I’ll admit, I’m feeling a bit guilty about this one. I grew up with the Smurfs — watching the Smurf cartoon religiously every Saturday morning, sleeping in Smurf sheets, collecting the little Smurf toys, fa la la la la — and now I’ve drawn this cruel parody… for shame! Somewhere, Papa Smurf shakes his head with displeasure.
That said, I would totally drop some cash to see a Smurfs horror movie!
Thanks for reading. Check back next week for another horror comedy episode of Grinsane.
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.