“Humor is how I deal with tragedy“. I bet Batiuk has used that line a lot at book signings and when newspapers inexplicably interview him. And I’m sure the response he gets more often than not is “Humor? What humor?”.
I really don’t get what “tragedy” Funky is referring to here. The tragedy of successfully having a routine surgery that lots of people get? The tragedy of having to age when you’d rather stay ten in your parents’ attic reading comic books forever?
Oh, and Funky’s joke isn’t funny and really doesn’t work. It doesn’t really sound at all like what it’s supposed to, I don’t think. It’s a pity it’s one of the last things that poor guy pushing the wheelchair is ever going to hear, since he’s clearly about to drop dead.
Tag Archives: wheelchair
Nocturnal Dietitians
So they left an hour after the fair closed…and then drove a funnel cake to the Bedside Manor? How late is it? Our county fair closes at 10:00, and I’m guessing that is about standard. It’s got to be approaching midnight. What kind of nursing home lets people just wander in at midnight?
And poor old Gramps has been abandoned alone in his wheelchair, completely clothed, in the middle of the night. Where’s the nurse on call? The only reason he’s calm and smiling is from huffing the cheap nitrous oxide they slip into his ‘oxygen’ tanks to keep him passive and pliable. What kind of cut-rate elder warehouse is this? The kind where the miserable staff hide from the patients in their break room snitching jello snacks and swapping pills.
I mean, look at the heavy lidded eyes of the lady in panel one and tell me she isn’t baked out of her mind on a delicious cocktail of the nursing home specials, oxycontin, seroquel, vicodin, and Miralax. Dinkle could come marching in with an entire rock band, and she would barely be able to blink.
Filed under Son of Stuck Funky
