By Bill Griffith

"Zippy the Pinhead's 29 Day advisor to Random actions and Arbitrary Donuts" isn't really a suite of underground comics or syndicated strips, yet an all-original journey at the highway of enjoyable that includes Zippy, Griffy, Half-Life, and the remainder of gang. This highly-structured explosion of insanity, satire and epic experience takes all of Griffith's favourite popular culture issues — Ernie Bushmiller, junk meals, advertisement "cute," beatniks, cubism, sleek Japan, Jean-Paul Sartre, Laundromats, '70s style, and Jack Palance — to their outer limits.


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Sample text

According to people on the set, the talent of It’s All Good had not faded, and he produced what some say was his best work to date. It was a glorious comeback. Tragically, however, it wasn’t to last. When the first Buick commercial aired on Saturday, It’s All Good uttered his last breath and quietly faded away to the other side. “He’ll live in our hearts forever,” You Go Girl! said as she wiped away a tear, “or at least on that Buick commercial until next year’s models come out. ” Sickening W hen I found my seat on the airplane, the woman sitting beside me looked completely normal.

I’m on vacation,” my sister said, looking incredulous. “Of course I do. ” Stink Bomb I wish my husband would stop getting the newspaper, because now it all makes sense. Angelina Jolie is a line of cocaine and I’m just a burp born after a sausage sandwich. I look like what a belch smells like, and all because men are basically nothing but bald monkeys. No, I didn’t accidentally take the same medication twice today. What I’m talking about is real science! Real science, people! ” So, see, Angelina is a big heaping pinkie nail of blow, and the rest of us are the brownish liquid that gathers at the bottom of the crisper when the organic vegetables you bought in the spring at the farmer’s market repeatedly lose out to the ease of a box of the Jolly Green Giant.

He had the biggest boobs I had ever seen on a man, big enough to not only benefit from restraints but require brake lights. His T-shirt, which had perky little capped lady sleeves, stretched brazenly across his boisterous bosoms at the same level of stress that had caused the hem to hover over his belt, exposing just enough belly to make witnesses cringe at the impropriety and check their own waistband. Bringing up his rear was a pear-shaped gentleman, very heavy in the derrière, with graying temples, who appeared to be the patriarch of the group.

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