I bet you money that the original name these guys picked was “Daft Cunt”. I bet you money. Who ever heard of a “daft punk”?
Louis C.K. said it’s okay for me to say “cunt” on my site. Take it up with him. But why would you have an issue with that, and not the dick in the ear above?
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Speaking of “did I own that once”, did I actually have one of those eyeball webcam dealies, as seen in the first panel? I might have. I really don’t care for webcams; there’s one sticking out of the front of my laptop screen, and it’s like staring into the optic sensor of a killer robot. I’m on the verge of putting duct tape over it.
“Ned’s Atomic Dustbin”, like Toad The Wet Sprocket, comes from a Monty Python bit. You’ve got internet, you go dig up which ones. I’m at work.
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I later found out the reason behind Yorke’s eyes blinking out of sync and I really should’ve just kept my mouth shut. I doubt he gives a shit however.
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I admit this ain’t one of my strongest. Can you feel my contempt in not even bothering to draw the covers? I was pressed for time, but I also figured there was no way I could accurately render them at that small size. (I draw very small.)
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Originally published on Mike The Pod in July of 2003. G4 was launched in April of 2002, and broadcast until the end of 2014.
For some reason there’s this channel we get called G4. It’s about video games. So far everything I’ve seen on it has ranged from abysmal to truly soul-crushing. The people behind it must realize that folks tend to play video games on their TVs, so there’s really no call for a channel about them. There was some show on yesterday called “Portal”. I think it’s what they’re using to interrogate captured Al-Qaeda, because after about forty-two seconds of it, I was confessing to all sorts of stuff. It’s kind of like those god-awful sitcoms on public TV that are designed to teach foreigners English, but without all the wit, verve, and rich character development. Like a 7th-grade drama club amok in a television studio. (Kids Incorporated, anyone?)
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Police- a subject of much discussion these days. Some claim to hate them. Society cannot function without them, but what does that say about society? And can you believe they used to be a band?
I admit the “white people ripping off reggae” jab was a bit harsh, but I never said I was fair. I certainly wasn’t when it came to depicting my hair and acne. Continue reading
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No, not Peter Bagge’s HATE. I mean that ’90s comic book you’ve never heard of.
A short-lived little funnybook called DROP DEAD, which any fool could see was inspired by Bagge’s neat stuff. Some kid who called himself Matty Boy Anderson was barely out of high school when he started cranking out copies, and timidly mailing them to review periodicals like Factsheet Five, and cartoonists he admired, such as Bagge, Roy (Trailer Trash) Tompkins, and Evan Dorkin.
It began in 1993, when self-publishing meant a trip to Kinko’s. The black & white interior was cheap to print (and fun to huff), but full-color covers were expensive. So typically an office color-copier was secretly abused for free, someplace prior. With a book stapler, you were all set to collate and fold your comix. This is the way it was done. Plus, not sinking your life savings into a print run left you more open to trading, which is also the way it was done. When you submitted your publication to Factsheet Five, you indicated whether trades were welcome. If you did, you found yourself with quite a “zine” collection, very rapidly.
It was actually pretty grand. Continue reading
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I used to call myself a horror-movie buff in the 1990s, so I’ve heard all the grievances about “scream queens” and “final girls”. And, you know, those complaints worked; now every female protagonist in movies is an unstoppable “badass”. I saw the recent space drama Gravity, and I was mystified why so many people disliked it. Then I looked into the details; modern audiences rejected a Sandra Bullock who freaks out and cries when things go sour. Never mind that it’s part of a character arc; females must always be steely and in control.
Well, like so many aspects of modern film, that’s boring. Another victim of political correctness in movies is the Girl Who Can Scream. The scolds among us will suggest that men get a perverse satisfaction out of seeing women in jeopardy, but that’s only the perverts. For the rest of us, it’s a human fire alarm, when it’s done right. It signals that things are really, really bad. They even used to put it in the trailers.
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