Growing Up

Now, admittedly, I've been playing Mr. Recluse for the last year – I hardly lurk on boards anymore, I may rummage through my blog lists every moon or two, and my e-mail engine is getting a severe case of cobwebitis.

So it's possible that I may just be out of the loop, and thus very much wrong in what I'm about to say... but here goes anyway.

I think that webcartoonists and enthusiasts are starting to grow up.

Clique, Clique... c'est du webcomique politique?

Walking home with my wife and a dozen tallboys of beer strapped to my back, I playfully babble out some brainstormy thoughts as to how to compare the various webcomic camps to the American Political Beast. Meaghan, much more politically savvy than yours truly (my political bent goes about as far as rooting for the Silly Party), quickly goes on to show how easy it would be to put everyone in type. As I listen to her words and explanations, I marvel at how right she is.

Darling, I think it's time for us to break up.

Tired of hearing this yet?

DRAW.

When Our Leading Edge Sliced Through the Fun Jugular

I wanna charge The Tortured Sympathetic AntiHero with Murder of the First Degree.

He's killed all my fun.

Eggheads Anonymous

We've all become eggheads.

Letter To The Reader

Dear Mr. or Mrs. Reader,

I would like to cancel my subscription to your opinions.

Dawn of The Drawing Dead

They don't crawl in the dark alleyways, the creaky old houses, or on the secluded tropical islands of this world, like you'd expect. They don't come from Transylvania, from Haiti, from Raccoon Town, or from Raimi's little rundown shack in the literally penetrating, deep woods.

The Story of Syndie-rella

Once upon a time... there lived an unhappy young webcomic. It was unhappy, because its webhost mommy was dead, and its daddy domain had decided to marry a giant stepPanda in her stead. When she moved in, the widower Panda brought along stepchildish ambitions, and neither liked the webcomic one bit.

Draino for the Brain

Ever have those moments when you can FEEL a major gushing feeling inside, as if your brain and soul bladders were ooze-bursting with those five pitchers of creativity you just chugged down last night while watching some TV show, reading a good book, or being out on the prowl with your posse?

Knowing that the dam's gonna blow anytime, you rush over to your desk, pull out a sheet of instant paper porta-potty (or perhaps you're more of a Windows WordCrapper 2000-kinda person), unzip your mind to whip out your "ballpoint", and then...

...nothing comes out.

Welcome to the painful condition known as Creative Constipation.