(no subject)
Read this article, and tell me that you're first impulse isn't to learn everything you can find on this comic. If so, then I'm afraid we probably shouldn't be friends anymore. Choice samples:
"I need a coffeepot the shape of my severed head," Marsden says in a phone call to his college's faculty office. This is the opening panel. Rather than question the demand, the blond secretary lets Marsden continue: "If you take a catfish by the whiskers and pull outward it inflates into a life raft. I know this for a fact, Mister Skeleton."
And he goes on: "I'm afraid I'm serious. Bats only attack sick animals, such as your future. Painting leaves green, which were green, complete, repeated and artificial..."
[...]
Further compounding The Caterer's weirdness is that author Jeff Lint never lived. Existing halfway between Kurt Vonnegut's Kilgore Trout and whoever the hell JT Leroy is, Lint is-if I have this correct-the creation of British sci-fi novelist Steve Aylett. Aylett has written an entire faux-biography of Lint, called Lint, which was published last year. According to Lint, Lint ran with the Beats, was trippier than Philip K. Dick, and had a fan in the young Ann Coulter. A representative sentence: "On July 13, 1994, Lint had a near-death experience, followed immediately by death."
This looks like something my ex roommates would write while they were stoned. I mean that as a high compliment (pun not intended, but definitely savored).
"I need a coffeepot the shape of my severed head," Marsden says in a phone call to his college's faculty office. This is the opening panel. Rather than question the demand, the blond secretary lets Marsden continue: "If you take a catfish by the whiskers and pull outward it inflates into a life raft. I know this for a fact, Mister Skeleton."
And he goes on: "I'm afraid I'm serious. Bats only attack sick animals, such as your future. Painting leaves green, which were green, complete, repeated and artificial..."
[...]
Further compounding The Caterer's weirdness is that author Jeff Lint never lived. Existing halfway between Kurt Vonnegut's Kilgore Trout and whoever the hell JT Leroy is, Lint is-if I have this correct-the creation of British sci-fi novelist Steve Aylett. Aylett has written an entire faux-biography of Lint, called Lint, which was published last year. According to Lint, Lint ran with the Beats, was trippier than Philip K. Dick, and had a fan in the young Ann Coulter. A representative sentence: "On July 13, 1994, Lint had a near-death experience, followed immediately by death."
This looks like something my ex roommates would write while they were stoned. I mean that as a high compliment (pun not intended, but definitely savored).