I don’t always smoke cigars, but when I do, I prefer Blammos.
Rob Clarke
@robclarke00.bsky.social
Artist and Master of Scoot, the world’s sweetest all-American doggy. Scoot wants to show the world how happy he is being a dog, and how he doesn’t miss his old hum-drum life on two legs one bit. www.robclarke.net https://linktr.ee/robclarke00
Let me tell you - those ads for Sea Monkeys in the back pages of Drummer and Honcho were a pack of lies.
Jellyfish Along you came And right away I'm stung Sweet words I long to whisper But you've paralyzed my tongue...
I added a clown to this composition in honor of the memory of Mr. Diddler— my lover back in the days when I worked as an aerialist at Cirque du Soleil. He was barely three feet tall, mean, and stinky, but he was hung like a donkey, and let me tell you— knew how to use that thing.
I kind of regret signing that NDA with Doug Henning’s lawyers because he was a mean drunk and I have a lot of tea to spill.
Yeah, I know, I should quit eating gas station fugu— that delicious and potentially deadly sushi made from adorable Japanese pufferfish. But for some reason, they sell it at my local Wawa, which makes it dangerously convenient.
Although I disapprove of animal cruelty, the devil deep down inside of me understands why Scoot’s big, plump doggy balls make an irresistible target to the neighborhood delinquents and ruffians. It’s true when they say “kids can be so cruel“. (Sometimes adults too😈)
As a part-time career guidance counselor, I encourage young lads to forget wasting time chasing useless football scholarships and to follow their passions. If that passion leads them to a life of buffoonery under the Big Top, I consider my job well done.
For decades, bros and bozos have relied on the comfort and support of ACME Banana Hammocks. They are truly the Wonderbra of male buffoonery— sought out because of the way they “lift and separate.” ACME Banana Hammocks are also approved by 9 out of 10 Ringmasters.
When I hear “Dude, didn’t you just post this fire-farting pic? I want my money back!”, I reply “Dude, it might seem familiar, but please note the detailed background I’ve added that gives the image a playful carnival context, and sorry, like Boss Dingus, I don’t give refunds.”
While organizing my papers that I’ll be donating to Hogwarts, I came upon this old drawing of Scoot’s great-granddoggy Nipper. Before cranial microchipping, gramophones were the only tech available to ensure a pup could imprint on his absent Master's voice.
RIP Colonel Featherstone, our town’s dependable delivery stork, who for twenty years ensured that Baby New Year arrived at the stroke of midnight. His tragic death in a mid-air collision with an Amazon delivery drone has resulted in demands for tighter regulation of that industry.
Such are the mysteries of life - one day you’re the quarterback of your college football team, and the next you’re a magician’s hapless assistant. Jason ponders such things during rehearsals for that evening's performance. He despairs that his ex-girlfriends will be in attendance.
I believe that inside every big, swaggering bully there is a little fella who just wants to kick back on his blankie, suckle his binkie, and go poopies in his diaper. If there were more big boy daycares, there wouldn’t be so many angry, toxic males throwing mantrums in the world.
Just between you and me, I kinda felt like a little bit of a fraud promoting this event, which is decidedly not for wallflowers and looky-loos like me. Mind you, I did get off on the squishy sensation of sticking my finger deep into guys’ brains.
First there was that media whore Moodeng, then there was that little upstart Punch, and now there’s some freakazoid named Jimothy who’s basking in the spotlight. When will my sweet doggy Scoot get the attention he deserves? He’s much more photogenic than those Instragram parvenus.
I always knew my girlie Circe would make it big one day in Hollywood. She’s come a long way since our days at Hogwarts, where we were just two messy bitches who liked drama.
Despite being a Superfund site, you can still spot the occasional merman in our local waters. Personally, I lost my horny for those salty boys after I learned what a cloaca was. And I learned firsthand that they're all nasty with sea lice. I’ll stick to mammals— thank you.
I’ve read in Three Rings Monthly that the number one cause of circus infernos is clowns taking illicit smoke breaks in the fireworks storage tent. And did you know that tiger scat actually makes piles of dried straw even more flammable/inflammable? (I forget which is the bad one)
“The name’s Balls. Harry Balls.” I pitched this spokescharacter for a company that sells meds to treat E.D. and Low T— like the way Flo and that gecko sell insurance. Unfortunately, the client thought my idea was too ‘high-concept,’ even though edibles were one of their products.
“I pity the fool who doesn’t appreciate the robust explosive flavor of a Blammo cigar.” I remember coming up with that slogan during a three-martini lunch with my fellow creative Donk Draper when I worked at Skidmark, Dingus & Dingleberry during my Madison Ave. days.
Rocco and Gagootz were two clowns I managed down the Jersey Shore years ago. Because they were fraternal twins, I sometimes had trouble telling them apart, but I’m pretty sure Rocco was the one who loved strutting his stuff down the boardwalk wearing just a banana hammock.
Like any other magician, I used a hot assistant as a distraction when I performed my act. I think Jackson was originally just a volunteer from the audience who I “forgot” to un-mesmerize. After a few months on the road, I woke him up and put him on a Greyhound back to his family.
Lately, because of the news, I’ve lost my horny for many male authority figures. Fortunately, there’s still one man in uniform I can still fap to —the noble sanitation worker — the hero who does the dirty work that prevents us from being buried under a mountain of our own garbage.
Sadly, the ACME Clown Shoe Company, the last manufacturer of capering footwear in the U.S.A., is no longer in business. It was sold to a foreign conglomerate after its founder, Boss Dingus, passed away, and his son Skidmark chose not to follow in his father’s (large) footsteps.
Despite getting a bad rap in a certain popular movie, I am completely satisfied with my experience using a One Wish Willow. And my dog Scoot, AKA former local Channel 7 sportscaster Scott Cooper, can vouch for its effectiveness. Five stars.
I made these two happy doofuses for a drag’n drop paper doll game I made in Flash a million years ago. I’m not so skilled technically these days, but I still enjoy undressing clueless bros with my eyes. Sadly, the expensive X-ray specs I recently bought give me nasty migraines.
This drawing makes me think of my drunk uncle Ed’s favorite joke. “Balls,” said the Queen, “If I had balls, I’d be the King!” And the King laughed because he had two. Uncle Ed’s jokes livened up Christmas, although he put a little too much cranberry sauce on the homophobic ones.
Other than my dog Scoot, you don’t see a lot of folks sporting Mohawks in the retirement home for beauticians and warlocks I live in. Occasionally, one of the crew of lesbian landscapers will have one, and that will make me nostalgic for my days as a bootblack at the Mineshaft.
