I bet Dusty knows all about crazy insurance claims and riders.
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Comic
2374 comics.
Marvel comics used to (maybe still does) publish a comic called “What If”. In one issue, the story revolved around Conan the Barbarian in modern-day New York (because if anything is going to happen like that, why would it ever happen anywhere but modern New York) and Conan beat up a guy with huge muscles, saying that his strength didn’t come from lifting meaningless pieces of metal over and over, but from fighting for his life all the time. I’m paraphrasing a lot of stylish dialogue that was spread over a couple of pages, of course, but I guess you get the idea. Hubris, whose stamina comes from horsing around and risking bodily injury on a regular basis would have an easy time outrunning anyone whose endurance comes from time spent on a treadmill. Or me. He could definitely outrun me. Running’s not my thing.
When the man say, “Run”, you run.
When the man say, “Talk”, you run.
When the bird say, “Rawwk”, you run.
See why it pays to stay in shape?
Well, that there is that. You can’t tell the players without a scorecard, and if the last three of ’em all belong on the same team, well… the scorecards were all smudged with funny color paint anyhow.
I guess if Paste could contain his mirth at his mom being chased by a devil bird, he could have sniped his way into the top three at least, but nooooooooo.
Today’s cartoon was supposed to come BEFORE yesterday’s cartoon. The NEXT cartoon I post was supposed to have come before yesterday’s too.
Sorry ’bout that.
Sorry for the delay. Yesterday was crammed with stuff, and I thought this cartoon was up already. Yikes.
Anyhow, Enis has some particular idea about being in charge, that I don’t think employees at other branches of the flow chart feel reflect the way things actually get done.
Shelly seems to be one of those people who get things done without much idea about being in charge.
You may know someone like that.
Also- if you’re here from GoComics! “HI!” Glad you’re here.
Sorry for the misspelling of ‘Patreon.com/hubris’ on the site over there. I’ve been trying to get it fixed, but even people at the syndicate apparently have trouble digging stuff out once it’s in the queue.
I don’t think I’d trust the Cassowary to be intimidated by a net. Or a paintball gun. Or anything, really. Outraged and Baffled, maybe, but not intimidated.
It’s like in those movies where the alien, or the prehistoric shark, or the giant ape or whatever it is they’ve got is on the ‘other side’ of the thing meant to keep them safe. That’s just an overused signal that you’re supposed to feel anxious ’cause at least one of the people standing in the ‘safe’ area is about to get it in the neck when the Boogen breaks free. When you’re watching those movies, you’re thinking ‘Run!’ and NO ONE’S DOING IT.
I refuse. I will not subject you to that. I’ll take the Three Stooges Route, though. Everyone run. ‘Cause that *&^%s funny.
That’s the problem with releasing the Kraken. You’d better have your mind made up and you’d better be on a ship moving away from the one that you’re pretty sure the Kraken is going to ruin on your say-so.
Picture the chagrin on the face of the pirate king who calls down the Kraken (up the Kraken? Almost sounds right) upon his enemy’s ship… and realizes that his own ship, still alongside of and attached by ropes and poles to his victims’ ship, is about to share Davy Jones Locker and a Kraken’s digestive system with it.
Ew. That’s some bad chagrin, Captain Gomer. Now, quick, where’s that book with Kraken instructions? Is there a chapter or something on having changed your mind?
My wife doesn’t play paintball with us any more. The kids are older, of course, and can play without her worrying that she’s missing out on their childhoods.
Aaaaaand there’s the fact that when they were younger and she was playing with me, and the kids, and their friends (birthday party, I think) she was hit during the game, announced she was hit, held her gun over her head and was exiting the area when one of my oldest son’s best buddies shot her in the butt. That really might have been the last time she played.
I still have a photo of her right cheek and the incredible colors that the bruised turned.
Our local paintball field has white paint all over it. I’ve been told that it’s because of the terms of their lease on the property.
Apparently, it’d be easier to sell the property after a paintball company used it for thirty years, if it didn’t look as if clowns and unicorns had been barfing and bleeding all over it. Instead, I guess it’d be easier to sell if it looked like a quintillion very large birds with dysentery had used the fields as some sort of hospital toilet during the worst parts of their convalescence. Nasty.
