happened on the fourth night of a convention that is supposed to focus on party, policy, the VP, and, on night four, Donald Trump. Instead, every night consisted of him in some form. Whether it was introducing his wife, Melania, or appearing live via satellite, or casting angry glares at Ted Cruz, Trump made each night about himself, something that no other candidate had done.
Mixed in with those appearances were grand spectacles of absurdness. From two survivors of the Benghazi attack reenacting that night, to Chris Christie mock trial of Hillary Clinton, to all the fearmongering that everyone and everything is going to kill us. It is just amazing how many people live with all this pent up fear and hatred. Meanwhile, in between trying to convince us that we're all going to die unless the nominee is elected (note that they rarely used Trump's name), they tried to show us that he is a family man, a well-respected businessman, a caring and compassionate man, and someone who is qualified to be president. To me, they tried too hard and it sounded more like they were convincing themselves. The anecdotes of him conducting smart business deals were boring and pretentious and, frankly, pointless when talking about using those skills on leaders of the world. Even the speeches from Trump's own children rung hollow with Trump both giving his young kids business advice before they hit puberty and communicating with them through notes.
Even Trump's own acceptance speech, running longer than any other acceptance speech in the last 40 or so years, painted the United States as a dark and dying country. Is that really what Republicans think? It's too bad that they can't see the forest for the trees. Our country's not perfect but what is? It baffles me that someone, who could be the next president, could be this dour, this insulting, this offensive to the country we love and be applauded.
Nothing I say will change the mind of someone determined to vote for Trump. You hear his anti-just about everything rhetoric and think "Yep, I'm gonna vote for that man." More power to you. I'm gonna go with someone more upbeat about our country. Someone who knows our country has problems but doesn't blame them whole groups of people just because they don't like them.
Is Janet supposed to Jan-In-the-Pan from "The Brain That Wouldn't Die"?
It was shocking that they were able to get her, tied and helpless, onto the cross. Chants of "Burn the witch" echoed through the stadium. Attendees who had left hours ago, raced back to witness history in the making. The crowd of people passed the cross over their heads toward the center of the stadium where wood and paper had been placed, ready for the burning. The witch, part stoic, part humored, shouted out the fallacy of their platform but her screams fell on deaf ears, which it had for the better part of the last decade. You couldn't reason with these people. They had decided that she guilty, that she was a witch, and should be burned.
Her trial was done in absentia, off the cuff, and performed by a rotund lawyer more suited to be a circus ringmaster than a legal scholar or a judge. The jury consisted of a stadium filled with people who hated her but were routinely considered her peers. The self-proclaimed judge shouted out claims of illegal activity with the crowd following each claim with "Guilty" whether or not she was or not. The claims had already been decided but this crowd didn't care. They wanted someone to be punished for what had happened.
The cross, with the woman still bound, was placed upright on the pyre, chants still echoing. She continued to be stoic, continued to be reasonable, but she was drowned out by cheers, applause, and chants. It was such a surreal moment for the people watching. How could this be happening? How did this get out of hand? Why such the hatred and fear?
Several torches were now being passed around and, one at a time, they were thrown on the pyre. The flame grew up the paper and wood and licked the bottom of the cross. Soon, the fire made it's way up. It lapped at her feet, which tried to kick away but were tightly bound. The fire spread up the back of the cross and then in an amazing spectacle, her entire lit into flames. A bloodcurdling scream erupted from her and the applause grew thunderous. Soon she was silent and they watched, for hours, while she burned.
The smoldering embers of the pyre, cross, and woman remained in the stadium after everyone had left for the night. The woman, clothes completely burned off, her skin either melted or completely missing exposing bone, some strands of hair still clung to the now-burnt skull. Her binds had burned off and she had fallen into the fire but she was still alive. She slowly pushed herself up and into a sitting position. She walked, staggering and stumbling, across the stadium floor and to the outside. The warm air singed her burnt skin but the pain would pass. She would also catch her bearings soon and, except for the skin and hair, be back to normal in time.
She got back into the groove fairly quickly. She had hid out for the next week trying to make what was left of her body presentable. Luckily, she had a team that could help her do that. Before she knew it, it was her turn at the stadium but nobody knew what would happen. She had went up in flames. Everybody in the world saw that. A well-dressed man stood on stage in front of a crowd of thousands similar to those that had tried to end her. These people were rooting for her. Despite everything thrown at her, these people still considered her a better option than the orange-faced subhuman the others had chosen.
The well-dressed man spoke for nearly five minutes before introducing her onto the stage. "I am pleased to introduce, for the first time, the nominee and future President of these United States..." he shouted her name and she came out. She came out to thunderous and echoing applause. They had tried to stop her at any cost but she wasn't giving up without a fight.
I don't know if this is a throwback to 1950s modesty or what but I see girls as young as Dot and younger in two piece swimsuits. Well, I don't necessarily see them, but I notice. Well, I don't notice, I just...Let's move onto The Born Loser!!
The Born Loser
Best case scenario, someone spends the time digging you out of the ground so you won't spread. Worst case scenario, you're just run over with a lawn mower.
The storyline currently going on in Funky Winkerbean is that some sad sack needs a specific pen in order to do his art. I get it, I use a specific pen as well, but he was unable to find one that he could buy immediately except from a site in China. He ordered those pens and it turns out that they are trapped on a boat in the harbor due to a dock worker's strike. So now this sad sack and some other dumb mope are attempting to storm the ship in order to get his pens. And I don't even know if writing and explaining all of this is worth it just to show the first panel of today's strip.
Randy woke up the next morning, ate a breakfast of eggs, sausage links, and toast on homemade bread with Rosie, and then left to get a better look at the town. Wednesday only had a population in the double digits, around 70, Randy thought. Most of the businesses were made of brick and was tucked in a valley but with a slight view of mountains in the distance. Randy had to admit that it was very beautiful and very peaceful.
As Randy walked down the street, he glanced into the radio station window where someone was broadcasting. He was good-looking, long-haired Native with bright brown eyes. Randy had never seen eyes like that before. Randy stood and watched for awhile and finally, the guy waved him in.
Randy went into the building and into the studio. "...We'll be back in a moment after a two-fer from Huey Lewis and the News," he hit a couple buttons and took off his headphones. "Hello, I'm William Peters, you can call me Billy. Are you Randy Brubaker? The author?"
Randy blushed. "Yeah, I'm staying here for a few days."
"Great. Would you mind doing an interview?"
Billy had a cute smile. "Yeah, sure. Why not?"
"We'll go back on the air after these songs and I'll just ask you a few questions. I'm not prepared so they should be fairly easy questions."
Randy laughed. "That's good. I am not good at interviews."
"You'll do fine. We still have a couple minutes until we go back on the air. Are you staying at Rosie's?"
"Rosie's a good woman. Her, Holton, and Phyllis practically keep Wednesday alive all on their own."
"I'm sure you help. Your voice going out all over central Alaska," this was Randy's version of flirting.
"They bring in the money, I don't do anything but talk and play music. Is there anything that I should steer clear of? Any topic that you are not comfortable talking about?"
"I don't think so. If there is, I'll just go silent, take off my headphones, storm out of the studio, and sue you and the station."
Billy laughed, though it was clearly slightly fake, "Well, I'll try to be neutral. We're back with a special guest in the studio, Randy Brubaker. You may know that name from the best-selling novel 'Stroke Girl' about a high school girl who suffers a stroke and how she coped with it. He's staying in Wednesday for a little bit and he has been gracious enough to grant your simple radio deejay an interview. Randy, how did it feel when your book became a best seller?"
"It was amazing. I honestly didn't think it would go anywhere but the publisher seemed to have faith. There's a small part of me that wishes it didn't but it has actually brought attention to young stroke victims so that's a good thing."
"Awesome. Where are you from? I detect some sort of accent."
"I live in California so I'm from there but I was born in Kansas. Overland Park."
"Kansas. So Wednesday may kind of look like home," Billy laughed.
Randy chuckled. "No, I'm from Overland Park, the second largest city. The city also only goes back as far as the 1950s so it has nothing this old there. For that you have to go to Olathe or Lawrence. Shawnee Mission."
"You heard it here, Wednesdians, if you want a Kansas vacation head to Olathe, Lawrence, or Shawnee Mission."
"There are other places to go. My old high school friend, Brian, would know more about where to go."
"And look up Randy's old high school friend, Brian, while you're at it. Last question, would you be willing to come back tomorrow or just before you leave to give us your impression of Wednesday?"
"Uh, sure, I guess. So far it's been pretty good. One of the main reasons I'm here is to rest and get my brain juices flowing again. Maybe Wednesday will inspire me."
"Well, I hope it does. It inspires me everyday. Just let it envelope you and take you away."
"Sounds like a drug."
"Only legal," Billy said. "What song would you like me to play?"
"Got something by Billy Joel?"
"Sure do," Billy grabbed a record, replaced the Huey Lewis one, and moved the needle to a groove. A piano started playing and Billy dimmed the music and took off his headphones. "See? That was easy."
"It was. Wish all interviews were like that."
"Give me a day or two and I can come up with some hard questions. Really make you squirm."
"No, I think I'm good," Randy said. "I'll see you around town?"
"Always. I'm usually on the radio. I'm the only deejay and I get pretty much the run of the studio."
"That's cool. I'm going to explore the town more. I'll see you around."
"See you, Randy."
"See you, Billy." Randy left the studio and went back outside. "Maybe this jerkwater, backwoods Alaskan solitary confinement berg will provide some inspiration after all."