It’s a cartoon!

He’s just a Skynyrd fan

The following doodle originally appeared at Progressive.org:

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So I got some DMs the other night about my last post:

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“Atheists are arrogant,” says half-bright comedian

C.K. does his impression of Rick Santorum

Life in Buffalo is a relentless shit-show. Unless you’re excited by awful sports teams, there’s not a lot of quality entertainment around, so on the rare occasion a comedy genius rolls through town you go. You just go. And for two hours you get to forget you live in Buffalo. Sadly, not very long into his set, Louis C.K. did a bit that left me acutely aware of where I was, how much I overpaid for my ticket, and why our species is so utterly fucked.

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The Horrific Speculation Continues!

(Read Part I here.)

Chris Christie

First Republican Governor of New Jersey since 1988. “Tough-talking” and vulgar in the cathartic way that sad, white, middle-aged men generally respond to. Currently falling out of fashion with some GOP hardliners for conceding that a debate about gun control should at least exist. Also not-well liked because he seemed to genuinely enjoy working alongside the Commander in Chief following Hurricane Sandy. Like many middle-aged men, he will go out of his way to profess his taste in music. Being from Jersey, Christie has a love for Springsteen (he weeped like a child after receiving a post-Sandy hug from The Boss). He’s apparently never listened to the lyrics of a single Springsteen song. He’s also very fat.

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LET THE HORRIFIC SPECULATION BEGIN!

After nearly four years of watching an estimated $6 billion shat away in what we were told would (once again) be The Most Important Election in Human History™, an increasingly impoverished American populace turned out an estimated  57.5% of eligible voters to select one of two guys to be president.

With President Obama now safely at the helm for four more years of Democratic Party-led warfare and austerity, we’ve all returned to our regularly scheduled apathy. Yet, like Christmas, election season seems to come earlier and earlier each cycle. Therefore, to keep you ahead of the curve, here’s a rundown to many of the GOP’s so-called presidential frontrunners who’ll plague our television screens and Facebook feeds for the next four years.

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This cartoon originally appeared at the Progressive.

Murphy, seen here, punching a Predator drone

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***

Doctor Moreau

and…

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“Hey, boss! I didn’t get any toilet paper.” The 2:30 – 3:30 lockdown is imminent. And so is potentially explosive mud-butt.

“Hold your horses,” says the guard, bolting through Echo block. “I’ll get you some.”

“Thanks! The booklet says…” I trail off. He’s gone. The booklet also says I should have a pillow. Nope.

“Lockdown!” he shouts. That’s our cue to gtfo of the common area–a little hallway between a long set of bars and our individual cells. The block’s split in half, with 10 or 12 cells on each side. There’s only 3 other dudes in my half.  I welcome the solitude. The two older dudes are chill, but the younger dude thinks he’s hard, or maybe he is hard. He keeps looking me up and down, wearing an indiscernible expression between “let’s fuck” and “let’s fight.” Maybe it’s both. Maybe I’m just hyper-aware of my asshole because I’ve been damning a river of shit for hours. He’s just trying to size me up, in all likelihood. I cut my own hair last night. Hopefully, it gives off that dangerous-mental-patient vibe I was going for. And Judge Joe Brown does the rest.

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When news of a new David Bowie album emerged in January, I was excited, but also a bit apprehensive. Sure, the idea of new music from one of the most vital, original, and enigmatic rock geniuses to ever walk the earth was enticing, but at the same time, the dude is 66. What if he doesn’t have it anymore, and his comeback effort proves to be the musical equivalent of Michael Jordan’s time with the Washington Wizards?

Thankfully, that’s not even close to being the case. The Next Day, Bowie’s 24th studio album, is brilliant from start to finish, and proves that despite being gone for far too long, Bowie still has a lot of creative juices in him. This is one of Bowie’s more diverse efforts, as he adeptly switches from genre to genre on each song. Lead single “Where Are We Now” is a soulful ballad, a bit reminiscent of his cover of “Wild Is The Wind” on Station to Station, but with more of the atmospheric quality that would mark the Berlin Trilogy era.

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“Bang on that window again, motherfucker, and see what the fuck happens!” the bald cop barks at me.

“But–but,” I turn to my new cellmates, incredulous. “you–he just let me in here to piss! My bail’s been paid!”

“Watch them process you all over again,” one guy jokes–says. “They don’t give a shit.”

Fear washes over me. I was locked in this room six hours ago–the first in a series of seemingly arbitrary cages the pigs herd you through at the Erie County Holding Center. I’d been bussed here with eleven other dudes from the courthouse across the street, handcuffed to a black kid who looked like he was about fourteen. But I can never tell how old black people are. Or how tall they are. I find professional basketball incredibly confusing.

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