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They know just how to strike at the very essence of my being.
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And another organization has croped up, this time called "M.A.T.H." Men Advocating Tony-Hating.
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A friend of mine just went through a bad lesbian breakup. I consoled her as best I know how. The kitty angle.
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Now this comic isn't in any way a detriment to the un-shown girl in the boots. It's just a fact, that men love to masturbate. Nothing can replace it, not even sex. So ladies, don't get mad when you catch your man wackin' his bone.
Some people have noted that all the women seem to be wearing boots in the sex scenes. There's a reason for that, and one other than that I really like knee-high boots on girls. I tried drawing just bare legs, and it was difficult to differentiate between the guy's legs and the woman's legs. The boots are just an easy and erotic differentiator.
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Every superhero has his beginnings...
What was the cause of the horniness in this strip you ask? Well I'll tell you. A particularly raunchy episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation with one Ensign Ro. Booyeah.
To be continued...
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If you're sexually active, or even actively masturbating as a guy (or messy as a girl), then you know the hidden and not-often discussed consequences: Dirty, dirty sheets. Anal lube, ejaculate, and other bodily fluids have to go somewhere, and it always ends up on the sheets. Sometimes in spades. Someone has to clean it, and in New York City, there's a laundromat on every block. It's a great convenience, but as I carried my load (huh huh, I said load) to the launderette, I suddenly felt sorry for whoever had to wash my sheets. They probably wish me great ill will.
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I'm not sure how the hell it happened either. Ah well.
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Ahh, the fabeled Aura Of Legitimacy. When guys get it, we're lucky. The aura itself wears off pretty quickly, so be sure to use it to your advantage while you have it. It's the reason why romantic luck comes in waves; waves of being inundated with booty, and long periods of complete and utter inactivity. The Aura can have a snowball effect, it's the self confidence and mojo garnered from being liked by the sexual preference of your choice. However, when it goes away, the mojo is gone, and it's very difficult to get back.
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I don't know if this happens to other people, but I often fall in love with the young and attractive retail slaves at the establishments I shop at.
While this may seem like an ideal place to meet people, remember, if you fuck it up, you may not be able to show your face there again. Hence the problem with retail love.
Yeah, I know. I've been a bad comic artist. No new comics in what, two weeks? Well, I've been having a little vacation. Also, I got a new haircut. Here's how it happened.
I'm sitting at home, looking at Internet porn, when my phone rings.
"Y'ello"
"Is this Tony?"
"Yes, yes it is."
"My name is Commander Data. You may remember me from Star Trek, The Next Generation."
"Holy shit, Data? Wow!"
"Yes. I want my haircut back."
My hair had grown quite long, and I was wearing it back, and sometimes it looked like Data's haircut. So I got a new one. It's called a "faux-hawk", where the top and back are longer, giving a pseudo-mohawk look. But not really a mohawk. Yeah.
Next, I'll be working on the MacGuyver haircut. Richard Dean Anderson, aww yeah.
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If there's one thing I hate, it's dealing with bullshit. I do not believe to be singular in my opinion on this.
I think some people, both men and women, find that subjecting their lovers to inane bullshit is a test of love. "Prove you care about me by dealing with my crap!" I find it nauseating, and I'm usually running away as fast as I can.
Right about the time all this bull-shit was going one in the dysfunctional love triangle, I was involved in moving. I don't know if you've ever heard of what it's like to move in NYC, I assure you it's the worst possible experience you could possibly have that doesn't involve a limb being removed.
They fuck you in the ass, then they fuck you in the ass some more. If you don't smile while they do it, then you don't get the apartment. Even if getting fucked in the ass is your thing, and I totally respect that, they find a way to make it unpleasent for even the most ardent sodomite.
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The C.O.W.T.U.R.D. series will continue after this important Valentine's Day comic.
It's common knowledge that women fake orgasms. Hell, I've faked one or two in my time.
It seems innocent enough. Perhaps it's an insufficient lover, and you don't want them to feel bad. Perhaps he or she is so awful that you would knaw an arm or leg off like a trapped wild animal in order to cease your suffering. Perhaps you're just sleepy, and you've had enough.
The problem with that, however, is that faked orgasms contribute to greater and greater quantities of bad sex. It's rewarding bad behavior. It's giving the milk bone to a dog that just crapped the floor.
So, to commemorate this Valentine's day, I've come up with a rather romantic invention. The Orgasm Detector. Working on the same principles as a lie detector, it can tell when a claimed orgasm is true or fake, by measuring squealing pitch and intensity, breathing rate, and booticron emissions.
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Recently, a girl I dated went totally apeshit. We were very close, and then it went, well, apeshit.
You might remember her from such comics as Let Me Love You and Cum and Wine.
Anyway, to let off some steam, I'm going to recount my recollection of the story to the best of my recollection.
The scandal is about to begin...
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Here's some more tips on having a threesome. You know, the more I think about it, the more I realize that by all rights, I should never, ever, ever get laid.
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More on M.A.T.H. (Men Advocating Tony-Hating), and their nefarious schemes to bring me down. I know you all are thinking I'm making this shit up as I go along, but I swear, this isn't far off from the actual game.
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So how does someone go from trusted companion to head of recruitment for C.O.W.T.U.R.D.? Well, you'll have to know some of the players. Mic, we'll call him, and M's best friend, E.
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Lesson one: Never show a penis to a porn star and expect them to be amazed. They've seen it all. And I mean all.
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More on what happened to me in Canada...
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Today's comic (and one of the first on-time Friday comics in a while) involves the sordid tail of juggling multiple booty call requests. It's hard to do, as even I cannot violate the laws of space and time.
The Jesus Jones poster, which really does sit above my bed, further illustrates that I shouldn't have been getting laid in the first place.
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Sometimes, people just don't know when to leave...
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I'm not kidding about having conversations like this. They occur in my everyday life, and when they happen I sometimes realize how absurd they are, yet they're a result of casual and serious conversation. There's not an overt effort to force them, they just happen naturally.
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When it all started, it went from high-fives during double teaming her to him talking to all of our mutual friends about how bad I am for her. How quickly he moved from E on to M.
When it started, my strategy was to stay out of it. Ignore it. Be the better person. I suffered the comments of fools, the behind the back talk, and the rumors. She didn't help. I think she even encouraged it and wished that I would join the fray. Like a damsel watching over two knights fighting for her, except I wasn’t willing to fight.
After it was over, I continued with the same strategy. She enjoyed making a public spectacle of it, sharing intimate details of my life, sexual fetishes, convening a meeting of my detractors and other exes to shit talk me, and overall playing the wounded lover role to a psychotic and obsessive degree.
After months of that, I decided to open my mouth, and this comic thread was born. Like it so far?
My one question: If I was such a shit-head, why is she mad I dumped her?
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Sometimes the best relationships are the simple ones, based on... well, quid pro quo? Two sides bringing something equal to the table, and getting something out of it, equally.
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For as long as man has been able to communicate over long distances, from the earliest days of using pigeons, smoke signals, to today's fancy telegraph and cell phones, there has always been the wondrous creation of the booty call. There always has been, and there always will be.
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Yet another common scenario for those who are debaucherous yet nerdy: The condom check. When relatives or other persons whom you'd rather not know about your sex life come over, you franticly search your apartment, house, cardboard box -- whatever -- in a mad search for anything naughty. Handcuffs, condoms, porn, it's all got to be hidden away. And if you're a bit on the messy side like me, this can be quite a challenge. You never know where a condom or porno mag is going to show up.
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For some reason, I find myself having conversations like this all the time.
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I am still hunted by Canadian forces.
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Yes, I've been very tardy. No new comics for a week. Well here you go. Please don't hurt me.
Speaking of hurting me, I've got a new comic for y'all. Perhaps a new type of sub-series, which I like to call Web Cam Theatre (note the snooty Queen's English spelling).
The thing about web cams is it allows people to show the side of them that they most want to be seen. People will often want to seem more introspective, more intellectual, or more tough. Usually though, they're the same emotional basket case whether they've got that lamentable plight look on their face, or the "I'm a bad-ass, no really, I am, just look at my gun, clearly I'm a bad-ass" look.
At first I wondered if I should put up such a comic, given that would probably anger a group on individuals that own firearms. Then I realized, anyone who poses with a gun on a webcam is probably a panzy anyway. Real tough guys are out doing tough things, and not really spending all that much indoors being a cam whore. So while I have plenty of people wishing me ill will, I'm not overly concerned about this new group.
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I bet every guy ever reading this has done the same thing. You go to a club, or a park, or a coffee shop... and you hook up. You get a phone number, or perhaps you go back to her place for some hot monkey sex. Or maybe, just maybe, you get a threesome out of it.
There is the rather irrational expectation that if you duplicate the environment exactly, you'll meet with the exact same success again. I've certainly felt this way, making sure to be at the exact same place, exact same time, wearing the exact same clothes, doing everything I could to duplicate whatever mojo worked.
Of course, entropy and chaos work in concert to ensure that no two events can ever, ever occur. This gets into both deep philosophical implications, as well as quantum physics. I think Stephen Hawking said it best in his best-selling book Macking the Hot Bitches: Quantum Effects on Getting It On, when he said: "You're not going to hook up the same way twice. Word."
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James Bond often fought a nemesis known as S.P.E.C.T.R.E., which was an acronym for "SPecial Executive for Counter-inTelligence, Revenge and Extortion".
I, too, have a nemesis I've discovered. It's called C.O.W.T.U.R.D., The Coalition Of Women Tony Ustah Recreationally Date. It's the same sort of nefarious organization that be-foes me, but instead of world domination, it's hell-bent bent on my destruction. I've come about these facts only recently, and I'm still finding out all the details.
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