Poor Scroda. While brother Yoda was recognized by the Jedi Order early in life as having superior Force capabilities, and immediately flown out of the swamp for additional training, Scroda was somehow ignored and left to drink cheap beer with only the frogs and snakes of his home world to keep him company.
What factor contributed to this grand rejection, he would never know. Scratching his chin in puzzlement, he has watched the universe pass him by for the last 900 years.
HAPPY STAR WARS DAY
…Grinsane-style. And rest in peace, Peter Mayhew, the big man behind Chewbacca, of one the series’ most iconic characters. You will not be forgotten!
This started off as a simple cartoon that eventually grew more complicated as more and more ants entered the picture. Originally the ants were pretty simple but I ended up reworking the comic today to give them more personality — as well as cutlery. Being devoured alive by ants has to be one of the more terrible ways to die, although there is always the possibility of it happening in a beautiful location and enjoying a glorious sunset in the process.
If the joke isn’t quite clear, please note that only one cowboy is capable of actually seeing the sunset, thanks to some serendipitous ocular positioning…
Thanks for reading! Come back y’all next week for another horror comedy episode of Grinsane.
This comic arose from a theoretical question I was pondering while out hiking during hunting season — what if for every 100 deer licenses issued to humans, there was one human license issued to a Predator. The Predator would only be allowed to harvest one human, and it couldn’t be a pregnant female. Would people still go hunting for deer?
Personally, I think the 1-in-100 odds might be a little discouraging to your average person. But bump them up to 1 human per 1000 deer and…
Please leave me a comment if you have an opinion on the matter.
Also, if you think a movie sequel could be made around this concept.
One thing is for sure, under the new rules, hunters would really earn their trophies — if not becoming one first.
Thanks for reading! See you next week for another horror comedy cartoon from Grinsane.
Some Halloween costumes require more than a simple mask, they require the performer to actually become the role. This isn’t a much of challenge if you are already goth 365 days a year and your costume is a witch (and you already are one). But a decent Pinhead, now that’s a challenge. You need more than a creepy Rubik’s cube and a black leather man dress to make a convincing entrance to the Halloween gala. You need galvanized steel and genuine suffering. Fetch the hammer and a box of 6 penny nails.
Always, too, when it comes to Halloween costumes, there is the girlfriend/boyfriend factor. When you have a significant other who loves Halloween, your days of costume independence are over. No more simply picking up a Captain Kirk mask at the local hardware store. You are now a team going forward. If your wife goes as Princess Leah, no doubt you are going as Darth Vader (or at least Luke if you can’t afford a decent mask and six inch platform shoes).
BACKUP CENOBYTES NEEDED FOR PROMINENT PINHEAD
Have you ever worn a costume that you had no say in, that was all your significant other’s idea? Have you ever been someone’s Halloween accessory? I confess, I’m guilty of roping others into my costume theme, most notably the year that I convinced my wife to go as “Tory zombie wife” to match my British redcoat zombie. We were living in Boston at the time, and spent our Halloween in Salem — it had to be done!
Thank you for reading! I’m working on additional Halloween comics as you finish these words — check back next week for another horror comedy cartoon!
I just learned about “manspreading” a couple weeks ago, and knew I had to draw an emergency cartoon on this important subject. I found out about it while reading one of my favorite comics, Bizarro, which did a cartoon on “mansplaining” and, since people no longer know what war is, were tearing one another to pieces in the comments section of the cartoon as if the fate of the free world were at stake.
In the process of mansplaining, femsplaining, and Mickey Spillaining the meaning of meaning of mansplaining to one another, the topic of manspreading came up. In case you don’t know, manspreading refers to dudes who spread their legs too wide in public places, taking up too much space. On the subway, it means riding the train like a horse into battle instead of being nice and sharing with other people.
So yeah, manspreading is really a thing, so much so that the City of New York has signs on the subway telling people not to do it (as well as condemning other acts of space hogging rudeness, like primping ones hair and swinging on the safety pole like a stripper).
Obviously people are pretty upset by this kind of thing, or the New York Transit Authority wouldn’t take precious dollars away from their graffiti removal fund to make signs telling dudes to keep their balls properly tucked. And some women are extra pissed because manspreading represents yet another way in which men attempt to dominate the world by swinging their equipment around. Meanwhile, the ice caps are melting while people fight about this stuff. Welcome to America, 2018.
Personally, I’m not too worried about manspreading. I live in one of the most unpopulated states in the country for exactly this reason. I don’t want to be near your aerating balls, and I don’t want to get a ticket if mine need to breath. Frankly, the fact that New York City has a sweaty nard problem makes me even more glad I live on the edge of a barren desert that has more coyotes and jackrabbits than people.
So allow me to manposit for a moment: if a guy can’t even cool his nuts without generating signage, and a woman can’t get a seat without being ball blocked, are we maybe living a little bit too close together? I was just in New York City, and that place is way too crowded. I mean, we’re talking Koyaanisqatsi numbers of people stumbling over one another, breathing one another’s farts like air, and being squeezed like Tetris blocks into ever shrinking spaces. I went to a restaurant and was literally sat at a table with complete strangers. This is one of those things New Yorkers probably chuckle about and consider charming but, sorry, no thanks, I came for the food not the extra company.
Thankfully, everyone at the table kept their nuts properly pinched between their knees. If they didn’t, my fork was going into action.
By the way, elephantitis of the nuts is a real thing. Do not Google it. Do not. I’m not kidding. You’ve been warned.