My kid turned two not too long ago. Yay, inexorable march of progress! Boo, disappearance of delicious fat baby ankles! Don’t get me wrong, two whomps the shit out of infancy in several regards; words, for instance. Words are pretty great. I find it much easier to deal with, “String cheese pwease!” and, “I gots a poo!” than 4 aggregate hours of agonized shrieking. She tells jokes and sings songs and recites like 40% of Fox In Socks from memory. She’s super friendly to strangers and animals, and wants to give the whole world a hug. She’s a goddamn delight much of the time, is what I’m saying.

But. She is also capable of making the absolute worst sounds I’ve ever heard. Once she screamed in my face so loud that I’m pretty sure I shat out my own eardrums the next day. When she hears the word NO —- or any variation on the word NO, like NOT RIGHT NOW or MAYBE LATER or WE’LL SEE or pretty much anything other than WHATEVER YOU LIKE, WOULD YOU LIKE SOME POCKY AND A JUICE BOX WITH THAT? —- she immediately erupts into a squirming geyser of rage: drops to her knees, pulls her hair out, claws at the air, all while screaming like a drowning antelope being eaten by a garbage disposal. We call this “The Full Shatner”.

Once I thwarted some nefarious deed of hers and she shook her tiny fists at me while shouting, “Sucks! SUUUUUUUUUUUCKS!” at the unfeeling sky, and I laughed so hard I started crying. I think it may have freaked her out a bit, because she’s never said it again. Now we usually get a standard WHYYYYY or the ever-popular NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, which I usually respond to with something like, “Aw, whatsamatta Batman, did the Joker get away again?” (Please note: I am a dick.)

To sum up: two years old is no joke, son. Honestly, everyone should be happy my outlet is drawing pictures, and not posting photos of tantrums and diaper explosions on Facebook.


Hi, I don’t have a new drawing today, but i do have this months-old doodle of my adorable child that still makes me smile, so here you go. Anyway. I’ve been going through some stuff. It’s boring and stupid and right now I sort of hate everything on earth except my kid and perhaps my cats. All other individuals, situations, and inescapable fugues of existential despair are cordially invited to eat a whole bag of dicks.

A few years ago, an acquaintance informed me that I was saying it wrong, that I should tell people to CHOKE on a bag of dicks instead. But I prefer my way. Partially because I am not down with how violent and rapey the other way sounds, but mostly because it makes me giggle to imagine the recipient of the epithet at a lavishly set table for one: linen tablecloth, fine silverware, a candle poking out of a chianti bottle, napkin tucked into the collar…real classy and shit. Then out comes the main course, and the cover is lifted, and it’s a giant, Costco-sized bag of limp, shriveled dicks. (Because floppy, wrinkly wangs are CLEARLY less appetizing than turgid, firm ones, right?) And the fancy waiter is all, “Is everything all right, sir? You DID order the Whole Bag of Dicks, did you not? It is Chef’s speciality, I am afraid that he will be simply inconsolable if you don’t eat them all.” AND OH HOW WE LAUGHED.

In conclusion, I just followed a picture of my kid with a detailed scenario involving penises and cannibalism. I am never going to sell my children’s book now.



I felt like drawing drag queens instead of mermaids this week. Who’s more fun to draw than John Waters’ greatest ingenue, the “Godzilla of drag queens”? Nobody, that’s who. I went with a semi-glamorous 1980’s disco Divine, rather than a Pink Flamingos-era filth clown Divine. I think I mostly just wanted to draw that wig.

Look at it! How many baby Easter chicks had to die for that wig? Whatever, it was SO worth it.


Hi again! Is it Easter yet? How do they even determine what day Easter falls on in a given year? Something about the new moon, maybe…I don’t know, I ran as far away from Catholicism as I could, as soon as my parents’ contractual obligation to my grandmother was met. I’ve always suspected some Cardinal deep in the Vatican somewhere throws a clutch of Cadbury Creme Eggs at a “Hot Bods of the Papal Guard” calendar at the start of the year, and whichever spring Sunday gets the most sugar spooge stuck to it is Bunny Day. It’s all just stolen pagan fertility rites repackaged in kinky Christian torture porn anyway, so you could tell me they use a magic baby duck and John the Baptist’s finger bone, or a high-stakes game of Parcheesi, and I would probably believe you. It makes about as much sense as anything else the Church does.

Whenever I’d watch Warner Brothers cartoons with my father, I was fascinated by Bugs Bunny in drag. Specifically: who the hell did he think he was fooling? But it always worked, and whatever poor lonely (or horny) sucker he targeted always bought it. Long ears, teeth like a shovel, little fluffy tail? No problem, you take what you can get in the Yukon.



My husband and I have a fundamental difference of opinion on this film. I find it a fascinating look at mother-daughter relationships and the ways people can carry on with humor and dignity even when fortune kicks them in the ass, while he thinks it’s more of a horrific nightmare of squalor, mental illness, and existential despair that bestows gifts of yellowed, piss-stained melancholy to all who view it. (It’s a floor wax! It’s a dessert topping! IT’S BOTH!)

You can now buy a replica of Little Edie’s Art Deco brooch for $350. That’s more than she and her mother got for monthly expenses, once they were shut out of the family’s money. Not much, even in 1971 dollars. Still, she always managed to look rather fabulous, despite the mountains of cat shit everywhere, and the alopecia, and the raccoons in the attic. And she was a staunch character. S-T-A-U-N-C-H. You just can’t put a price on that.

Note to self: wear more scarves.


Hi! How have you been? I’ve been ok, you know, feeling ok and stuff. This little dude is Chauncey. He’s the spirit of Fuck This Shit. Sometimes you have something beautiful inside you, man, and sometimes it’s just a rodent with foppish, anachronistic eyewear. So it goes.

He’s a friendly chap, anyway! I like squirrels. I used to work on a college campus that had the fattest fucking squirrels I had ever seen in my life. They had a real racket going: during mealtimes and class breaks, they’d run out in front of you, sit up and beg, with their itsy-witsy paws all up under their chins, and shiny button eyes all twinkly. If you didn’t have some nuts or Bugles or a Twinkie or something for them, they’d turn it off like a switch —- “Fuck YOU, lady!” —- and move on to the next sucker. It was awesome.


I dunno, is that too gross a title? My alternate was FISH-BOTTOMED GIRLS YOU MAKE THE ROCKIN’ WORLD GO ‘ROUND but in the end I went for the sleazier joke. Don’t try to change me, baby.

Anyway, it’s another mermaid, kind of an ample, sharky specimen. I’m thinking I need to paint a version of this onto black velvet someday. Maybe a scripty “Visit Beautiful Hellfish Beach” flying across the ruined sky.

I think I’ll call her Squishy. Do you also find the concept of “sexy” mermaids to be kind of hilarious? Like, no way can you and that fish lady bone down dude. She’s clearly coming on to you so she can drown you and devour your flesh. You have got to watch out for these things, what is the matter with you


So, my kid likes music. Specifically, she likes people singing to her. This afternoon, we’d all reached maximum saturation with each other, and her dad and I couldn’t take another Yo Gabba Gabba, so we found ourselves perusing Netflix’s frankly pathetic selection of musicals. I was hoping for a Wizard of Oz or Sound of Music or even a Meet Me In St. Louis, but no joy. Velvet Goldmine seemed a little risqué for a toddler, The Road to Bali has too much of that quaint 1940’s racism for my comfort level, and I didn’t feel like weeping uncontrollably all through Dumbo.

That’s how we found ourselves watching Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, starring the Bee Gees, and Alice Cooper, and Earth Wind & Fire, and Steve Martin for some reason. And also George Burns was there. I think it was while a group of “robots” warbled a klaxon-inflected, watery funk cover of “Mean Mister Mustard” that my husband turned to me and said, “I feel like we’re watching a snuff film for rock and roll.”

Rude mermaid! This mermaid is RUDE. This mermaid doesn’t have TIME for your SHIT. Places to swim, sailors to lure to their watery graves, etc. Thanks for dropping by, don’t let low tide hit ya where the good Lord split ya.

When I can’t figure out what to draw, I draw a mermaid. This one had bitchface, so I gave her a cigarette to pose with. It’s a special underwater cigarette, ok? I got a little further into the background before my child threatened to destroy me. I only got as far as the bubbles though, so it looks like Lady Fishbutt here has a righteous case of gas. Look, just imagine there is like mad seaweed and shit back there, and not a desolate gray wasteland of farts.


Seriously though, don’t get used to this. I just had another VD-themed thingy that I made this week. Might as well put it up now, right? Righty-o.

It’s not like a world-changer or anything. Just a cute little valentine, relatively devoid of cynicism. I am tickled by the idea that these guys go through life wearing their respective half a bear suit always and forever amen. Other stray observations:

  • I really want those leg warmers. 
  • The dude kind of looks like Kumail Nanjiani, doesn’t he? That was an accident. Though I do enjoy his particular brand of humor, and he is a handsome man to boot.
  • I used to draw backgrounds, but then I had a child who is pathologically opposed to me doing anything productive that doesn’t directly result in yummy food or fun toddler time. So you get a bullshit soft pink drop shadow. Sorry bout it.