Jen Bingham

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Author: Jen (page 1 of 23)

Groundhog Afternoon

Yesterday I was standing in my kitchen when I heard a scrabbling, scratching noise that sounded like it was coming from the back door. Was it my problematic new cat, Miss Marple? I put nothing past Miss Marple at this point. She could have gotten out and then realized that life on the streets was (still) not great. She could be randomly scratching on the back door just to let me know that I suck.  I walked over to the back door. Miss Marple was on neither side of it.

In the back yard, a groundhog appeared.  It was plump and brown. Its tail was squirrel-like but much smaller. Sort of like a fluffy brown diamond.  It was  substantial and brown. I wasn’t entirely sure it was a groundhog because I have never seen one that close before. It looked like a beaver-squirrel.  But an internet search that evening confirmed its groundhogedness.

The groundhog paused, flanks heaving. Then it took off toward the back of my fence, where I know there’s a pretty good egress.

What happened? A groundhog barreling through an urban backyard in broad daylight is not something that happens lightly. I didn’t look to see what was after it, but I thought for a moment about displaced wildlife and the horrors of the city.

But groundhogs do live in the city. Like coyotes, they find little pockets where they can fit it. Why was I so sure this was a tragedy? My mind wandered to the types of movies where the hero shoots through someone’s backyard during a chase, perhaps stealing a pair of pants on the way. I continued to stare out the window, seeing the groundhog as part of a Coen brothers movie, part of his own adventure, even though I could no longer see the actual groundhog.

I changed his story a little bit. He looked a bit more like a Wes Anderson groundhog. He was being followed by someone he used to be friends with, and now he’s off in his burrow making a weird art project that no one understands and writing experimental poetry for a lady groundhog who will never love him back. But someday he will find true love.

This groundhog has a pretty good life. Pretty, pretty good.

Honestly, even if something really bad was chasing him, I think he made a pretty good escape.

****

Own work assumed (based on copyright claims)., CC BY-SA 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1191124

Your Sunday Comic

This is how I negotiate, bitchez.

From chaninsawsuit

From chaninsawsuit

 

 

Your Sunday Comic

Dictionary Jones: paid in experience.

From Poorly Drawn Lines

From Poorly Drawn Lines

I did not draw this cool comic! Click on the art for more.

 

This kind of gets at why I would rather read Farewell, My Lovely than watch a video on how to clean out the drain now that I have this different type of stopper in my tub. Also, cleaning out tub drains is disgusting.

From Poorly Drawn Lines

From Poorly Drawn Lines

I did not make this cool comic! Click on the art for more.

Your Sunday Comic

Even though this is not an important issue, I still find the “sorting hat” thingy twitter and Instagram are adding to be annoying.

Anyway, FUCK YOU BUDDY, don’t judge me. Everything doesn’t have to be important or about how funny it is to be sad.

From chainsawsuit

From chainsawsuit

Alt text: The New Order

I did not make this cool comic! Click on the art for more.

 

 

Your Sunday Comic

Achewood. Love. Fuck-you Friday.  Roast Beef. This comic has it all.

“Who wants my niceness? Who wants my niceness? Who perrrrrrrrrrmanently wants my niceness? I don’t know how to do this.”

From Achewood

From Achewood

Talk of the Town: Blind Items about People Nobody Knows

What dark haired, fair-skinned young lady was spotted recently with a group of other twenty-something friends at a woman’s rights rally in downtown Indianapolis?

She carried a “My Body My Choice” sign and discussed a friend who wasn’t there, mentioning that the person in question was white several times.

“She tans all the time and her ass is huge, so I admire her for that,” she said.

Then she segued into a discussion of her racist dad.

################

What 27 year old ginger gentleman who had the hair and forehead of a middle-aged dad and who could best be described as “rocking a gay hippie vibe” was recently overheard talking loudly about his life on a flight from Chicago to Connecticut?

“My grades are very well,” he said to the woman in front of me, projecting his voice so loudly that I felt very sad I’d forgotten to bring headphones and had been too cheap to purchase a pair at the airport. “So I’m thinking of going to graduate school.”

He then proceeded to detail every aspect of his life to the lady beside him, who did not seem to mind this exchange, although she consistently spoke in a very soft voice, as if wishing to influence his volume.

#######

What fifty-something dad at the airport in Indianapolis spoke very quietly to his wife and their crowd of ten-and-under children as we waited in adjacent lines to be checked through security?

The line was not excessively long, but longer than is normal at the Indianapolis airport. This may have been in part because of the upcoming Easter holiday but was also almost certainly because of the recent violence in Brussels. There was an electric, alarming energy.

“It’s because of the liberals,” he said softly to his wife. “We know who it is and they could just search them, but the liberals have made it so they have to search everybody. These people  probably aren’t even from this country.” He gestured to several people who were not white in the line in front of him. There was no way to tell whether they were residents of the United States although all of them were dressed in traditional Western garb of pants and shirts of varying degrees of casualness.

He was speaking so softly, I wasn’t sure I was hearing what he said. I looked over at him. His hair was white, his skin was white. In my memory, even his eyes are white. He looked a little bit like an even paler Ted Cruz.

His wife dropped backed to talk to the kids behind them, I sensed an air of dissatisfaction about her, as if she were tired of his diatribes against liberals and people of color.

One of the other kids was right next to him now. He repeated almost exactly the same words about liberals, airport searches, etc. Again, I could barely hear him, wasn’t sure if he was really saying the things he was saying. I moved over, looking at my phone but hoping to hear him speak clearly.

He may have noticed my presence.

“You don’t need to let anyone know your opinion,” he said softly as a ghost to his child as if realizing it might be inappropriate to discuss his own opinions about liberals and foreigners to the folks manning the security kiosk. This time I could hear his snakelike voice more clearly. “When you get up there, don’t volunteer your opinions.”

The line moved forward. He wasn’t ready with his ID and two of his children were in front of him in line. The security guard seemed annoyed and he began fishing around for his ID and tickets, trying to make jokes.

No one seemed to think he was funny.

 

 

This image is available from the United States Library of Congress‘s Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3c37305.

 

Your Sunday Comic

Work!

From Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal

From Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal

I did not make this cool comic! Click on the art for more.

 

Your Sunday Comic

Respect, motherfuckers.

From Poorly Drawn Lines

From Poorly Drawn Lines

I did not make this cool comic! Click on the link for more.

 

Your Sunday Comic

Listen, this is how it went down.

From Buttersafe

From Buttersafe

I did not make this cool comic! Click on the art for more.

 

 

 

 

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