Normally I fling aside the Sunday coupon inserts like so much chaff as I dig for the comics, but Mary just had to bring this one to my attention:
And I was reminded of the two things that most freaked me out when I first moved to New York: Crazy Eddie commercials, and those near-constant spots in which a gruff-voiced and very drunk old man would harangue me about gettin’ me some of that sweet, sweet Cookiepuss. I mean, at least the girls on Seventh Avenue were fairly subtle about it; they’d just murmur, “Like a date, sir?” as they walked past at a measured pace. But Tom Carvel would croak on and on about Cookiepuss like he was her coked-up pimp and I was some hayseed just stepped off the Trailways at the Port Authority and he was shaking me down to pop for a nooner at the Piccadilly Hotel (money I had been saving especially to buy a brand new pair of Sergio Valente jeans at Alexander’s).
And as you can see, nothing much has changed:
Either Mr. Hankey, the Christmas Poo from South Park is working a second job as the Easter Turd, or else this is John Gibson’s worst nightmare: A giant black dildo that has achieved consciousness.