Haha, no. It’s April Fool’s Day.
Sorry, have a comic:
Haha, no. It’s April Fool’s Day.
Sorry, have a comic:
I’ll catch up with everything I’ve gotten done at Man Cave soon (and boy are there loads of it), but this is too cool not to share: fifteen minutes in Heaven with Grant Morrison, talking about next week’s Ultra Comics, general description of The Multiversity, and what he’s got cooking with Wonder Woman.
Oh, and we compared Ultra Comics to The Monster at the End of This Book.
I couldn’t get him to confirm that Captain Atom saves President Harley though. I NEED that to be the case. Unfortunately, it would collapse the quantum state of that issue’s heartbreak. (Pax Americana might be the best single issue of a comic in the last twenty years.)
Did I ever show you this? I was hired in 2012 to draw a nice fellow this picture after describing the “Holy Trinity theory” to him that I talk about in the intro to that interview. In fact, I think I’ll go add it to the article.
Thank you to my Cracked secret santa for this incredibly cool mug of my alternate column banner. I am delighted by it. And it even uses the alternate banner to the column, which I drew after the one on Cracked.com, but editorial and I both felt simpler was better.
And now I have it on a mug! I can drink tea out of my Cracked mug and coffee out of my GB mug and let them fight it out in my belly! Productivity, here I come! Thank you, Secret Santa.
I still owe another dude a drawing of himself as a mosquito from like…a year ago, but i have to finish some comic work first.
Once you’ve had a Mago Barca, which, PS, I invented, you’ll never enjoy anything else. Except a banh mi. Or a grinder. Or the Mackenzie. Or…dang, man, there are just too many incredible sandwiches to be had. But I began the manly catalog of them with Damn Good Sandwiches for National Sandwich Day.
Since Maxim‘s gone bloodless and removed their voluminous content from their site, it falls to me to remind you that there are just 27 days until you can gnash your teeth into the greatest thing America’s invented: the gobbler! Here’s my article for them, which I rescued, because I am wonderful and handsome. (more…)
I praised whiskey over at Cracked today, because somebody wanted to offer me money to do that. I mean, I was doing it anyway, but now I’m doing it in public.
Here, enjoy some bonus content from when this article was all about scotch rather than whiskey in general:
Scotch = self-awareness
And that’s why Scotch is the best thing to come out of Scotland since plaid and until Craig Ferguson.
The greatest living American.
For what is a man? Behold the Ferguson, the very portrait of masculinity. For hath he not suffered, sunk, overcome, risen, and conquered (and that’s just his hair)?
Yea, though he no longer indulges the amber kiss of the highland drink, he doth be the model of a man, taking the honest measure of himself in drops of Scotch. Sometimes it’s none. Sometimes it’s this entire bottle I keep under my pillow in case I need Scotch to kill your mom’s morning breath. The point is, masculinity is impossible unless you know yourself, your needs, your limits.
And if a guy whose name means “Son of the Angry” can drink and/or not drink his way to well-being, so can you.
Even his clan motto is “Stronger after difficulty”
Lesson learned: it’s not what you drink, but how you hoist it. Funny you had to drink Scotch to learn that.
Scotch! To warm the body, soul, and heart. You are once again alive. Though a stiff wind batters the door, you have a happy hearth and the louse-obsessed poetry of Robert Burns to keep you well.
Yea, the night is long and dark and the wind will rip the heat from your bones. But ye are tucked in your home with Scotch and strength, and you abide. For there is a secret to happiness that only the Scotch-drinking man knows, and it is — hang on, the results are in on what makes a man …
According to this, it’s “his ability to nurture eggs with prolactin after the female’s ovipositor deposits them into his brood pouch.” Hunh. Turns out the definition of manliness is “seahorse.” Tough luck, everybody.
Except you seahorses. Good job.
So join me in raising a glass to seahorses, the centaurs of the ocean. There is much we can learn from them about what makes a man, and we’ll do it with a drink in hand. We may grow up, and we may even let death happen to us one day, but we’ll never get old, for we are preserved in Scotch.
Brendan’s pretty happy he can now write off his bar tab as a research expense. Toast him on Twitter: @BrendanMcGinley.
Want to keep the classy booze flowing? Raise your glass to Martini-a-Go-Go!
Kill your darlings.
I’m kind of known for my freewheeling associative intros in a comedy article, but sometimes you need to get to the point. This intro did not do that. Too much foreplay, not enough sex, as the case may be in this Joanna Angel interview:
Back in April, we asked her 10 weird questions, and it was good. But can you ever really get enough of Joanna Angel? All of our porn-science says no. Then it removes its glasses and opens its lab coat to reveal very little clothing. Porn-science is the best science. Except for maybe science porn. Oh man, what if pornographers and scientists got together to make a scientifically educational porno? Let’s get Neil DeGrasse Tyson on the horn and see if he’d host it.
Anyway, here’s everything else I’ve been up to:
Telenovela star Paola Nunez and I had a very fine chat about life in Miami vs. Mexico, and how soap operas relate to national culture.
I reviewed the DC book you absolutely must be reading, plus a couple others in in Reviews: Grayson, Batgirl, Sabrina.
I interviewed Marvel’s Jordan D. White about the upcoming all-star line of Star Wars comics.
All in all, I’m having a real fun time.
What have I been up to at Man Cave Daily? Oh, so much. I celebrated the bottled-blonde holiday that is National Blonde Day with the specious Weird Facts about Blondes that Make Them the Best Girlfriends.
I rolled out of a plane for research purposes. This is the catalogue of my thoughts while falling at 120 mph.
I asked 10 weird questions of Rock of Love‘s Jessica Kinni. I also had a really nice discussion with adult actress Siri about feminism, pornography, geekdom, and cosplay.
I made merry commentary upon many DC previews:
And lots more from further back that I never mentioned here before. I’m going to start curating all my MCD stuff on the site. Something old, something new, and eventually I’ll have the full catalog.
I’m back at Cracked! This week’s article is about people who either lacked talent but succeeded BECAUSE of it, (not despite, which would describe most of the Billboard 100 who are just ciphers for the music industry execs to make the records they want to make) although in editing the title got changed to 5 Star Performers Who Never Let a Lack of Talent Stop Them. If you want to kvetch about Tiny Tim, for example, I would reply to you that the distinction is lost in the title change, and that was not my choice. But I understand its reasons. A snappier headline always cuts to the quick of the internet.
I wrote this article fairly quickly, then suffered through a month of trying to think up a fifth person before it hit me. Aborted earlier passes are below. I thought of doing silent film star Clara Bow, who suffered through talkies, but that’s not really fair, since she got deservedly famous and then blindsided by changing technology. Besides, rumors of her Brooklyn accent being problematic are mostly exaggerated.
Screw you, history. Clara Bow was an ass-kicker.
For many of you, GG Allin is a familiar name that embodies the true essence of punk. But for the sane among you, he was a guy who used to slash his flesh and rub his own feces into it. And holy quivering E chords was his life screwed up.
For starters, his birthname was Jesus Christ Allin, because his dad was convinced the original article had told him to name his son after J.C. the First.
I quit this one for a lot of reasons — I didn’t want it to be all musicians, GG Allin’s music isn’t amazing, but it’s half-decent punk for its day. And sure, he was more performance artist trying to elicit a reaction, but…I dunno, it didn’t feel right.
Canada has given us so many wonderful rappers Drake. If you’d asked the average radio listener to name one Canadian rapper prior to his rise, you would hear the name Snow, and nobody really knows what Snow is. He’s more of a reggae toaster with frosted tips.
Chuggo is not a success. He is about to get out of prison and his biggest claim to fame is when the entire internet gathered round to laugh at “C’mon, Fuckin’ Guy.” There are many people famous for making terrible music, but only Chuggo managed to join their ranks while looking like a level boss from a Turbo-Grafx 16 game.
Again: musicians, and I wasn’t sure what separated a Chuggo from a William Hung or even 3/4 of the Black-Eyed Peas. They’re just people who got lucky/unlucky in an era that made it possible to spread their name. Florence Foster-Jenkins was a real achievement, because it took work to get famous for being terrible back then. And anyway, I couldn’t find a fluid way to credit K-OS and Saukrates, Canadian rap’s greatest treasure, and keep the snappy patter.
I wrote a new piece for Man Cave Daily on the interesting facts behind french fries’ history. Our best food is actually one of our most intriguing!