Happy New Year to all the beautiful nit pickers out in beady eye land!
Yours truly got a thrilling late Christmas Gift to ring in 2025 in style, laryngitis!
But I haven’t just spent the last week shuffling around the house while my voice gradually grows from the faint dying squeals of a drowning bag of field mice to the brassy honks of a trombone entering puberty. I’ve gotten to work on the year end Crankshaft report, gearing up for Cranky Awards Season coming soon.
So! For all you data and lore obsessives out there!
Hope you all had an awesome Christmas and a beautiful Boxing Day. I had originally hoped this post would go up Christmas Day. But I let that dream die, as on a foggy Christmas Eve I sat alone at my kitchen table, building a massive wall of unfrosted cookies like I was running on a platform of Make Baking Great Again.
I spent Christmas Day being hostess, and the days following recovering from the insulin shock resulting from the three pounds of assorted baked goods I’d consumed all at once.
But, finally, a Funky Winkerbean Christmas post I’ve been baking up for a while.
WARNING: LES MOORE ARCHIVE APPEARANCES EN ROUTE. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. THOSE WITH SENSITIVE STOMACHS AND WEAK CONSTITUTIONS ARE ADVISED FOR THEIR OWN SAFETY TO USE DISCRETION.
The sickening mess of regurgitated Dinkle glurge of the last two weeks has finally, (and hopefully only briefly,) broken BJ6K. I shot him an email this afternoon, asking if he had anything cooking, and the reply I got was as defeated as a starving spider trapped in the bottom of a slippery bathtub, crouched over the drain, exhausted and silently begging you with all eight of its beady little eyes to finally turn on the spigot.
I’m thankful my mom bribed me with 200 dollars cash to bleach wash my older brother’s warcrime of a bathroom ahead of my sister and her ever expanding army of giggling, tripping-hazards from arriving.
I’m thankful for the stubborn resiliency of 80’s era plastics that allow my fat ass to crouch sit with my nephew on the vintage Little Tikes picnic table we hoarded in an old hog shed for thirty years for just this occasion.
I’m thankful for the current grocery store price war going on in my town that made it so I could transform ten cans of green beans and this pile of processed dairy:
Into this glorious tapestry of saturated fat:
All without mortgaging my action figure collection.
I’m thankful for this wonderful blog. And all the readers and commenters who have supported the SOSF crew in the last two years as we transitioned into a new form. I’m thankful for your patience. Your enthusiasm. Your passion to deep dive, discuss, and dissect, and snark.
I’m thankful that Batiuk has let slip that the abysmal horror of modern Crankshaft will be continuing for at least another year, so I have another year to spend here with you.
And I’m so thankful that Batiuk has promised that soon the full Funky and Cranky archives will be on GoComics so I can stop emailing myself photos of physical comic book pages.
And yet, I’m also thankful for those bulky, overpriced monuments to one man’s hubris. And also so thankful for that silly old coot himself, whatever his ignoble fall from the dizzying heights of average.
Son of Stuck Funky 