A young woman’s brush with death reveals Satan’s plot for her destruction.
We’re trying something a little different this week, using Google docs to simultaneously work on a Dissection for a more back and forth commentary. So, without any further delay than there has already been for this one, here’s…
J: Extry, extry! Stiff-legged, gargantuan woman-monster attacks hot air balloon festival!
[nepphie] Is this a Tract, or an advert for Stephen King’s Carrie?
J: I think it’s actually just a bunch of Microsoft Word clip art all thrown together in MSPaint.
[nepphie] Maybe we can animate it so it’s spinning.
J: It could be the call signal for a really ineffective superhero. You know, Party Girl. She shows up at the crime scene and gets really drunk and passes out after insisting on sex with the perpetrator and puking on all the evidence.
[nepphie] Hell has divisions? Does he mean departments, or is he waiting for “Lord Satan, the 13th Infernal Regiment of the 666th Damned has reported in”?
J: Jack Chick’s hell just seems like one huge bureaucratic nightmare. There are all these board rooms and things… now we have “divisions”. Pretty soon, Jack’s going to make a Tract about demons’ 401k plans or something. “Beezlesnorf, you forgot to file your expense report! Fifty lashes with a dragon’s dick!”
[nepphie] I’m sure there’s a drawing of just that very thing up on Furaffinity somewhere. And speaking of horrible art, did Jack make this by selecting “spray” in MS Paint? I mean, God Damn!
J: I think he just applied the “Completely Destroy with Fuzz” filter in Photoshop. It’s like he drew this thing with rubber date stamps.
[nepphie] Now now, “drew” is a bit charitable, don’t you think?
J: You’re right, sorry. Maybe “insanely scrawled” is more appropriate.
J: So, here’s a question: You’re a tour manager for one of the “hottest groups in the world”. You get a phone call from a demon in Hell, trying to book you for an event. How do you respond?
[nepphie] In the real world? I go back to sleep and resolve to take less Tramadol. In Jack’s world, I probably send them to my lawyer Lou to begin negotiations.
J: Also, the devil must have one hell of a budget to be able to afford all these bands and drugs and booze. Get it? Hell? HAW HAW HAW.
[nepphie] We’re no longer friends. Next panel?
J: Where does one get “low-grade condoms”, exactly? Considering they’d likely not be FDA approved — like the condoms you’ll find in, say, drug stores, dispensers in gas station bathrooms, sex shops — I don’t think they’d be nearly as easy to come by as, y’know, standard-grade condoms, which are proven to reduce the risk of pregnancy and STD transmission by (let me just check the specifications, here): Failures resulting in pregnancy: 2% (perfect use) 10% (typical use); Correct, consistent use reduces transmission of HIV from an infected patient by 85%. But if you can get your hands on some of those extremely rare, imaginary, low-grade condoms, I guess your risk would be a lot higher.
[nepphie] All the pretty numbers @.@ *cough* Anyway, why would he need warehouses, plural, packed with condoms? Even one average sized warehouse would hold enough to shrink wrap every penis attending Mardi Gras, which is apparently the festival this abomination of a strip is referencing.
J: Why would he need a warehouse to begin with? He’s Satan. Why would hell have warehouses? It’s beginning to sound more and more like some kind of paper company that got really out of hand and started fucking with people’s lives.
[nepphie] Wonderful “turd in Dirac Sea” art here. Satan looks like a mask strapped to a colostomy bag, and the demon looks vaguely like what I saw the last time I cleaned the litter box.
J: Regarding the Bible quote, I wasn’t aware that a person could change their “father” depending on the actions they take in their lives. So God just kind of disowns you if you go to too many parties or something? Wow. My mom loves me no matter what I do, so I guess she loves me more than God does. I’m going to start believing in her.
[nepphie] How can you be 3,000 miles from hell? I wasn’t aware the plane of torment had a physical location, being a primarily metaphysical concept.
J: Only Jack Chick would assign a precise geological distance to the afterlife.
J: “3,000 miles away, Rita Jones is awakened at 4 A.M.” With explosive nocturnal diarrhea, apparently. God works in mysterious ways.
[nepphie] “Yes Lord! Oh God yes!” She apparently has the same “huge head, tiny arms” syndrome that plagued the scientist back in Mad Machine.
J: It’s possible that Jack Chick has only ever seen dwarfs in his life. And is it just me, or does her face bear a resemblance to what you’d expect Ann Coulter would look like during surprise anal sex? OH GOD PASS THE BRAIN-LYSOL.
[nepphie] I take it back. *NOW* we’re no longer friends. Guh. Wait, urgent? It took her three hours to get dressed and place a phone call! There’s a joke about women in the morning here, I just know it….
J: It wasn’t urgent when God first told her, but it was when she finally made the call because she’d waited too damn long. Or maybe God’s instructions were “eh, wait a few hours before telling anyone. It won’t be urgent until then.” Then again, it’s not like this ever actually happens, so Jack really just kind of had to guess at how such a thing might transpire in some kind of parallel dimension where it might be possible.
[nepphie] I think I have it. Fang and the cat don’t really exist. Except for that one time, you never see anyone acknowledging them, right? That’s why they can see demons and monsters and shit, like this random supernatural manifestation of a colon tumor that’s hanging out behind lady’s couch.
J: Somehow, I think All Colon Tumors Go to Hell wouldn’t be quite as appealing an animated film as All Dogs Go to Heaven.
J: He doesn’t give a shit about what the old lady’s doing, he’s just going to run crying to Satan that a possibly imaginary cat pointed angrily at him.
[nepphie] This second demon on the right panel was auditioning for the role of Flying Polyp in a Lovecraft movie, but the genre’s picky and for now he’s moonlighting work for Satan.
J: Yeah, what’s with the spotlight, by the way? Is he delivering his message in a moving opera performance? Or maybe he’s just encased some kind of Lucite cylinder or something.
J: “Lord YOU are going to have to get me to Jill in time. ‘Cause I got totally shitfaced on the way here and am completely fuckin’ useless right now.”
[nepphie] Plus the whole three hours to make a phone call thing. Molasses granny drips into action!
J: Thrill as she slowly creeps to the rescue! See movement-defying feats of practically standing entirely still, on nearly a molecular level! You’ll be on the edge of your seat as she drives thirty miles per hour below the speed limit with her left turn signal on for six straight hours!
[nepphie] Jew nose, Asian eyes, vaguely Italio-Latino hairstyle and facial hair…gee, could Jack be a racist? And how the fuck could Satan be a murderer from the beginning? I thought there wasn’t anything TO murder in the beginning, given as oh, you CAN’T KILL GOD.
J: Yeah, I don’t quite get that, either. Before there was even any kind of mortal creation, Satan… was a murderer. I dunno, maybe a few days before the First Day, God created a puppy for him to strangle or something.
J: Satan almost looks like Mirror Spock with horns, here.
[nepphie] Pardon me officer, could you tell me the way to the motel generic? Also, is it just me, or does everyone in this drawing have headgear of some sort?
J: I think she’s stumbled into a meeting of the Society for Silly Hats or something. Either that, or she’s found about half of of the Village People.
[nepphie] Her granddaughter seems to be mightily attached to the tradition, having a flying spaghetti monster headpiece.
[nepphie] Her taste in favorite party spots is next to fat, masked, hairy men? Guess I have a chance at love after all.
J: Man, Zorro’s really let himself go, huh?
J: “Club Paradise”, in “Hotel Orleans”. Man, they just went totally wild with these original names, didn’t they?
[nepphie] If by “original” you mean the default flavor of saltines.
[nepphie] …is that a vibrator talking to Satan on the left there?
J: Beats the hell out of me. It’s kind of too vague a blob for me to even begin to guess what it might be. I dunno, oxygen tank with cap? Inflatable butt-plug? Some kind of huge rubber nipple for a giant space baby’s bottle? In any event, it’s talking, and I’m not entirely sure if it’s something that would actually be capable of that.
[nepphie] You could have just said yes. Why don’t you ever just agree with me?
J: Certain childhood traumas have turned me into a compulsive contrarian. I’m working with a therapist. A reverse psychologist.
[nepphie] Satan’s not monologuing, he’s actually addressing Jill. “I won again!” probably refers to some kind of bet. “Bye Jill! I won again!” “Alright Lou baby, I’ll leave the money on the counter!”
J: Maybe that big, talking, dildo-looking lump in the first panel is supposed to be Jill. “You’re always in control, Master!” Like she’s actively worshiping Satan or something. Because as we all know, as soon as you start drinking or listening to rock music, you’re basically a devil-worshiper.
J: I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be a Satan mask on a stick or one of those ice cream popsicle deals in the shapes of popular fictional characters. I used to get the Mickey Mouse ones, as a kid.
[nepphie] Well crap. I forgot all about those. Now I want one. I hate you so much.
J: Damn, so do I. But I’m not sure if I want the original Chocolate Ears Mickey or Chocolate Horns Satan.
[nepphie] I really can’t tell if that’s a dude in the weird samba suit off on the right, or a chick. Or a dudechick. Freaky rabbit man on the left really skeeves me out for some reason, he just looks awful. Who looks like this? Does Chick secretly live by Chernobyl?
J: The guy on the left actually looks more like a fat guy painted a face on his belly and then someone came along and beheaded him and chopped his arms off. Then there’s the giant black man holding a fistful of straw in the center of the frame for some reason, and Taco Ockerse Puttin’ On the Ritz down at the bottom.
[nepphie] Is the little boy pointing at her purse? “She’s in there lady! With your kickin’ dog!”
J: If the kid saw a girl go into the woman’s purse, this must be one hell of a Mardi Gras for him. It’s kind of amazing, though, that this kid, at waist level to basically everyone else, would recognize this specific girl from a photograph that was probably taken a few years ago at some formal or family event where she wasn’t wearing shitloads of makeup and some goofy-assed snake hat. Impressive.
[nepphie] Could Jack have possibly made Zorro McFatfat any more skeevy looking? Granted, for once the emphasis makes sense, at least on the left panel. Points off for use of ellipsis after “Grandma!” though.
J: Yeah, it’s kind of weird that an attractive young girl would be hanging out with Jheri Curl Jacques Renault, or, like, I dunno, a cross between Ron Jeremy and a saline-injected pork roast.
[nepphie] It looks like Gramma was wearing the sweaty man as a suit and flung him aside! Oh the twist surprises!
J: Silence of the Hams. Yeah, what is she doing, exactly? She has one short arm growing out of her upper back, and the no arm on the other side.
[nepphie] I think Gramma is abusive. Look at how the girl’s martini glass shakes in fear!
J: I think Jill confused the words “martini” and “maraca”.
[nepphie] Another of Jack’s weird “out of the thought bubble” comments here, Gasp specifically. So is she saying it, did she actually gasp, or is it written on the wall?
J: Now I kind of want to go around stenciling “GASP” on random walls, in the off chance that an observer in this kind of situation might see it and be momentarily confused. Though, it’s kind of helpful to the reader for her to have some sort of reaction, here, because otherwise, without the context of previous panels, it would be easy to mistake this scene as two people arguing over a really strong-limbed potted plant of some sort.
[nepphie] Or it’s a divorce settlement and they’re trying to figure out their pet ghoul. Also, notice that she’s not actually holding her drink in panel one, then guy recovers it in panel two.
J: Maybe he’d grabbed it from her with the other hand as he held her arm. He wasn’t trying to get her to stay, he was just absolutely insatiable for her drink. The “Hey… don’t leave me, baby” was directed at it, not her. Speaking of which, I think I’d appreciate this panel a lot more if the dude was breaking out into Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes’ “Don’t Leave Me This Way” instead.
[nepphie] “I’m not gonna let her DRINK go to waste, so I’m going to crap my pants to make room! HHHRRRRNNN!!!”
J: “Dammit, skull! Why won’t you leave my head?” You know, he kind of looks a little like a really fat, angry Hitler with a man-perm and the furious desire to be a superhero.
[nepphie] You know, I’d be interested in a poison that causes no effects whatsoever for four minutes, then instantly lays you out dead. Seriously. Because if he’d been choking or vomiting or something, you think there’d be a reaction earlier…
J: So wait… Satan goes around masquerading as a bartender and poisoning people’s drinks now? He doesn’t just want people’s souls, he wants to actually kill them as well, I guess. Then again, if God’s going around ordering people to kill their own children, Satan has to compete somehow.
[nepphie] Bunch of crazy there. What’s the point of it all, etc. Also, if you’re so embarrassed, why the hell are you telling someone about it? I’ll never understand women. They should be more like men, with less of the admitting embarrassment.
J: I wouldn’t take Jack Chick’s depictions of women as in any way representative of real women.
J: I’d like to know how many people actually have their lives saved by grandmothers who hear urgent instructions from God. It seems to be a recurring theme in Jack’s Tracts, but something tells me it never actually happens.
J: The second panel would be much better if the little hands from her hat were pressing against the sides of her shocked face a la Home Alone.
[nepphie] Do people actually use the verb “down” in conversation anymore? Apart from ironically or when they’re being macho?
J: Just further evidence that Jack Chick hasn’t spoken with anyone for at least a decade. Though, in all fairness, Jack probably wrote this one maybe twenty or thirty years ago. I know the copyright looks like it says 1994, but that’s probably just the last time he revised it to update the clothing.
J: Where was their table, by the way? I don’t recall ever seeing any table over the last few panels.
[nepphie] Don’t you know that all the hip kids and their 20 years older paramours dance with their drinks in their hands now?
J: Every time I read the “That drink was POISONED” line, it always comes out in my head as being sung by Bell Biv Devoe.
[nepphie] The pay phone looks like an airport pay phone. That can’t really be, though, because it’s clear Jack would never have seen one, given the sheltered life he lives.
J: They’ve revamped the airport completely, now it looks just like a night club. Everyone’s excited and confused. Sorry, no idea why I’m stuck in “semi-obscure musical references” mode right now.
J: So… how many poisonings by Satan do you think are reported in America each year? It’s gotta be at least a million.
[nepphie] Years? Wait, didn’t he just come up with this plan? Like a few panels ago?
J: Well, according to this Tract, Satan routinely goes around killing people. This can’t be his first time. I guess not only should people be motivated to believe in Jesus out of fear that they could go at any time from myriad causes of death that are all around us, but they should also make sure to be fast about it because Satan’s lurking around every corner, waiting to pose as a bartender and slip poison into their drink, or pose as a doctor and give them an AIDSy blood transfusion or something. NEVER TRUST ANYONE, EVER. They could be Satan!
[nepphie] Jack resumes his tradition of talking windows here. Also, kind of amusing that pulling off the spaghetti monster hat renders her suddenly “smart”. Jack’s usual ham-fisted allegory/symbolism stand-ins, check.
J: Not only does it improve her “intelligence” or “wisdom”, it also apparently removes all the rest of her costume, like one of those superhero accessories that can put on and remove the rest of their outfit just by slipping it on and off their wrist or finger or whatever. “Huzzah! I’m instantly no longer Party Girl!”
J: I also like to think that grandma is shouting out the window at the bird in the second panel. “Run, little bird! He knows! He knows!”
[nepphie] I wonder if the asterisk in gramma’s comment is audible.
J: She makes some kind of beeping sound or something, then crouches and says the “footnote” aloud in a really fast monotone whisper.
J: I know Jill is supposed to be shocked or horrified here, but she looks more bored, as though she’s stifling a yawn. Believe me, Jill, I feel ya.
[nepphie] Stealth Granny is stealthy. Seriously, she’s blending into the couch here. She’s just a disembodied hand and head lecturing her granddaughter.
J: Hah, wow, she’s like a chameleon. Maybe her dress is made out of some kind of futuristic fiber optic light-bending camouflage or something.
[nepphie] The vase looks like something you’d see in a sex shop. Here’s the cognitive dissonance of Jack’s thought process in action. She was obviously not worried about any “rotten” things she’d been doing. She clearly wasn’t drunk yet, so she had some of her mental faculties in order, and thus wasn’t trying to drown her sorrows in parties and booze. Yet right now she’s instantly and completely ready to go “oh god I’m horrible!” and admit to being some kind of rotten person when in fact there’s been no evidence she’s considered herself thus up to this point.
J: In any event, I thought Jack believed that “works didn’t matter”. This has come up a lot in the past, and I tend to mention it for every Tract, but why can’t someone be both faithful and engage in certain “immoral” activities? Fuck, if God instructed a man to take his son to the top of a mountain and kill him, or ordered a man to let every other person but his family die in a flood and then have all of them incestuously churn out the New Human Race, you’d think he might not give so much of a shit about certain behaviors. Who knows? Maybe accepting Jesus but still having sex with random strangers and shooting heroin might result in a greater number of converts, or the conversion of someone “important”. He works in mysterious ways, after all.
[nepphie] Hijack! That page was boring me. New Page Action time.
[nepphie] …except this page isn’t much better. Again we have Jack stretching out the salvation conversation beyond the point it’s reasonable. Just once I’d like to see the person being witnessed to actually know what’s being talked about. After all, isn’t this grandmother directly connected to God? Isn’t she therefore burdened to be aware of her immoral granddaughter? And thus isn’t she a SHITTY FUCKING WITNESS for Christ if she didn’t do anything until JUST BEFORE Satan was set to kill Jill? God dammit Jack.
J: Yeah, now that you mention it, it’s funny that Jack never has an “antagonist” in these Tracts who actually knows enough about the Bible and theology and, well, logic to actually argue against the person trying to convert them. Every time he tries to have a pesky convertee or some kind of semi-hostile non-Christian attempt to resist conversion, their arguments are always trite, strawman-style bullshit that Jack is easily able to “counter”, with the end result usually a sobby, carpet-lint-gobbling success. Not to blow my own horn or anything, but I’d like for Jack to try to make a Tract that counters any of the more substantial arguments I’ve made in these Dissections over the years. Like for instance the “immoral activities” bit on the last page.
[nepphie] That would require him to use the internet, JWocky. Why don’t you wish for the moon while you’re at it, I’m sure Zombie Jimmy Stewart would come and help you get it.
J: Well, presumably he has a vague awareness of the internet, since he has a site and most of his Tracts are available on it, but I guess I can’t assume that he uses it for anything but howling wildly into the void.
J: Anyway, back to the Tract at hand: From left to right, here, we have Shaggy, Eddie Murphy, a bruised-up Dennis Farina, Miss Cleo, and some kind of sun-worshiping Russian mystic. HAPPY MARDI GRAS.
[nepphie] I thought they were Shaggy’s collection of masks from various scooby doo capers. Or his collection of severed heads, Shaggy always did freak me the fuck out.
J: His pot addiction was simply the only way he could pacify his thirst for blood and keep himself from killing. An adult pig can consume eight pounds of raw human flesh per minute. But have you seen how many Scooby Snacks that huge, fucking gluttonous dog would consume in a single mystery-solving adventure? Never trust a man who owns a pig farm, or an enormous pseudo-talking dog that’s incessantly hungry.
[nepphie] Jill got tired of Granny’s lecture and took a page from Shaggy’s book. She cut off gramma’s head and is using it as a hand puppet to work out her anger.
[nepphie] I never knew they burned Jesus on the cross. Saviour on a Stick anyone?
J: He does look pretty crispy there, but then so does basically everything else in this Tract.
[nepphie] Little known fact that the three days dead was actually just a trial period between Satan and Christ as roomies. This panel illustrates the final day they decided to end it, because Jesus kept blinding Satan early every morning.
J: With his brilliantly-illuminating penis, apparently. “Gyah, would you turn it the fuck down? Jesus H. YOU, it’s like you’ve got a thousand-watt light bulb screwed in where your junk should be.” “Sorry, man, robe slips open a little sometimes in the morning.” “…Get out.”
J: “(God) hath delivered us from the power of darkness. With his dick.”
[nepphie] “Now accept Jesus and give Gramma some sugar, Jill. Mwuah.” Seriously, that is the creepiest poutygranny face ever.
J: “Come on, Jill, let gramma spit up this slurry of predigested worms into your mouth.” “Grandma, I’m twenty nine years old. I can predigest my own worms, thank-you-very-much.”
J: So a complete, unquestioning adoption of someone else’s world view as it pertains to the actions in your life is synonymous with “To open their eyes” in the Chickverse. I guess in order to truly open your eyes, you have to not see things as they actually are, but instead apply a bunch of bizarre interpretations to them that involve invisible demons and angels and unobservable magic influences and shit.
[nepphie] Beginning to see? Didn’t she just say a few panels back that she’d done horrible things or some shit? What the fuck was that, just leading Gramma on? Also, who talks like this etc.
J: Well, see, she admitted that she’d done “rotten things”, it’s just that she only in this panel became aware of the fact that it was all a bunch of magical, invisible demons manipulating her every move with their magical, unobservable powers that transcend time and space, and that she must put her faith in a God who apparently can’t stop the demons from doing their rotten things to her. You know, speaking of divine intervention, where were the tripping angels to, say, shove Jill and force her to spill her drink?
J: Further, here’s a question for you: In order for Jill to believe her grandma and her grandma’s speech about Jesus, the fat, angry guy at the bar had to have died. So was that an act of God or an act of Satan? To whom, now, do we attribute Jill’s conversion? And was it really worth the death of the random fat guy? Could God figure out no other way? Why couldn’t God have posed as another bartender and slipped the antidote to the poison into one of the guy’s earlier drinks? If Satan can wander around directly murdering people, why can’t God save them?
[nepphie] He can. He just doesn’t. Because he’s a dick. Seriously, he has angels go around tripping people, what do you expect?
[nepphie] More creepy incestu-lesbianism here. Seriously, Jack’s utter fear of sex and human interactions have left him so void of context for either that many of his drawings end up looking inappropriately sexual anyway.
J: It’s not Jack’s fault — it’s the devil, weaseling these things in there to try to subvert the MESSAGE of the LORD. By the way, does anyone in the Chickverse have transparent windows, or are they all, like, covered in wax paper or something?
[nepphie] They just never wash them. Because seeing in your neighbor’s windows means you could see the Mrs. Butterworth’s bottle and become filled with horrible carnal curiosity that your mother figure will need to beat out of you.
J: You know, it’s funny, because this isn’t really what the Bible says about how to get into heaven. There are a lot of conflicting instructions, especially between Old Testament and New Testament. So unless one accepts that God can contradict himself and is ultimately difficult to understand, they’re really just lying to themselves and are certainly not taking the Bible literally. Meanwhile, if all it takes to get into heaven is to accept Jesus, well, again, why stop drinking and partying and shit, but also, why exhibit so much self-centered concern about other people’s actions? Accept Jesus, and then shut the fuck up and get out of the way of the sidewalk to the abortion clinic already. Assholes.
[nepphie] That’s not Jill praying, it’s a TUMOR. A hideous cancerous blotch in the vague shape of the Virgin Mary. It will sell for millions of Canadian dollars on eBay.
J: “Eetz not a toomah!” …sorry, I couldn’t help it. Dammit, that happens every time I hear the word “tumor”. I could never be an oncologist.
J: “Wow, grandma, I feel wonderful, and I’m confident my own neurochemical fluctuations like the endorphin rush that one would get from a powerful emotion like completely giving oneself over to another person or entity has absolutely nothing to do with it!”
[nepphie] I’m Free!* (*with two proofs of purchase**) (** please submit discarded condoms for identity and purchase confirmation).
J: “I’m Free!” And then she starts a pinball-themed cult that rebells against her in the end, at which point she has a revelation about all of it and strips and runs off into the wild.
[nepphie] Even disregarding the usual bullshit about idiotic on the face of them comparisons, this one’s even against Jack’s supposed epistemology, because didn’t the Bible assert that Lucifer deceives because he’s attractive and such things, rather than Jewcifer?
J: “You see this freakishly tiny finger? Yeah, I’ve found it’s small enough to fit in a typical human urethra. So you’d better accept Jesus, or I’m going to lube this thing up with some wasabi mayonnaise and do just that.”
[nepphie] God dammit Jabberwock. That image will never leave my brain.
J: Well, what’d we learn here today? I learned that as fumbling and heavy-handed as Satan is, God is apparently too powerless, unwilling, or incompetent to try to stop him.
[nepphie] Yeah. You know, as much as I may give Stephen King shit for having a bit character kill off his major supervillain, at least he could write an epic conflict between celestial forces (Gan and the Crimson King) that didn’t come off as a bad episode of Laurel and Hardy.
J: It just strikes me as kind of pathetic, really, that Jack depicts Satan as running around poisoning unwitting people, and God — this reportedly all-powerful being who loves us all so damn much — doesn’t even seem to be doing anything about it other than giving grandma explosive diarrhea in the middle of the night to wake her up and send her to Mardi Gras to try to intervene. The personal attention that Satan gives to all of this, coming to Earth and disguising himself and all that, really makes God’s “eh, I’ll call her grandma” effort seem… lackadaisical and detached. What does it say that Satan is willing to poison someone himself, but God shovels all the work onto his non-omnipotent believers who stand a pretty good chance of fucking the whole thing up and failing spectacularly?
[nepphie] Indeed. As we’ve already mentioned, Jack’s art is worse than usual in this one, probably a post-stroke strip. I’d complain about his making his villains completely hideous, but *everyone* is an abomination against the human and rational form in this article. Normal people suffer strokes destroying their ability to smile believably, while his demons become anthropomorphized fecal matter and colon polyps.
J: Actually, I’m pretty sure this one was pre-stroke, so he really has no excuse other than a complete lack of talent. But that’s not entirely unexpected. It’s also possible that he did, in fact, make this one by using a sponge to stamp feces onto a used napkin or something.
J: Anyway, until next time. Tell your friends. And your enemies. And drink your Ovaltine.
[nepphie] Thanks again everyone. Send in suggestions for the next nepphie/Jabberwock pairup. (To clear up any confusion, nepphie is my nickname, ascendance is my blog I use to log in). Winning suggestion will receive a sonnet in iambic pentameter from me by the end of January!
J: I, on the other hand, promise NOTHING.