Nothing like a good old fashioned fry-up to burn off excess flesh and keep your stomach bubbling. Happy Friday the 13th for those who celebrate (I assume by watching horror movies). To everyone else, watch out for falling safes, rickety ladders, and machete wielding maniacs.
Although the subject is fried food (or fried dude?), I confess to grabbing a bit of low hanging fruit today with the caption as well as the parody burger joint. I don’t recall Crystal Lake Burgers in any of Friday the 13th franchise movies, but it seems like a plausible location in the F13 extended universe (teens gotta eat!).
Apparently they won’t let Freddy Krueger speak at “the other conference”, so he had to form his own — FRED Talks. No idea what the acronym FRED stands for, but you can posit a guess in the comments below. If you’ve seen the A Nightmare on Elm Street movies, you know that Freddy is never lacking for something to say, so he has no problem spinning up new expletive-laden presentations full of creepy ideas and bad puns. This differs markedly from many of his 80s horror movie colleagues who have remained deadly silent over the years, keeping their motivations and methods to themselves. Selfish bastards.
FRED TALKS 2020
Just a few items from the upcoming schedule:
Manufacturing Your Own Razor Gloves
How to Turn a Pretty Boy Into a Waterbed
Jungian Symbols in Your Nightmares
Dreaming of Waterfalls, Or Why Did I Pee The Bed?
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!
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.