Comics by Michael Lowell Teague 2008-2009
I, Hobo Fork, only tip my hat to a lady, Madame. Those who respect Hobo Fork, Hobo Fork respects in return. You see life’s a two-way street. You never know if you will meet the same people on the way down as you do on the way up. This is advice worth heeding, Madame, even if it only comes from a talking eating utensil who happens to be a hobo.
I’ve sprouted hair on my forehead. Is this normal at my age? Can someone go online and Google this for me?
Ya don’t understand. Gotta fan blade. Already got dat part. Don’t need a-nudder. What I need is a box fan wid a motor and no blade. Juz a box fan sold separately widout a fan blade is what I need. It’s a simple question. Been up and down yore summer aisle ten times and seen all kinds of box fans wid blades. No box fans widout blades, though. Maybe you got sum in da back. Sum you ain’t put out yet.
I am the Dream that Dreams Itself. The solution for which there is no problem. The answer for which there is no question. It is not given to you to understand these riddles, only to dare to dream such dreams as dreams are these!
When I win the lottery, I will hire someone to pre-chew my food for me. This person will live in my house and have a chip embedded in their brain. This person will not know my name or how to drive a car. This person will only communicate with me through a third person, who will also live in my house and have a chip embedded in their brain. This person will not be so tall, or so wide, that I will not be able to see out windows when they are in the room. This person must never make eye contact with me, which means they must always walk backwards in my presence.
Let’s run this by the guy upstairs. Gotta keep the guy upstairs in the loop. Don’t want him walking around all night on creaking floorboards, banging on pipes with spoons, and slamming doors all hours. Don’t want the guy upstairs coming downstairs. Especially in his underwear. Definitely not in his underwear.
It’s very therapeutic: beating a hubcap with a mummified reptile. Whenever I feel myself tensing up and worrying about stuff I have no control over anyhow, I just whip out my lizard and beat away. “Make a joyful noise,” the Bible says. Takes some explaining on occasion. Especially to those pesky neighborhood watch groups. They should have better things to do than to complain about me all the time. Last time I checked, the sidewalks were public domain. City poured that concrete.
Your eyes are getting very heavy. All is vonderful. Communism is vonderful. You vill love Communism. It vill be ze greatest thing vor you. (Pay no attention to zat croissant on my vorehead.) Communism is svell. Just vat ze doctor ordered. (Pay no attention to zat croissant on my vorehead.)
I am a cloud. A very angry cloud. A very mad cloud. And this is one very mad and angry cloud who is going to rain on your parade. I’m going to douse your “Float of the First Thanksgiving” and send your rain-blinded shriners on three-wheelers crashing into roped-off spectators. We on the same page, here?
I am the Alpha and Omega: The Mentos and Diet Coke in your carryon luggage. The unassuming Egg McMuffin that becomes a lethal projectile in Category Five wind speeds. I am your driver’s license photo... the wrong ink cartridge in your printer... room temperature milk... the Higgs Boson. I am that I am, and abandon all hope those foolish enough to love and worship me!
Heads up, you lay-abouts. I’ve numbered all the bodily fluids—not including number one and number two, obviously. (They’ve already been numbered. Any smirking fool lay-about knows that.) I’m talking about the rest of them. Check them off the list. While you lay-abouts have been looking busy, I’ve been busy being busy. And getting paid for it in U.S. Treasury notes! Don’t follow me to the bank. Don’t want any of you smirking fool lay-abouts following me to the bank.
There’s oxygen here. Why didn’t you tell me there would be oxygen here when you phoned me? And don’t tell me that you forgot I’m a non-oxygen-based life form. Just like you conveniently forgot my birthday is in April, and that I don’t like Sarah Jessica Parker.
I am sure I said two-percent. But they made this with whole milk. No, no. Don’t say anything. I don’t want to be one of those people. Don’t make a scene. If I can’t finish it, I’ll simply throw it away. No biggie. It’s only ten extra grams of fat—that’s all. I’ll walk it off. By the time we get to where we’re going, I will have walked it off.
Fear not, fair maiden. T’is I, Prancing Comb-over, who has come to lead you, with much prancing, out of the Forest of Your Unknowing. Together, tonight, we will test your lover’s heart and see if it is as true as yours. Come! And again I say come! For there is much prancing before this night is finished!
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