Issue #493DF546

Octopuber 35th 3044

Misery of Spirit
Hey kids and parents! This is a sensitive and deeply felt series of comics. The booklet reads like a shard of glass being jammed into an eye socket. Then the glass sliver swims laps around the pupil of the eye, graceful like a sole synchronized swimmer.

Made from 100% destroyable paper.

My Process I'll tell you a little bit about what happened when I had an awesome idea for a comic. It was so awesome that I instantly imagined this killer fuckin' guitar solo that was like bending the strings like power chords in my mental synapses. The ear drum liquid that is all up in my ears was boiling, at 100 degrees Celsius, at 212 degrees Fahrenheit. While I was busy imaginarily hearing this, above me I saw a flock of pterodactyls being annihilated by the most bad ass patriotic fire works show. The wing-ed dinosaur skeletons were lighting up all red white and blue as they burst into flames that spelled out the word 'fuck'. God bless prehistoric America! This action was surrounded by a semi-circle of trumpets that were complimenting the guitaring by shooting forth naked angels-godessess. They were all covered in blood and badass tattooes. The tattooes were like a face being chewed off by a motorcycle or like a queue of monks walking off a cliff like lemmings. So, they're all masturbating to the climax of the guitar trumpet song. They are all, ya know, squirters. They are squirting out this waterfall of delight into a giant blood shot eyeball that appears in the foreground. I could not tell whether the giant eye was my own staring back at me. Cascading off this waterfall of squirt was the sweetest, most fine smelling mist ever. The beads of tears running down my face were either condensation, or I was crying. The tears were clawing at my face, freezing at 0 degrees Celcius, at 32 degrees Fahrenheit. Anyway, right as it felt like the existential bliss of all my evolutionary ancestors was cumming on my face, Jesus Christ burst out of my chest cavity, like in that movie Alien. He nimbly climbed up my torso and sunk his vampire teeth into my neck. My subconscious was questioning why this messianic-parasite that just emerged from the uterine warmth of bowls would require the nutrients from my neck. Ahead of me, the giant eyeball began to morph into a giant velvety cunt. Appearing in the sky, a thermonuclear warhead plummeted into the awaiting, quivering vag... and then oblivion. So, while I was imagining this, I forgot what my idea was.

The Story of Chumbah Bones Dude, they are all over the beach. Fuckin' bangin' away on Chumbah Bones. They are a tribe, living in huts. Big ceremony tonight. Get your best Chumbah Bone. Gonna need it. Where do they get their Chumbah Bones? From dead ancestors? No. From slain enemies? Also, no. They get them from some boring-ass animal. The animal is, like, sacred to them. They hunt the animal in the tall, tall grass near the beach. So, is the ceremony meant to appease the Chumbah spirits so that the the next hunt will be bountiful? Not really. The Chumbah Bones ceremony is like the only thing that goes on. Then its over. It is sort of like a social thing for the tribe, except most of them just get pissed off and bored by the end of it. Then the tribe just goes back to dicking around and doing other tribe stuff. So, there's this kid in the tribe. He's all nervous for his first Chumbah Bones ceremony. I mean, fuck him, right? Get some real problems. Fuckin' nervous. But, he runs away because he's a pussy and doesn't wanna fuck up the ceremony. By the way, this ceremony is all about banging bones around. It is not a big deal. Regardless, he runs into the tall grass where they hunt the Chumbah Beast. Let's just call it the Chumbah Beast. Let's not over estimate the creativity of the tribe. He runs and runs beyond the grassy lands. He runs further than anyone in his tribe has ever run. Which isn't really that far. The distance just isn't that impressive. Then this tribe child runs into a gas station. And he's just hanging out there. He's thinking, okay, so I got away from the Chumbah Bones ceremony. The bright fluorescent lights of the gas station are too harsh at first. But once his eyes adjust, the lights bring clarity. He looks at all the shit on the shelves. He learns. He learns about windshield wiper fluid. He learns about Bic lighters. He learns about the ATM machine. He learns that hitting all the ATM buttons without an ATM card doesn't really do anything. The little tribe boy thinks. He realizes that it is the same with the Chumbah Bones. The bones are like a bunch of buttons. And banging the bones is like pressing the buttons. And the nothing that happens after the Chumbah Bones ceremony is like the nothing that the ATM machine does. So, the little boy ran home as fast as he could. His mouth gulped air. His feet whipped through the tall grass. He stumbled to the ground more than once. Crashing to the earth merely increased his fervor. He kicked up sand as he darted onto the beach. He was determined to give everything he had to the Chumbah Bone ceremony. But nobody gave a shit. No one even noticed he was there. The ceremony that night was just another fuckin waste of time. There was this one guy there. He was a village elder. He barely even banged his Chumbah Bones together once. But there are some who say... that if its a special time of night, when the local gas station is open, but no one is around... if you hush up and use the ATM machine, you just might hear the distant sound of Chumbah Bones. Also, that little boy was malnourished. His agitated state of mind was probably caused by poor diet. And you know what? He's fucking dead now. His tribe did not offer a sustainable way of life. The End of Chumbah Bone: The Story Chumbah Chant Chumbah-uh-uh-uh Chumbah-uh-uh-uh Bang those Chumbah Bones Feel those hunger moans Chumbah Bone delight ATM machine mechanical device Chumbah-uh-uh-uh Chumbah-uh-uh-uh Chumbah-uh-uh-uh Chumbah-uh-uh-uh Feel the Chumbah Bones Stayin' home alone ignite ignite goodnight Chumah Bones cathedral set up Chumbah-uh-uh-uh Chumbah-uh-uh-uh

Chumbah Bones The Story: Part II Maschishka Obama, President Barack Obama's daughter, places her homework down on the desk. She just finished the assigned reading of 'Chumbah Bones'. The smell of freshly cut grass from the white house lawn wafts through an open window. The scent had helped her imagination along during the story, even though she knew that cut grass would have a different smell than the tall, wild grass that grew beyond the Chumbah beach. She turns and looks at her father. He is sitting near the warmth of the fireplace, smoking a pipe. He sets the pipe down, picks up a hammer and sickle, raises them over his head and screams, I am the Great Satan of the USSR! Then six hundred and sixty six tormented souls fly out of his cavernous mouth. Mashischka smiles wanly. Her father is trying too hard again. She wonders if Chumbah Bones ever felt the same way. Fin. Finish.

Paid Advertisement Billy breathed in some fresh air. Well, he was definitely outside on the street now. Charlos the salesman walked up to him. Charlos was wearing some really modern type clothes. He was boarding on like fifty skateboards at once. He had a really mega awesome wristband too. He was drinking a drink manufactured by corporations. Charlos the salesman said, Hey man, I'm raising some interest around the block by speaking up about exploding your bored ass tastebuds with sweet fruit citrus-flavored carbonated-flavored flavor time. I'm all up in some goddam asshole's face about it. Slam some of these green and orange soda drinks down your throat hole and open up a new degree of liquid-a-tude. Drink this motherfucker down like you just spent your baby's medicine money on it and now your baby is dead. Quench your thirst while the baby corpse gets processed at the morgue. You know we be makin soda go pop pop. This soda exists in one form or another. Take out your credit card and melt it down with a melting lens, then pour that plasticky goo down your puckered throat in preparation for the smoothest goddam soda fever ride. Dude, nuclear fuck your face up. This soda will bring you to your bloody kneecaps like a starving sweatshop orphan, making proper soda all day and night in a dimly lit factory. No goddam modern education in sight. My name is Charlos. Drink this fucker to stabilize all the atoms in your weak pathetic body. Your body is a temple, desecrate it with some soda. Every molecule in your body will vibrate at the same harmonic resonance as carbonation. Pop pop fizz fizz. What an existential transference it is. Normal commercial convincing time: Hey, friend is your throat parched? Try a delicate sip of helpful harmful drinky fizzies called Active Waste Energy Drink. Billy cautiously considered purchasing a can of drink. Did he have enough coin? He gently patted his pocket with his hand. The soft tinkling sound did not help him estimate the value of the coins in his pocket. Meanwhile, Charlos the salesman jammed ten thousand soda filled syringes into Billy's eyeballs and obliterated all of reality.

I decided to challenge myself with a writing prompt that I just made up. I would alternate between writing a sentence about boobs and a sentence about genocide. Burning Nipples/Burning Genocide The feeling of knowing that a great pair of boobs is in the vicinity causes an electric storm of excitement in my brain. The scariest thought is that large, large groups of people are the ones committing genocide. Bouncing boobs is like a gift that the universe gives itself. Genocide implies organization and commitment. Sometimes, it would probably be better if my eyeballs were pinned down in my eye sockets so that I would focus on my future and my goals instead of boobs. I bet the ones committing genocide are terrified of what they are caught up in. A lot of times, I'm not even having any specific sexual thought when I am staring at boobs. Perhaps a culture needs to witness another genocide commit genocide to evolve. I am sometimes merely analyzing the structure and composition of the boobs. Then and only then can the first culture collectively decide that they are better than that. By 'composition of boobs', I am talking about the overall presentation of the boobs. It is difficult to grasp the idea that humanity can't make a basic decision to not kill huge segments of itself. It is easy to become focused on other aspects that are related to boobs. It feels like someone is making the genocidal decision. I like looking at a nice bra strap. But maybe no one is really thinking hard enough to be making any decisions. The strap leads to boobs. Genocide could be caused primarily by miscommunication. I would prefer to see the strap pulled taut. No, the decision for genocide is probably more frequently a tactical one. Pulled taut by boobs that are trying to escape and be free. Genocide is caused by the coldest of logics. Yea, I like boobs that have an agenda, like escape or bouncing. The human mind is elastic and can be bent around the idea of genocide by the madness of number crunchers. Goosebumps on boobs are pretty cool too. Getting down to it and initiating genocide is not caused by idle thinking. The goosebumps imply that the boobs are having physiological reaction because they are stimulated. The victim of genocide do not have time to reflect on it. When the boobs are excited, the girl is excited. They just witness horror and have it sink into them. When the girl is excited, she is ready for my cock to sink into her. Oh shit! I want to titty fuck the shit out of genocide. Lay that motherfucking larger social interaction abstraction down and thrust my frothing lusty cock right between those over-gorged orbs. We all fucking know that if genocide had tits, they would be motherfucking crazy stacked. They would burst into your goddamn face like artillery shells. A little child runs up to his mommy crying. Mommy, is genocide real? Little Timmy down the street told me about genocide, mommy. Tell me he was lying. The mommy pats the child's head reassuringly. She brings her hand up to her neck, begins unbuttoning her blouse. Her massive child-rearing jugs tumble out of her shirt when the last button is released. The child, having never seen a breast since nursing, feels reassured upon seeing the life-giving teet. The mother swings her torso around and tit-smashes the child right in the face. The result is a hairline fracture in the child's skull that extends from his forehead all the way down to the base of his neck. Modern science would describe the visions and nightmares that the child has from then on as a result from the damage to his skull. But in actuality, the fracture was large enough for the phantoms and souls of the genocided to seep in. Into his perspectives.