TV is one of the greatest things ever brought to Earth by man. There are seemingly endless ways to watch and things to watch now. You can spend all day watching, all week watching. You can watch 11 seasons of a show in a row or you can spread it out over a lifetime. You can watch something new every day for at least a whole year.

Odds are though, that your roommate or significant other or whatever doesn’t actually want to watch TV all day with you, because they’re a sucker. But the internet has a solution to that: syncing (no, not your period). So open up that new tab and grab some internet friendos.

sync ur frandz


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amanda wood masterpiece

Human babies are not pretty things. Ever. They dribble, goo, spit up, stink outrageously, and make ear-shattering screech-noises at all hours of the day. Their heads are enormous for their body sizes, and they don’t appear to have teeth or anything. They can’t even form words! Instead, they make nonsense gurgle sounds which, quite frankly, terrify me. Some babies don’t have any hair, and some unfortunate babies have far too much hair. Exceptionally ugly babies already have a unibrow. I have seen a few of them, mostly in photographs. I avoid babies as much as humanly possible, and yet, even I have been faced with the question, “Awww, isn’t he or she just the cutest thing?” Of course, it is not.

Now, I am the first to admit that I am not an expert on human infants. But I know enough to allow me to get along with my friends, relatives, or acquaintances who have decided not to terminate certain pregnancies. Lunatics though they may be, it is not my place to alienate them beyond my wildest dreams. Instead, probably because I’m a coward who doesn’t want anyone to be angry with me, I use my cunning skills of tact and deception to fool them. And when those techniques are also used in combination with the deft use of the subject change, a situation first thought to be a hopeless trainwreck will instead turn into a delightful conversation about how nice the kitchen would look if it were a lively peach color, or how we would benefit as a society if we all stopped drinking carbonated soda pops for several years, or even the possible ramifications one would experience from having made a robot that could think, act, and love just like a human. Or at least think, act, and love just like a human dog.

It is easy to see why new parents find cute in their own baby or, in the unholy event of twins or more, babies. If the baby or babies did not weave some sort of evil magical spell over their caregivers, the adults would smother them with a pillow by Day Two of the never-ending screaming, messing, eating, and screaming. Even if the parents outlasted my two day estimation, there would come a day when they would realize that that baby hadn’t stopped screaming, eating, and eliminating their foulness since birth, and it would not stop for many years yet. Eugh. I refuse to dwell any more on the horror of childbirth and human infancy, as it is making me feel too queasy. It isn’t really the new parents’ fault for shoving their baby in your face and asking you to validate whether or not it is cute. It reassures them and keeps them from some sort of soul-sucking depression and subsequent jail time. And I hear the fellas down at the state prison aren’t too friendly with baby killers. You don’t want your friends in jail, they are already paying for their birth decision enough with the actual baby itself. That is why I am here to help you out by giving you ten easy ways to avoid telling those unfortunate souls how ugly and horrible their baby actually is.

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I think it must hold true that every great war starts with the most mundane of tasks, somewhere down the line. Maybe Pol Pot saw a cloud shaped like the letter ‘G’ and it inspired him to do a genocide. Maybe Hitler got a bad case of food poisoning and thought, “Screw it, I’m just going to kill as many people as I can find.” My own war began, as I’m sure many others have before it, with me heading to the ‘quick sale bargain’ section of my local supermarket.

I may not know history, but if there’s one thing I do know, it’s a good deal. I can sniff them out from a mile away, usually because they have already partially deteriorated. This particular bargain was no exception – a tray of four dips, more than 50% off the price. Might as well be gold-plated, for that kind of saving.

So I went through the checkout and took it home with some pita bread, for humble dipping purposes. With one eye on my computer screen, I lazily dipped, sampling the wares of the local Foodland. The hommus was good, the tsatsiki stood up to the grade, even the french onion dip was at least average. But soon, I found myself unintentionally ignoring the guacamole. It wasn’t bad, per se, it’s just that I felt my dip attentions were better placed elsewhere. Like the girl at the dance who isn’t ugly, but is still so forgettable that she spends the night standing alone in a corner, crying into her punch. I mean, I’ve always thought that guacamole was better on nachos or burritos, rather than by itself, and that was an opinion I thought couldn’t possibly be too controversial. Or so I thought.


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I am pretty sure that most people have security blankets as children. I use the term as an umbrella term for any sort of security thing, as I know many of us did not exactly use a blanket.

My first security blanket was actually a pillowcase, I’m pretty sure. I only barely remember it. What I mostly remember well is how it was lost. We stayed at a hotel, at Disney World maybe? The hotel staff took the pillowcase as if it were one of their own to launder, even though it was covered in what I assume were either marker or makeup stains, judging by the bright colors.

Teddy, though, I’ve had for 25 years. Here is what he looks like.

Teddy, Dollissa's Security Blanket


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There’s nothing really very good about concerts; they sound just like the recorded version. Just kidding, they sound great! It’s really cool to be able to see a band that you love performing live. The energy is amazing, a crowd of people who love music – the same music, and the delightfully frustrating merch table. But, there are too many bad things about them that they’re almost not worth it. They’re not worth it. They’re never worth it. They’re never, ever worth it.

On top of being too short, there are too many people, it smells like stale beer, that stale beer costs too much, you’ll probably have to endure a weird opening act, and good luck having a forgettable time in the bathroom.

concerts are awful


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We caught about ten minutes of the Olympics by accident over the weekend and were inspired to invite Michael Phelps, water athlete, to our studios so that he could have a portrait done in his true form. It will surprise no one to hear that Mr. Phelps is in fact a magical sailfish that boldly stole the arms of Poseidon, who is known to be God of the Sea. Now that he is officially retiring, for real this time, with many more medals than any other mortal human, he felt it was safe to reveal his true form. Way to go, Michael Phelps.



Everybody loves France. So – oh, no? That’s not a thing? Well they should. Their tendency to surrender is exaggerated, their cheese, whilst smelling like the olfactory equivalent of the Westboro Baptists Church, is known to be delicious for some reason, and they discovered radium, without which I wouldn’t be able to find my glow in the dark mouth guard when the combination of my saliva and grinding teeth inevitably shoots it across my bed like so many bars of prison soap. I’m sorry, I’m not doing a very good job of celebrating France. I must, as I often do, turn to poetry to communicate my deeply felt, depthy feelings about France to you all.





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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