Rocco and Gagootz were two clowns I managed down the Jersey Shore years ago. Because they were fraternal twins, I sometimes had trouble telling them apart, but I’m pretty sure Rocco was the one who loved strutting his stuff down the boardwalk wearing just a banana hammock.

Like any other magician, I used a hot assistant as a distraction when I performed my act. I think Jackson was originally just a volunteer from the audience who I “forgot” to un-mesmerize. After a few months on the road, I woke him up and put him on a Greyhound back to his family.

Lately, because of the news, I’ve lost my horny for many male authority figures. Fortunately, there’s still one man in uniform I can still fap to —the noble sanitation worker — the hero who does the dirty work that prevents us from being buried under a mountain of our own garbage.

Sadly, the ACME Clown Shoe Company, the last manufacturer of capering footwear in the U.S.A., is no longer in business. It was sold to a foreign conglomerate after its founder, Boss Dingus, passed away, and his son Skidmark chose not to follow in his father’s (large) footsteps.

Despite getting a bad rap in a certain popular movie, I am completely satisfied with my experience using a One Wish Willow. And my dog Scoot, AKA former local Channel 7 sportscaster Scott Cooper, can vouch for its effectiveness. Five stars.

I made these two happy doofuses for a drag’n drop paper doll game I made in Flash a million years ago. I’m not so skilled technically these days, but I still enjoy undressing clueless bros with my eyes. Sadly, the expensive X-ray specs I recently bought give me nasty migraines.

This drawing makes me think of my drunk uncle Ed’s favorite joke. “Balls,” said the Queen, “If I had balls, I’d be the King!” And the King laughed because he had two. Uncle Ed’s jokes livened up Christmas, although he put a little too much cranberry sauce on the homophobic ones.

Other than my dog Scoot, you don’t see a lot of folks sporting Mohawks in the retirement home for beauticians and warlocks I live in. Occasionally, one of the crew of lesbian landscapers will have one, and that will make me nostalgic for my days as a bootblack at the Mineshaft.

This chum bucket of old merman drawings is glued together with my own special adhesive made from donkeyboy spunk, dogslave slobber, mancow milk, and just a wee squirt of my own DNA. The stinky goop probably isn’t archival, but it sticks things together better than any superglue.

What the brochures for Westworld don’t show is that there are only outhouses for you to powder your nose in once you’re inside the park. Also, I think it's galling to expect people who pay $50k for a weekend of knocking boots with a robot cowboy to bring their own hand sanitizer.

An American dude once mocked me when I told him that cowboys were a thing in Canada as well as the US. In a fit of pique, I transformed him into a midget rodeo clown and sold him to the Calgary Stampede, where every July, he entertains families of Canucks with his Yankee japes.

I might be partially responsible for why the fraternity next door is called the Animal House. I just can't say ‘no’ when a bunch of fresh-faced and shirtless bros come a-knockin’ at my door to purchase a batch of my homemade pixie dust to fuel their weekend bacchanals.

Karens and kink-shamers beware - there’s a whole team of Superfriends dedicated to ensuring that the freak flag always flies high above our fair city. They’re funded by the local chapter of the Velvet Mafia, of which I’ve been a card-carrying member for many years.

For years I’ve I had in the back of my mind this beautiful painting by Martin Wong (1949-1999). I wonder if the buildings were burning if it would be better or too obvious.

A career in mascoting isn’t as glamorous as it’s depicted in movies. No one tells you that the profession is run by a cabal of mean little clowns who love riding a big jock’s hairy ass. Whatever you do, don’t mention that you played football in college on your job application.

I gave up keeping Merman as pets after waking up too many mornings to discover desiccated remains on my hardwood floor. Folks tell me their annoying habit of jumping out of bowls is their way of saying they don’t like captivity, but I think it’s because they’re just not that bright.

Unlike his Master, Scoot really has the semiquincentennial spirit.

At least soldier boy here is in a flag-waving spirit, whereas I just feel like drinking myself into a stupor today. Wake me up in 250 years please.

I felt extra dirty making this image because my dear, old dad was a fireman. I remember the running gag at the fire hall was that one day they were going to turn their fire hoses on the f*gs patronizing our town’s one gay bar, which was weirdly located directly across the street.

I know we’re going through a heatwave right now, but don’t let that make you forget the fact that there are only 176 days until Christmas. I, for one, hope Santa brings me a new air conditioner—I’m sweating my balls off here.

Even in third grade I was a patriotic young Canuck.

Happy Canada Day! Despite having a lifelong disinterest in hockey, I still have a soft spot for my former homeland (especially nowadays). It’s been a long time since I left - so long I remember that outside of Quebec, no one knew what poutine was. Now it’s the national dish.

Did I tell you about the time I went out with a cosmonaut? Although I could barely understand what sweet Yuri was saying most of the time, I didn’t need anyone to tell me how to guide a big Soviet Soyuz into my docking port. Damn, those red rockets were built for long missions.

I maintain order in my compound with the help of a handful of wranglers. You’d think that these partially tf’d hombres would feel empathy for their four-legged brethren, but I think they actually relish restraining a terrified animal while I fire up the ol’ branding iron.

Folks are always dropping off their unwanted animals on my doorstep. I guess word on the street is that there’s a ‘mad’ scientist in town who’s in constant need of lab rats to run his experiments on. It’s helpful, but my kennels are crammed snout to asshole with these bad boys.

Remember boys, even though the song of the summer is “Sun’s out, buns out,” when you visit the beach, you need to watch out that someone or something isn’t going to pinch your gooberheenies. Even your local watering hole can have a wicked snapping turtle hiding in it.

This pic reminds me that I should give my country cousin Cletus a call one of these days. I wonder if he still lures city-slickers out to the backwoods with promises of sampling the regional moonshine. The clueless dumbasses think it’s like going wine tasting in Napa Valley.

I once worked on the ACME Shock Collar Campaign. It was a rare instance of my artistic vision aligning with that of a client's. Their fiendishly clever device is still used to keep so-called human ‘alpha males’ at the mercy of super-intelligent animals, aliens, and midget clowns.

A big-balled doofus getting pranked by his little bully will never not be funny. A singed shitter will heal, but the memory of being fart-lighted will last a lifetime. Indeed, for the rest of his days, this dumbass will have a panic attack whenever he gets a rumbly tummy.