Gather ’round, children, and I will tell you a tale. Way back in the year 2004, I thought it would be a great idea to fall off a shelf that was about fifteen feet off the ground and land directly on my ass. I immediately felt the effects of my little incident, because it seemed that I had broken every part of my ass ten times over, and thrown it in a wood-chipper for good measure. I was pretty sure most of my tail bone was located in my neck. For those of you unable to understand just what happened, here’s a quick diagram of what it felt like:

ouchie

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Australia. Land of plenty. A massive island of mostly coastal residents, our language has the unique ability to evoke a feeling in the back of your brain that you’re getting stupider every time you hear it. From the country that delivered you the literary pioneers and cultural contributors Rolf Harris and Rupert Murdoch, we here at Sneer Campaign present you with five Australian terms in order of how alarmingly sexual or coprophilic they are. You can use them, sure. But every time you do, you’ll lose a little piece of yourself.

m8m8m8

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grogberries

Inspiration to start a comic series strikes me at the most unexpected times. Sometimes, I actually think things up. Other times, content is handed to me, practically thrown in my lap. The comics you are seeing in this article today were of that variety. Dollissa and I, and many of the other writers you may see around here, all were at one point part of one of those quaint old-fashioned internet message boards that used to be so popular. We still spend a little time there. Well, as you read these comics below, keep in mind that every single one of them were from posts from one specific character on that forum, the author of this post (because he wrote all of the comics, and the comics wouldn’t exist without him, of course).

I found that the more I saw him post, the more I imagined that he was a horse trapped in a human body, trying to get by in a human world. As far as I know, his life is an episode of the Twilight Zone, and what I noticed about him is true.

— Amandoll

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Growing up in the South (as a PROUD SOUTHERNER) I was offered a variety of food and drink items on a regular basis. Most of these were good. We’re talking about your fried chicken, watermelon, grape soda, SOME BBQ, Cheerwine, and other assorted Southern delicacies. This was quite pleasing, as they were always being offered and seemingly readily abundant. There are however a few Southern staples that don’t please me. There are a few food and drink items that downright disgust me. The big problem is that those were just as readily available and were being offered to me just as often. But one item stood out above all others… and it was a beverage. In fact, I don’t think it even deserves to be called a beverage. It’s swill. The foulest swill. It haunted me throughout my childhood. One sip and I turned into Jim Carrey, my face contorting wildly, jaw jutting out further than my bone structure allowed. Much like Jim Carrey, this was no laughing matter.  

I was plagued my entire goddamn childhood by SWEET TEA!

childhood rage

 

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The Van Morrison hit “Brown Eyed Girl” is just one of those songs you hear innumerable times over the course of your life. You’ve probably heard it in your home, your car radio, overhead at the grocery store, and countless other places. The point is this is a song that is played out the ass (FORESHADOWING) and chances are you could sing a few lines if asked on the spot. If someone asked me to sing for them on the spot I’d tell them to go sing to a big meaty johnson, but that’s just me.

Now I do enjoy this song, but probably not for the same reasons as most. My enjoyment from it comes from my knowledge of what the TRUE meaning of this song is all about. That beneath those charming and harmless lyrics is a cesspool of debauchery. Would you believe me if I told you that this song has a secret meaning that you’ve gone decades without noticing? No? Well then… Would you believe me when I tell you that you’re living in a FOOL’S WORLD?  

brown eyed girl

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Lately I’ve been trying to find something that I can eat for lunch at work that doesn’t come out of that part of the frozen meal section that oh so many middle-aged women huddle around at your local supermarket. While those frozen meals are generally okay, I find myself slowly spiraling into depression more and more with every microwave thawing of one. I have no idea why. Maybe because it makes me sad that I would much rather be eating SpaghettiOs straight out of the can than sitting there deciding if I would rather get another frozen brick of French Mushroom Italian Delight Panini, or Italian Lobster Fish Fart Bake. At least SpaghettiOs have a taste. They taste like SpaghettiOs. All of that frozen stuff just tastes like microwave radiation, no matter how many fancy ingredients you claim are in it.

As much as I would like to just drink a can of SpaghettiOs at work, I feel I need to be a bit more “adult” in my lunch approach. So I did what any confused person that has no clue what the fuck they want does at the supermarket and wandered into the mystical International Foods aisle. I was instantly greeted with more than a few lunch options: mostly a bunch of generic rice packets and other assorted ricey things. But that shit need not even apply because out of the corner of my eye, I spotted these little beauties:

Cup Noodle

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Everyone in the world knows who the Marx Brothers are, and always will. It is one of the most comforting certainties that there are. However, it is likely that not everyone knows all of the character differences and subtle nuances of humor that each brings to the comedy table. Some people don’t even realize that they were really real life brothers! This is because Chico Marx was that good at performing a flawless Italian stereotype, and Harpo was good at being a terrorpuppet come to life. Groucho appeared to be so acerbic in his wit that it doesn’t seem possible that he could have any close family. And Zeppo must be lost, how did he get into those movies? Also their costumes were such that they all looked very different from one another. In real life, though, they pretty much looked identical with slight variations in age and height.

Caustic one-liners can never go out of style and pretending to be Italian apparently never will, either, for some reason. But Harpo’s rhyme and reason is already unclear in our modern age. In the early part of the 1900s, a psychotic clown was hilarious. Now, it can only be terrifying. Long ago, mute people were things to laugh at, and deranged men endlessly, relentlessly chasing women around was apparently only scary to that specific woman running for her life. Why is this? How has the world become so dour that these things now frighten us? Well, I have no answers for you at this time, but what I do have is a small selection of drawings explaining the decision to make his character one that does not ever speak a line. I hope you like cussin’!

Harpo

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Greetings fellow cryptozoologists, Halloween freaks, monster lovers (not in that way), and general aficionados of the arcane, deformed, and peculiar. Today, in honour of the spooky season, Sneer Campaign is pleased to introduce to you a menagerie of horrors too deviant to imagine. Luckily though, you don’t have to imagine them. Amanda has drawn them for you.

Warning: terror ahead.

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You know how out there in the real world, appearances are important. Whether we like it or not, we are judged for our clothes, hair, general upkeep, and so on. People also seem to respond favorably when you are well-spoken. I think this is also true on the Internet, although people aren’t convinced yet, judging by the appallingly low standards everywhere you look. But suave, sophisticated internet personalities like to give off the impression that they have a decent command of the written language. Unfortunately, typos exist.

It is frustrating to make a typo. You look like you can’t spell something and when you have to backspace a hundred times in order to appear to have any shred of intelligence at all, you just want to give up and start txtn liek it aint mattr. When I read a typo, by the way, I imagine that I have just read a mispronunciation, or in some cases, a total spazz out breakdown. It’s funny when other people do it, but when I do it, I just want to cover my face in varying levels of shame.

Worse, though, is the typo that makes a different, actual word. Sometimes it is the fault of that infernal autocorrect feature, but sometimes it is simply because certain letters are next to each other. And sometimes it is because your brain just wrote a completely different word and that’s weird and also not what I’m talking about here. That’s disturbing in an entirely different way. Anyhow, it is confusing for the other person to encounter this correctly spelled but not exactly relevant new word, and I have been personally HUMILIATED to have been the victim of these errors. And they have traumatized me enough that any time I write the word I mean to write now, I automatically check to make sure I did not accidentally write the wrong word.

And because every chat I have is imagined in my mind as one of my comics – only fully animated (yes, I’m very lucky), I will present these scenarios to you as small comic strips featuring my poor friends.

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