Be Special.

I haven’t been able to blog as much lately, because I’m shooting the video portion of a new book I’m doing for the iPad (it’s yet to be decided whether it will be on the iPhone also).  The book will be called “Only the Pearls,” and it will contain my 250 favorite Pearls strips, along with both audio and video commentary.  It’s being produced by Chronicle Books.

To get updates on this, as well as info on how to get signed books and where I’ll be appearing next, please join the fan page I set up on Facebook HERE.  It will make you special.

And please stay tuned for my next blog, in which I reveal definitive proof that I’m insane.

My Son, My Pride and the Immortal Butterduck

I was playing NBA Jam on the Wii with my son, Tom.  We were set to play against an easy team.

Rather than saying something hackneyed like, “This will be like stealing candy from a baby,” I thought I’d come up with something original.

So I said this:

“It will be like throwing pepper on a butterduck.”

Never heard of a butterduck?

Neither had we.

In fact, it was so stupid that it caused Tom to say, “Don’t quit your day job.”

And that’s when it hit me.

That is my day job.

So now when I try to be funny and fail, Tom has a new saying:

“Don’t keep your day job.”

But I’m not offended.

Because I know humor comes easy to me.

Just like throwing pepper on a butterduck.

Fear and Loathing in Dallas

You can’t stand more than two minutes in Dealey Plaza without someone approaching you with a theory.

“The bullet that passed through President Kennedy could not have passed through Governor Connally as well,” says the fat, sweaty guy holding up a diagram of Dealey Plaza as it looked the day President Kennedy was killed there.

“There had to be a second shooter on that knoll,” he says.  I look over at Scott Hilburn (creator of the comic Argyle Sweater), who is with me visiting the site, and we both decide to check out this grassy knoll.

What you find at the top of the knoll is a fence.  So I look behind the fence where the second shooter was said to be standing, but I don’t see anyone.  I figure the odds of finding him are low, but you never know.

I also check for shell casings, but I can’t find any.  I do, however, spot a Fritos bag and a leaking sprinkler.  I want to ask the fat guy how they might tie into his theory, but I don’t have time, because I’m approached by a short, old guy.

“No expert has ever been able to aim and cock a rifle with the speed that Oswald would have had to have fired,” says the old guy.  He too is showing me a diagram.  I want to tell him about the Fritos bag, but I can’t, because before I can start talking, the fat, sweaty guy comes back and starts gesturing like he is firing Oswald’s rifle rapidly.

I try to put Scott between me and the fat guy, thinking that if there is going to be a second assassination victim in Dealey Plaza, I’d rather it be him.

That’s when Scott tries to put me between him and the fat guy.  Soon, Scott and I are outflanking each other so many times we look like we’re part of a Broadway dance show.

That’s when a homeless guy walks over to tell me how the mob, Castro and a gay guy in New Orleans all came together to kill Kennedy.  Soon, I’m so paranoid that I’m suspicious of everyone.

That’s when I realize that one man has not said a word.

I look over at Scott.

“Where were you on November 22, 1963?”  I ask him.

“Not yet born,” he says.

Likely story.