Terrible Delicatessen -- 9.30.13

 You Light Up My Life, Part IV --  Getting To Know You

So who is this bonnie lass Kreemie's been chatting up recently? We find out today!

Also, Kreemie quotes George Bernard Shaw all casual-like. What an a-hole. Compulsive hyper-intellectualism gets you nowhere, folks!

 

 NEXT WEEK: Kreemie's fricken' broke! Fricken' broke!

Dives est qui sibi nihil deesse putat.

 

9.30.13

Terrible Delicatessen -- 9.9.13

You Light Up My Life, Part I -- The Girl Of Kreemie's Dreamies

What would you do if an inscrutable young woman of Eastern European descent walked into your deli and wanted a roast beef sandwich? Would you fall in love?

Yes. Yes you would. Of course you would . You'd get all hot 'n bothered. You'd come to be delirious and euphoric. And delusional. Like Kreemie. 

And then your boss would walk into the frame in nothing but his skivvies. And you and your dream partner would be mortified. That's what would happen. Because that's how life is.

Isn't it? 

NEXT WEEK:  You Light Up My Life, Part II . I know it was you, Gary! You broke my heart! YOU BROKE MY HEART.

Quien me amat, amet et canum meum.

 

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 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.

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.

Terrible Delicatessen -- 6.17.13

Kreemie Dunbar is a writer with no money. He pays the bills by working at an awful, awful deli. Kreemie waxes and whinges on about the death of Western arts. Gary makes him eat crow and condiments.

What a great boss.

6.17.13

NEXT WEEK: Kreemie mouths off to Muscley 'Roid Guy and his pitbull. Funny ensues. Que sera, sera.