But why was the vampire roommate at White Castle if he hadn’t been forced into temporary homelessness by drunkenness, like the catbear was? It’s an alarming question, but the slice-of-life nature of this strip begs you to answer that on your own. I hope you’re suffonsified with this very special five parter. There’s some genuine emotional complexity hidden in these piss and pissed jokes. No seven tier strips next week. No urine. No more beer for Catbear, except when he tastes low dose samples of the Catbear Catbeer he’s going to brew and sell around Chicago like he’s the ice cream man. The kind who pushes a cart, not the kind who drives a truck, but he will have music instead of a bell. I’ll listen to that truck music all fuckin’ day, but spare me the honking and the bell-ringing! If I wanted to hear a constant, offensive noise devoid of meaning I’d turn on Fox News. Zing! Topical zing! Where’s the ice cream man at 2 AM, when I’ve finished the day’s comic and need to reward myself with low-temperature sweets? God damn, I need a drink.

Zzz…Catbear, why are you sleeping here? Huh? Oh, I was too drunk to find my way home, so I decided I’d live here. At White Castle?! Oh, I guess that makes sense. Zzz…

© Brock Rizy 2010

Ya gotta be pretty drunk to come to the defense of hipsters. That magnificent panda sweater is based on a true story. The broad on the right is the second hottest woman I’ve drawn this week. The catbear doesn’t even notice that she wears his likeness in a tattoo on her right arm. You didn’t even notice that he’s grown demon horns. Drinks tossed down the catbear’s throat listed in the order depicted: Can of shitty beer. Cosmopolitan martini. Sailor Jerry’s rum. Jägermeister. Absinthe. Yes, I call women “broads.” That’s something you’ll only read about in period fiction before too long. Like driving cars that aren’t self-propelled on magnetic roadways, slipping notes written on paper under doorways, or eating food that results in bodily waste. Cherish the opportunity to hear somebody say it while they aren’t acting in a stage play or an unrated independent film (because in the year 2023, the MPAA will never let that word slide by without an NC-17 rating). Cherish it like Madonna cherishes the thought of always having you here by her side.

Updated! I’d originally written it so the guy in the panda sweater, who is similar to but legally distinct from the talented songwriter Roy Ivy, spoke one of his song lyrics in response to Catbear’s rant. I balked because I didn’t want to borrow his words without consent (and I didn’t want to spoil the surprise of a guest appearance), but now I have his permission, so, like Prego, it’s in there. Follow this link to listen to the song, Wish There Was a Drink That Would Make Me Undrunk.

People hate hipsters, but I feel a kinship. They don’t just dress like they’re doing laundry, they dress like they don’t have laundry to do. It’s commonly believed that all hipsters are trust fund babies, but I’ve never met any hip, rich bitches. People with money bathe. That self-righteous prissiness is overcompensation for insecurity about being so poor and ridiculously dressed that they have no sway! Everybody wants to feel important. And ya know what? It’s 2000 years later and we’re still not any closer to conclusive evidence that there even is a god!

Current Music: Uncle Albert by Paul McCartney

Current Mood: Solipsistic

© Brock Rizy 2010

Nothing to add.

Lady, do I come in the ladies room while you’re doin’ lady things like insertin’ yer tampon with gentle glide plastic apple-cators and writin’ gossip notes on individual toilet paper sheets? Git out da men’s room! You’re on the L train.

© Brock Rizy 2010

Catbear barely knows who he’s talking to at this point. He hasn’t even noticed that the rat playing the French Horn arrived.

I’m headed to some Wicker Park bar to meet up with some hipsters. Anyone wanna go? No. No. Maah. No. No. No. Fuck no.

© Brock Rizy 2010

Because catbear is really fat! We’re not just talking Garfield fat. He’s like, Oprah fat. Sorry, I meant Orca. Wait, which one is the TV talk show host who does a lot of humanitarian shit with her billions and probably doesn’t deserve to be made fun of?

Part 1 of 5. It starts out so, so pleasantly.

But, do you remember that scene in The Grapes of Wrath, when that guy at the camp is warning the too-optimistic Joads abou’ goin’ ta Californie, tellin’ ‘em it ain’t goin’ do no good ’cause they ain’t jobs enough and fertile land wudn’t bein’ farmed (I’m paraphrasing). He’s saying that he went out there and not only did his two kids die of heart failure, shiverin’, bellies all stuck out like a pig bladder, but it took losing his wife to realize there was no hope. Reading that reminds me of the feeling I get right after the evening’s first shot of Jägermeister.

Are you okay with this photo? It’s going to show up any time you call. So long as it doesn’t make me look fat. Oh, uh…I don’t know if the iPhone runs Photoshop yet.

© Brock Rizy 2010