Before I begin, I want you to understand that I have no reason to lie to you. I don’t care about alienating the companies I’ll be attacking in the following article because they have nothing to offer me.
The comic book industry I dreamed about being part of since I was a boy is dead. It’s never coming back. It will never recover.
Even if I don’t see the ones who’ve hurt me ever again in reality, I still see them in dreams. That’s how I know I’m truly in the right. My subconscious mind proves irrefutably that I was the victim and they were the abusers. I bear no buried guilt.
In the olden days, a “three-ring circus” wasn’t a metaphor for political chaos; it was real. You could literally smell it. When folks wanted entertainment, they went to the circus.
Each ring simultaneously hosted performances by somersaulting clowns, roaring wild quadrupeds, and their fearless trainers. Despite the sometimes subpar treatment of our animal friends, this was the only place where generations of children saw them at all.
Traditionally, high above the crowd, was a “balancing act”.
I assert the following to be truth. My intention for decades has been to draw a comic strip about it, but frankly, rendering it would be gilding the lily. The story and the people involved are cartoonish enough already.
For longer than I’ve been alive on this planet (or any other), so has MAD magazine lived. I took this as subconscious proof that I chose the right path in life. That there was an artistic point and purpose to living as a satirical cartoonist.
Everyone here has seen Pulp Fiction, right? I’m making an assumption, being that we’re on the Internet, and all. There’s a scene where Ving Rhames forces Bruce Willis to take a fall in a boxing match. He says:
“On the night of the fight you may feel a slight sting. That’s pride, fucking with you. FUCK pride.”