Yesterday I mentioned that there’s one Funky Winkerbean character that I loathe almost as much as Les. Well, speak of the Devil, and his horns appear.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Harry L. Dinkle. I have no idea what the “L” stands for, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it stood for “Les.” Two more horrible characters cannot be imagined. Oh, you can talk about your John Howards and your Darrin Fairgoods, but for my money nothing is worse than these two. Thank whatever God you hold that they have, so far as I am aware, never worked together.
Like Les, Dinkle is filled to the brim with his own self-importance, and is convinced of his own brilliance. Unlike Les–and I can’t believe I’m saying something favorable about Mr. Moore–he makes no attempt to hide his sense of superiority behind a mask of false humility. No, the act of sad-sack martyr is not one that Dinkle assays with any regularity–not when he can play the smug, pompous blowhard with such aplomb.
Look at this creep, who has managed to write a third volume in his autobiography, smirking about “culture.” If he was speaking of “culture” in the sense of a mass of deadly, flesh-eating bacteria, he is very close indeed. The one bright spot is, weighed down as he is with books, it demonstrates that he has sold none of them, meaning that the citizens of Westview are at long last awakening from their long slumber and are no longer going to put up with such fools.
Just kidding. They’ll all die alone and afraid. And as the oncoming darkness surrounds them and enshrouds them, and the lights go out all over the world, they can smile to themselves, and think, Ha ha ha, I only bought the first two volumes of that bastard’s life story.
I win!
And the final curtain goes down.
Remember 
Son of Stuck Funky 
