And today we learn way, way too much about John and Becky Howard’s unholy union. She hasn’t seemed all that “intense” this week, although she WAS smirking a lot, so who knows? I do like Crazy’s expression in panel three though, it’s sort of a mix between mild shock and slight disgust, which is totally appropriate given the subject matter. I assume that Dinkle also has a cot in the band room so he can tell Becky how to sleep and when to wake up, otherwise how would she know?
Tag Archives: blizzard conditions
Yes, Harry. We all vividly recall how you invented the concept of “crowdfunding” with your m**herf*cking door-to-door band f*cking candy fund raising drives. Geez, what a windbag. So apparently using a mouse and a keyboard at the same time is no biggie for ol’ Becks, as she’s gotten the Scapegoats Marching Band in on this whole “social media” fad all the kids are into with the phones and such. Honestly (and I’m just speaking for myself here) if I lived in Westview I’d definitely prefer to order my band candy online than to have Owen or Bernie at my door, that’s for damn sure. I mean life in that town is hard enough given the limited dining and reading options and how it snows non-stop for months at a stretch.
Perhaps Principal Nate and the WHS admin staff might want to consider the possibility that Becky’s shitty job performance could be attributed to Dinkle distracting her with his constant inexplicable presence. Just a thought.
It’s only December 2nd but already we see that Olde Westview Towne is nearly completely buried under yet another crippling blizzard. No sooner do they clear the leaves and boom, nine feet of snow. But, unfortunately, it’s not nearly enough snow to keep Les buried indefinitely, as in today’s sad installment he’s geeking out mightily over Xmas wrapping paper, which he doesn’t even need as his “friends” already know they’re getting another copy of the Trilogy…unsigned, naturally. Turns out they’re worth more that way, interestingly enough.
Les’ attic…(shudder). Stacks and stacks of old comic books (which he’ll no doubt sell to Chester to help cover Summer’s eighth and ninth years of tuition) and lots of musty old cardboard boxes labeled “Lisa Tapes 1990-1992” and “Lisa’s Hair- DO NOT OPEN!!”. I assume the unsold copies of his book are in the garage, as they’re probably too heavy to hoist up into the attic and all. Perhaps someday he can hold the world’s most morose yard sale and make a few bucks from those “Lisa’s Legacy 2013” shirts and old bedpans he held onto for sentimental reasons.