Terrible Delicatessen -- 10.28.13

Halloween Meats For Treats

Kids are jackals, aren’t they? It’s Halloween at The Deli this week and the boys are celebrating with fantastic costumes and meats. Have a Happy Halloween this week, patrons. 

NEXT WEEK: New arc! Ennui of My Own Design, Part I: Podcrast.

Cor boni concilii statue tecum non est enim tibi aliud pluris illo.

10.28.13

Terrible Delicatessen -- 9.2.13

Gary ain't screwed. We sometimes let the most infinitesimal life-items drive us insane, like when you get deodorant on your t-shirt, or you wait over a minute at a stoplight, or when there are ants in your cereal. In this week's strip, Gary loses it over a BCC email.

Don't be Gary.

Or be him, what do I care?

9.2.13

NEXT WEEK: You Light Up My Life, Part I. Kreemie's in love!

Difficile est longum subito deponere amorem.

Terrible Delicatessen -- 8.26.13

No Pont l'Eveque ever. Life stinks, for the most part, though some people manage to make things work no matter how bad it reeks. Like Gary, for instance.

Kreemie, on the other hand... not so much.

8.26.13

8.26.13

NEXT WEEK: Gary gets a Bcc: email, Kreemie spouts off some icy-cold internet facts, and Mr. Craig List makes a special guest appearance. Kind of.

Ulula cum lupis, cum quibus esse cupis.

Terrible Delicatessen -- 8.12.13

The Bro Sip is a thing. Kreemie witnesses an earnest Bro Sipand gets all churlish about it. Gary identifies with Bro-ass Bros. Usual nonsense at the Deli, you know.

8.12.13

Supplemental: The origin of The Bro Sip.

A History of Bro Sips

A History of Bro Sips

Bro Sip diagrams:

Exhibit A

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

Exhibit B

NEXT WEEK: Behind The Counter, S1 E1!Includes a making-of video and original Vesper sketches! Come behind the scenes with P.O. Vesper and I as we walk you through the visual Terrible Delicatessen's origins and processes. Docendo discimus.

Terrible Delicatessen -- 8.5.13

You never, ever mess with another man's anchovies. Down with crappy ironic-looking pizza men and the tricks they pull! Get 'em, Gary!

8.5.13

NEXT WEEK: Kreemie witnesses a Bro Sip live and in the flesh. What the hell does that even mean? Come back next week and behold... THE BRO SIP.

It's a thing, I swear.

Bene diagnoscitur, bene curatur.

You Will Always Be A Dogbot

Everything I’m going to do I’ve done already. Everything I haven’t finished I hadn’t started to begin with. And that’s just the way of things. So I made coffee while I was walking the dogbot whilst sipping the coffee that I’d made yesterday during the time when my dogbot pissed butane out at my leg and onto my Big Toe. I jumped away from it, annoyed, as I slumped on the couch.

“You are BAD! BAD-BAD-GOOD BOY! GOOOOD BOOOY!”

This is what I screamed at my synthetic pet for letting organic liquid loose all over my foot (particularly my Big Toe).  I was conveniently taking a shower in that same moment, so I wasn’t too upset, even though I absolutely was.

Regardless of what Strange Dew—that’s my dogbot, don’t you know—squirted onto my low-limbs, I was completely happy with myself, albeit totally fucking miserable.

Strange Dew was clean-shaven with a long beard and people on the grassy bio-block would always notice this. They’d shout things like “Hey! Look at that smooth-faced dogbot with the long black and/or white beard that hangs down and drags across the muddy, sticky-dry pavement as he/she scuttles quickly at a slow pace!”

Keep it to yourself. Yep. That’s what I’d always scream under my breath. Keep it to yourself.

Conventional Dry Particle—also the dogbot’s name—and I (or You, depending on where you’re standing) were on our way to the local dogbot factory, which also functioned as the international morgue for dogbots. It all happens here, but not much goes on most days.

I’m serious!

It was raining inside, cool and dewy (yes, I know), which was fine because the two of us were equally outside where the both of us sweat like female dogs that are in season to mate and have babies.

I took Strange Dew/Conventional Dry Particle into that sun-shower of a birthing room and watched her (or him, depending on the time of day) die. I don’t know why I did this, aside from the fact that I knew that it positively needed to happen. I had no choice and limitless alternatives, so you see where I’m coming from, don’t you?

I looked at the tightly squinted eyes that were wide open and realized that at the end of the day, which is also when the cock roosts or something, that no matter what time it is, or whichever ground you choose to stand on you’ll always be a dogbot.

It’s a funny old world, isn’t it?

For further reading on multiverses and simultaneous realitiesgo here.

Terrible Delicatessen -- 7.22.13

Kreemie Dunbar is a writer with no money. He pays the bills by working at an awful, awful deli. Gary will stop at nothing to make something of himself in this world. Which is why he ate all the rye chips.

7.22.13

NEXT WEEK: Double-sized strip! Kreemie goes to the gym and feels more or less inadequate! Gary flexes and acts like he uses Icopro! Macte animo! Generose puer sic itur ad astra!

Asinine Beliefs I Held As A Small Child

As a young boy I was rather insane. There were a handful of world views I held (and thankfully dropped) until the age of seven or so. Here is a short list.

  • I used to believe that it was possible to pick up a girlfriend or a wife at The Girlfriend Shop. I wasn't sure where it was located, but the three-year-old Justin knew it existed. It was probably somewhere in North Jersey. After I'd seized my woman I was convinced she would bore me three boys. I planned to name them Tommy, Joey and Dopey.
  • I thought "skim milk" was called "skin milk" and used to think it did wonders for my four-year-old skin. "Grandma, come feel my hands! They're so soft!"
  • I was under the impression that in a movie theatre the lights were to be kept on at all times. The first flick I almost saw was Return of the Care Bears, though we had to leave early because I kept screaming "Hey! Hey! Who turned out the lights?!?"
  • I was convinced that a giant fountain at a local mall was my grandfather from another planet. Anytime I'd go to the mall I say "Hello, Grandpa" in my head. I was telepathically communicating with the indoor geyser. Really glad I didn't share that with anyone at the time.
  • I used to think Poison were cool and The Grateful Dead were terrifying. That "Touch of Grey" video gave me the creeps. I suppose Poison were just less threatening because they looked like a bunch of Moms.
  • I'm pretty positive my first sexual feelings occurred for my Storm action figure. I suppose I got to second base pretty early if I'm allowed to count the foxy Ororo Munroe as my first hookup. My asinine belief was that she was my girlfriend.

That's all I can think of. I don't know why I thought about these things. I'm not sure where the ideas came from. They just happened and I remember them vividly. Alright, bye.

Terrible Delicatessen -- 7.15.13

Kreemie Dunbar is a writer with no money. He pays the bills by working at an awful, awful deli. Gary's Monday Morning Miasma is extra rank. Why and how? Because he went dancing and got lucky! That's why and how!

7.15.13

NEXT WEEK: You never want to be That Guy. You should know this. Homo homini lupus est.

Mind of Makiko

Makiko Suda is a fantastic cartoon scribbler based out of Tokyo, Japan. She also sings for the all-female grindcore outfit Flagitious Idiosyncrasy in the Dilapidation. You should check them out. Here are a few of her recent works. Ice Cream Boy

It's that time of the season, folks. The air is dense, almost syrupy with humidity. Who else would you rather want to hang out with other than Ice Cream Boy? Makiko explains:

He claims himself "Real Chocolate Ice Cream", and demands you to scoop the ice cream and serve it on a fancy glass dish. He gets mad when you try to eat from him directly because he thinks he is a posh ice cream.

Robot Banana

A visual manifestation Melt Banana using a drum machine. If you're wondering what the band sounds like, just take a hard look at those googley banana eyeballs. That's what they sound like. Really.

Gremlin Man

This guy always reminded me of a gremlin hopped up on yerba mate and SSRIs. A-dor-ablay.

Hand Man

Makiko's description is the most accurate:

He is a egg, but has six flexible hands and no legs. He is really annoying, always interrupts people's talking. He sometimes gets cracked.

Fire Boy and Candle

According to Makiko, Fire Boy is rather quiet but nice. Since he consists mainly of fire he keeps a distance from most other people. It's a bit sad. Candle is one of his best buds, though. Here we see Fire Boy doing Candle a solid.

Consolation

Cheer up, buttercup.

So, what do you think?

On Repeat

Have you ever said something to yourself  over and over throughout the span of a day? Maybe it's a line from a movie or a television show, or maybe it's something funny your friend said. Have you done this? Have you ever repeated that phrase like a shitty mantra? I've done this since I was a kid, usually when no one is around. I'm not sure why I do it. It's an amusing tic that always results in me laughing like a total moron in an empty room. Today, for some reason, I can't stop saying "My name... is Hikaru Sulu." with George Takei's rich baritone. I try hard to match his octave register. In my head it's spot on, though I'm sure it's atrocious and embarrassing to someone else's ear. I was just making lunch and probably said it 15 times. What's my problem?

"My name... is Hikaru Sulu."

I did it again, out loud. And now I'm laughing.

Happy Anyday.

The Sentient Castrum That Once Protected the Octopoids Now Has Nothing But Time

The Nimbus came again and breathed a biting cold against my façade. The array of wintry daggers reminded me of the great yesterdays of when I was a castle. The magnificent days. The brighter and lighter days. The days when the royal Octopoids I housed ruled over a gorgeous, desolate moon. I served them with patience, with sturdiness. I served them until The Pulse took place; the bursting wave that bent all things out of shape. As a castle I was helpless. I was stripped bare and mauled by The Pulse. I was violated by a happening with no face, by a massive tear in time. My rocky frontage was gone for the most part, though I maintained a strong expression on the left-hand side, the side that allowed me to visualize. Over centuries I saw all things fall, and for years and now I rot and freeze and watch.

I watch the Lonely Time Traveler from Afar. He stands in the same spot, trapped in the atmosphere of The Nimbus. There once was a time when he moved around slowly. He was a victim of The Pulse, a humanoid displaced out of time. Before he froze he attempted humor. And now he stands unmoving next to a garish time-displaced vehicle and it looks very poignant from a distance.

The gaudy auto came moments after the Lonely Time Traveler from Afar arrived on my moon. It came covered in filth and an air of excesses. It wasn’t sentient, either. It couldn’t communicate, and this depressed me. It became a toy for the surviving Octopoid.

The Octopoid that survived was formerly an Urchin, a small one without a family. She lived inside of me for months. I did my best to keep her small and slippery form warm, and when we felt The Pulse I did all I could to protect her, meaning that I couldn’t do much at all. She was the lone survivor and I watched her as I rotted and froze, watched her grow in size but not adulthood. She never had the chance to come of age. There was no one alive to teach her, to communicate with her. I watched her play with the lurid transporter and slide close to The Lonely Time Traveler from Afar. She still knows nothing other than physical pleasures and hunger.

I watch all of this from afar and do nothing, because I have nothing but time.

The Old Kingdom Is Not An Anomaly

The Household’s façade was dour except for its Bionicrustacean legs. It traveled to the rhythm of its own surly and sullen personality, which usually meant westward. It traversed only over the green rock formations of the Old Kingdom, typically near the Lake of Liquid Girls. When people first see The Household perambulating over the rocks on its white, crab-like Bionicrustacean legs near the Lake of Liquid Girls, the first thing they usually ask is:

“Who the heck lives inside of that super-ultra-mega sad thing?!”

It is a silly question. It’s also the wrong question to ask. They should be asking:

Who is that Very Depressed Walking House that mainly walks over the green rock formations of the Old Kingdom, typically near the Lake of Liquid Girls?”

The Household is not a home. It’s not a house at all. It is a living, un-breathing thing with a neurotic personality, windows for eyes, a unique pathos and white, crab-like Bionicrustacean legs.

It only strolls over the green rock formations of the Old Kingdom, typically near the Lake of Liquid Girls, because The Household thinks there is a party there. There is a never a party going on near the Lake of Liquid Girls. This is because the Liquid Girls are too busy trying on new brand new viscid clothes that were gifted to them from Father Time of the Brown Sky. The clothes were made from the finest hot gelatin in the Old Kingdom. Father Time of the Brown Sky only wanted the absolute best for his Liquid Girls.

It should be said, though, that Father Time of the Brown Sky did not father the Liquid Girls of the Lake. He claims that the Girls “were just there”.

“I just enjoy seeing them smile” he liked to bellow.

He sounded slightly like a pederast.

Is this why The Household is always in a bad mood? Is it because he thinks there’s a party over by the Lake of Liquid Girls when there’s actually just an eternal, arguably unexciting game of dress-up going on? It could be.

Is it because he secretly wants Father Time of the Brown Sky to give him a special gift? Does The Household want Father Time to accept him as he is, as a living, un-breathing thing with a neurotic personality, windows for eyes, a unique pathos and white, crab-like Bionicrustacean legs? It could be.

It quite possibly could be.

Oh, I think he’s spotted us. Look! Look at him scurry away! Look at his giant Bionicrustacean legs! Oh, that poor little-big walking house. He’s miserable, isn’t he?

Ah, well now! There’re viscid trousers dripping from out of Father Time’s mouth!

Let’s try on a few pairs, shall we?

An Elderly Man Is Not Phased By The Appalling Stench Of A Carrierfish

Acrid.

I am annoyed.

The scent of sidewalk muck and trimethylamine colonized my nasal passages again. Though I was more offended by the smell of that massive carrierfish than by its mighty presence… I could smell the other fish behind this one, floating through the air with crates of dragonphant’s tea strapped near their gills, reeking, reeking horribly of that translucent green seawater and vinegarberries.

But what jiggles my giblets is that everyone in town is always so surprised, so taken aback by the carrierfish deliveries, always in awe of their absurd actuality. It’s tedious, these reactions. It’s boring. Get over it, neighbor.

Things are much worse in Proatia Aloft. The walking crab-houses with iffy deliberateness always lurking around 40 meters from you; the overpriced fractal food found at the astral markets, which is always impossible to digest if you’re from down here; that terrifying Infinity Dragonphant who holds all of our memories tightly in his symbol pouch and hates letting us leave Proatia Aloft…

Oh, and the odor – that appalling odor!

Is it possible that a city’s stench could have evil intentions?  Could an aroma be depraved? I’d argue the possibility of such an absurd thing, especially if it originates from Proatia Aloft.

They must realize how good they have it here in Proatia Beneath – the neighbors, I mean. My friendlies next door, the residents so easily scared of the gigantic, mohawked carrierfish delivering the weekly supply of dragonphant’s tea.

Go inside, boy! The carrierfish aren’t the worst of things! The way of things is worse above! Much worse! I swear it! I swear it!!

Javros Doesn’t Understand The Plights of Others

Javros sighed at Mala. “Why do you let it sit with us when it doesn’t eat?”

“You know that’s just how things are for now. That’s the way they have to be with her.” Mala was worn out, tired from Javros’ badgering. “And it’s a ‘she’. You know this.”

“OK, well she doesn’t talk. She don’t even eat! What does she do?”

“Why are you acting out like this? What’s your issue tonight?”

“My issue is that we’ve been takin’-a care of this thing for four months, Mala! When will you take-a responsibility for it?!“ Thick white spit and crumbs of cod spattered out from Javros’ mouth and onto the dinner table.

“Unbelievable.” Mala pushed her chair away from the table.

“And now you-a leaving?”

“Yes. Now ‘I’m-a leaving’.”

“Don’t make-a fun of me. Where you goin’?” Javros’ question wasn’t rooted in insecurity, but in concern. He was sincerely curious.

Mala didn’t respond. She walked out of the kitchen and up the small staircase to her bedroom. Javros’ heard the door shut close from upstairs.

He looked over at the massive green being sitting to the left of him. He craned his neck upwards and to the right so that he could see her face.

“You look-a like one of them aliens on those old Earth TV shows.”

The large, olive-colored figure stared ahead into the empty space of the living room. Her hairless head knocked gently against the lamp above the table. She heard Javros speak, understanding none of it. She wasn’t there.

Javros looked away from the being. He shifted his seat so that he could catch a glimpse of the television that sat under the cabinets.

He shoveled a hunk of cod into his mouth. He chewed slowly and with his mouth open; the sound from his mouth was very similar to the sound of someone trudging through a swamp.

Javros raised the volume on the television. He adjusted it with his mind.

“Approximately 2,000 more émigrés arrived today at Commonwealth Isle. These refugees, like most others over the course of this past month, come from lower Jord. Citizens of Commonwealth Isle are expected to report to the Provisional Emigré offices at the beginning of next week to sign off on housing at least one more refugee.”

The oversized other-worlder still sat in a catatonic trance. A few moments later she passed wind, violently. Brown and green excreta dripped down her long leg and onto the kitchen floor.

Javros stared at the alien for five seconds. He then looked straight ahead and shoveled the last piece of cod into his mouth.

Galaktias Grottesca

He saw her face through my window. Unsettled, I stood behind Malkin as he sat statuesque and engrossed in what he saw before him. His miniature fluorescent blue eyes beamed directly into the ship stationed just outside Khylund 5c. It was congested with fresh, miserable émigrés that had just recently been dumped into the station. They had come from Jord.

 

Malkin sat and absorbed everything that was happening on the main ship. He was taking in the Knowledge of the Present at a rapid speed. Within seconds he saw and knew every face; he now knew each refugee's sad story. His whiskers vibrated gently as he absorbed the Poignancy into his paws.

"Are things... normal?" My heart raced.

Malkin paused. It felt like an eon.

Moments later, Malkin, my prophetic Felis catus, began to painfully transmute into a Krypte catus. He hissed and cried.

"Out! GET OUT!"

I was paralyzed in terror. I watched Malkin's fur fall from his back, exposing filthy pink flesh. His body pulsated as though something inside of him was trying to induce its own birth. Blood began to drizzle down his back from a wound I had yet to see. Thin membranes connected to wing bones began to emerge from his body. He continued to hiss.

"LEAVE!"

 

I shivered. I ran into the hallway frantically, looking for the XO of this transitory ship; I bowled into her within seconds, by chance.

"What's your issue, Dr. Keigh?"

I was short of breath. "It's happening... it's happening. It's happening!"

"Be specific, doctor!" The XO's face turned white.

My throat began to tighten as though I was having an allergic reaction. "Malkin... Malkin's sensed The Disciple. She is aboard the émigré ship... The Disc-"

"The Disciple."

"Yes."

The XO stormed away from me. Moments later I heard voice over the battleship's P.A. I knew what I was about to hear.

"Attention passengers of the Metonym: Prepare for auto-destruct in 45 seconds."

I walked slowly back to my room. All of the blood in my body had drained to my feet. I peaked my head in.

"Jam tibi impero et præcipio maligne spiritus! ut confestim allata et circulo discedas, absque omni strepito, terrore, clamore et foetore..."

I stared at the living gargoyle as it chanted, waiting anxiously for my body's particles to dissolve. I prayed this would work.

I shut my eyes.

 

Seconds later, I appeared on the émigré ship, watching Metonym expand into fire.

The Happiest Family

Mother Mole, now a ghost, was the mother of The Happiest Family. She had two male sons and no male counterpart. Her first son she chose not to name because her love for him was only a small amount. He was known to most as the Four-Eyed Pumpkin Head Boy. His skull was a pumpkin, his brain a mushy orange pulp.

He had two eyebrows and two sets of eyes. The top eyes were shaped like less than/greater than symbols; the left eye, less-than, the right, greater-than. They were used primarily for prejudice and postjudice. His second pair of eyes were parentheses that enclosed his triangular nose. His parenthesis-eyes were used mostly for deep thinking.

He died in 1994 on Halloween; he lived to be seven years old.

Mother Mole's other son was called Alfred. He was younger than the Four-Eyed Pumpkin Head Boy, and wished he were a map. He was named after Mother Mole's gynecologist.

Alfred's face was flat and simple, like the work of a sad Cubist. He prayed every night to his god, the God of Cartography. "Please, God. Please, please stretch my face out and make it feel like paper. Turn my wrinkles into rivers, and my eye-area into a capital (Bratislava, preferably).”

He loved his older brother dearly. He didn't look up to him, though; he just had a perpetually cavernous affection towards him.

In 1994, the year of his brother's death, Alfred became filled with grief and ran away from home. All he brought with him was a can of green beans and a compass. This compass was a special compass, though; it was gift from God, he thought. He'd grabbed it after it had fell out of a tree near his home one day. He was convinced that the God of Cartography tossed it to him with a behind the back pass, which then landed on top of a tree, and then tumbled down to the ground right next to his house. "It's a sign!" he screamed into the wall; he had just watched six hours worth of behind the back basketball passes on Youtube, so the compass falling out of the tree onto the ground was obviously a behind the back pass from God.

Alfred took his special compass, his can of green beans, and went to the nearest Kinkos. He walked swiftly, and was panting and bawling by the time he'd made it to the entrance. He walked into the store, slammed his green beans down onto the front counter and demanded to the clerk that he be flattened and turned into a papery image of the Eastern Hemisphere. He also made it clear that Bratislava was to be clearly visible as a star on the right side of his face, atop his orbital bone. The clerk starred at him, breathing heavily.

"What are you waiting for?! Make me into a map! An old-styled map, like one from the 1970s! I'm a grieving boy, for Christmas' sake!"

The clerk stuck his arm out over the counter and let it wave in front of Alfred's face. His arm was a tentacle. Alfred was frightened. "I'm sor-"

The tentacle clung to his face and dragged him forcefully over the counter. The thirteen employees swimming under the counter then devoured him. After they'd finished their lunch, the main counter clerk said to his employees, "I now have a strange urge to go somewhere."

Mother Mole didn't realize she'd lost both of her sons until two and a half weeks later. When she learned of their respective deaths, she didn't cry. She wasn't sad. She was liberated. She was inspired. Right before she went to bed, though, she sat down and wrote a short story about them.

The Johnsmith Family Moves for the Umpteenth Time

Pa was absolutely furious. "Not again. I can't believe this!"

The Johnsmith family gathered their belongings from the area surrounding their recently purchased home. They were moving yet again; the screen door of their new home was faulty. Ma and Jemma now understood why her family was not allowed to keep personal properties inside a newly acquired residence.

Steven was the most upset about the move. It wasn't the packing that got to him, though. It was the fact that they had to leave behind his new best friend, Bacon.

Bacon was a Security Oyster that was assigned to protect the Johnsmith family a week after they'd moved in. Security Oysters are gigantic bivalve mollusks that function as family watchdogs throughout most of the Allied States. They're handy, they're utilitarian and they smell terrific.

Steven told Bacon all of his darkest secrets. Before it was announced that the screen door was faulty, he had just told Bacon that he liked to walk around in Jemma's clothes when no one was home. He said it made him feel like less of a boy and more of a man, a man an oyster or his Pa could respect.

Baby Diamond crawled around in the dirt near the home while the family gathered their things. He hadn't learned to speak yet, but when he saw the rainbow forming in the sky, he stood upright and quoted the following:

"What's the matter, you dissentious rogues, That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, Make yourselves scabs?"

The family turned around, stunned. Jemma shouted:

"Baby Diamond can talk! And he's quoting last month's Cosmopolitan!"

The family began to weep simultaneously. They showered Baby Diamond with kisses and snuggles and stared at the rainbow for a few long moments. Pa interrupted responsibly and asserted that it was time for them to leave.

The Johnsmith family crammed into their golden sedan like too many deceased bodies in a crematorium and drove toward the rainbow. They sporadically turned around and screamed "Goodbye, Bacon!" in unison.

Terrible Delicatessen -- 7.8.13

Kreemie Dunbar is a writer with no money. He pays the bills by working at an awful, awful deli. Kreemie questions what it is to be an adult in this week's quasi-Künstlerroman comic strip. Also, action figures!

7.8.13

 

NEXT WEEK: Gary goes dancing! Elephantem saltare doces.