ANDI WATSON IS A REGULAR BRITISH JOE WHO MAKES COMICS THAT AREN'T ABOUT GIRLS WITH BIG BREASTS. CANS MCKENZEY IS THE GIRL WITH BIG BREASTS WHO INTERVIEWED HIM.
cans: For our readers who aren’t familiar with you or your work, could you tell them what you do for the comic world?
Andi: I mostly write and draw my own comics: Samurai Jam, Skeleton Key, Geisha and Breakfast After Noon. They're considered to be “indie” comics, which is a small but creatively vital part of the wider, crumbling comic industry.

Government geneticists scored another one for Uncle Sam when, after 20 years of intense research, they successfully grew a clone of master magician Doug Henning on the back of 59-year-old Lake Powell, Utah resident, Chuckie Wistey.
The U.S. has been jockeying to be the first country to effectively reproduce a magician from skin cells and DNA samples for the past decade since the discovery of similar experiments by China and the former Soviet Empire.

This month I sat down with our good friend Anthony Clark, from TV's Boston Common and Yes, Dear. Anthony opens his soul with this revealing Quick 10.
darby: What’s next for Anthony Clark?
Anthony: I have another year of Yes, Dear to do. We’ve been picked up for 24 episodes for next year. We are the only sitcom from the fall season to make it back. It’s a great feat for us to be one of the lone sitcoms to make it to its sophomore season.
d: Who’s your favorite Simpsons character?

In June, the MTV Movie Awards took center stage, and the stars were out in the highest of fashion. This year’s fashion trend: boobies. Hip-hop goddess Lil’ Kim showed off her jiggling orbs with a garnish of daisy pasties. Her Lady Marmalade partners, Pink, Christina Aguilera and Mya, also dressed like whores.

Local fast food joint Burger Winky reported Thursday that their shake machine was still “down.” The news came as no surprise to most Americans who have realized that fast food shake machines are the only things that our goddamned country can not get to work.

Slipping sideways down a blue hole in green grass that was stumbled across during the trip up the first side of the hill. The partly-broken button of the blue-collar shirt wears a final switch on my new left hand. Reminding me of the ghostly reverie of simplicity. Wiggle down. Starting off. And no boat holds water while the ocean is red. Don't try too hard to return the equation to a stable place. It's not worth it. Breathing flicky yellow crusty breaths and spitting up the chunking bits of snarled phlegm, I can't think straight and words keep curving to the left. But I'm trying.

There is something so futile, so sad about living your life this way. Spending countless Friday nights alone with the TV. Ah, television. The drug of a nation; the center of the known universe. The Cathode Ray Nipple. The Nipple is good, the Nipple is wise and the Nipple is giving. The Nipple is my friend. It can be yours, too. My benevolent TV is jam-packed full of flashing HOT and loud NOW theater for the masses. I burn incense for It on the back of my remote control while chanting from TV Guide. I am supposed to be praying for guidance. When I feel I am ready, I turn It on.

My grandpa passed away last week. I never had anyone close to me die before then, so I really didn’t know how to handle it. It made me look at life with a new perspective. When I tell people that he’s gone, they always ask, “Were you close to him?” I always reply, “yes.” He was the coolest. I have so many great memories of him: taking me up north to the cottage; teaching me how to shoot a BB rifle; taking me out for pizza at Woodbine; teaching me how to golf; showing me how his ham radio works. “W9DYO, W9DYO.

How we deal with crime in America has been getting to me. It could be the wall-to-wall coverage that it gets in the media. It could be the sobbing shrink giving excuses for those who commit horrible crimes. It could be the lack of remorse, disrespect for authority, or blasé attitude towards a prison sentence combined with a weak and politically corrupt judicial system. There is wrong and there is right. I don’t need laws to tell me the difference. But for some reason, a staggering amount of dipshits do.

By the time August came along, it seemed Uncle Ben would live to be the last man on Earth. I was pretty sure of it. He would be the one man alive after a nuclear war, wandering about the great wasteland of Earth with a beard and rosy cheeks like some romantic farmer from a dust bowl movie. He’d find the last woman alive and they’d breed a whole new race into existence.
They’d be the future Adam and Eve.
“Why do you hate me, son?” he asked one day, as we sat out on the porch together, eating Margie’s fresh-made peanut clusters.