Bizarro is brought to you today by Tiny Pediatrician.
I had a good week in my personal life in that after over a year of living in LA, I finally screwed up the courage to go to the DMV and get my motorcycle and car driver’s licenses, and register my motorcycle in California. She now has a California plate and she couldn’t be more proud. Even more importantly, I don’t have to look over my shoulder constantly for the fuzz. Anyone want to start a bidding war over my old New York State motorcycle plate? I can sign it and draw a self portrait on it!
My first cartoon this week was this one about old age. I’m not anywhere near that age yet, but at the exponentially accelerating rate that time flies, we all will be by this time next week. Seemingly. As my dad says, “Old age ain’t for sissies.”
Most regular readers know that I’m a big fan of cartoons about the Old West. Here’s one now. It is completely fictional but perhaps it really happened and was the origin of the first gay bar in the U.S. Stranger things have happened.
On to the operating theater, this winsome bit of wordplay comes from my good buddy, Cliff Harris, The King of Wordplay. He’s also a retired doctor, but it had nothing to do with a situation like this. Or so he assures me.
Here’s a fun little ditty about a whale. The punch line is pretty self-explanatory, but if you still find yourself out to sea, check out the little evolving fish in the bottom corner. I heard that one or two of my animal-rights friends thought this gag was somehow insensitive to the plight of whales. This isn’t a real whale, nor is anyone with an I.Q. high enough to find their way to a beach going to assume a beached whale is trying to evolve. Lighten up, people. This is why folks tend to think of us as humorless boobs. (Most of us are not. Honestly.) Here’s another beached whale cartoon from my past that is one of my favorite gags in recent years. I call it “Californian’s Nightmare.”
If you’re not familiar with the acronym, “W.W.J.D.” it means, “What would Jesus do?” You can buy tons of products with this slogan on them, including bracelets. I suppose it was popularized to get teens to feel guilty about sex. I suppose it works from time to time but it would work a hell of a lot better if (god?) hadn’t instilled in us such a powerful and overwhelming desire to spread our genetic info.
Our last cartoon of the week (except for my Sunday cartoon, which will appear in the next post) is about good ole Fred Flintstone, who used to stop his car by dragging his feet. Woe was he.
Until tomorrow, stay crunchy, Jazz Pickles.