Look, it’s been a weird week, okay? So you’re getting weird art. Tornados to the north and south of us. Windstorm here. Ripped off my parent’s chimney and broke four power lines. (But everyone, everycat, and everymoo in CBHville is safe.) Weird.
Continue reading “All Gory, Lard, and Horror, to you Repulsive King,”I’ve tried to be patient about this, and I warned everyone back in December that I wasn’t going to allow this to happen to SoSF, but I’m just about at my wit’s end with the incessant “Crankshaft” patter. “Dinkshaft” is brilliant, and the parody strips are great, and I don’t even mind the cow posts either, but the long-winded discussions about Ed, Lillian, Pm, Jff and the rest of that sad-sack sorry lot of unfunny elderly goons has to be dialed back a few notches, at the least. Sorry, but I’m not going to continue to grease the gears behind the scenes to provide the world with a platform to discuss that piece of crap. Now, I don’t want to be overly hostile about it, but this is Son Of Stuck Funky, not Crankshaft Korner. Either stay on topic, or I’ll shut the whole thing down. This is the final warning, folks. You’re either with me, or against me. That is all. For now.
Today’s Dinkshaft Double Feature is brought to you from the pen of Chuck Ayers, the words of Tom Batiuk, and the diabolical mind of TFH.
(Do you know what a blizzard at the end of March, right in the heart of calving season means?)
(It means you only get an Anniversary TimeMop cover today. And I get to finally sleep after a day and night of coddling chilly newborn calves.)
This time last year, we here at SOSF were celebrating 50 years of this silly strip by exploring Act I and wondering if Funky Winkerbean would ever end.
Now here we are, a year later, watching something neither alive, nor really dead. The current Funkyshaftverse wearing old Crankshaft’s skinned face. A strange zombie creation. Ailing siblings grafted into one. Horrifying, reverse-engineered, conjoined twins staggering limply from one ashen grey, putrescent yellow, and sickly blue plotline to another.
And yet, this new amalgamation was born 51 years ago. So let us mark the day.
What rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Centerville to be boring?
(You see that up there? That’s what happens when you make parody strips on Nyquil, kids. Don’t mix Phenylephrine and Photoshop.)
Continue reading “Dives within Dives”
Son of Stuck Funky 