Again, the channel doesn’t matter. It was a bloody “comic” before he scanned it, and it’ll be a comic anyway, whether he puts it up on the web or no.

People who insist on calling it a “webcomic” because it’s on a bloody website are like the marketing hacks currently popularizing “Tween” for pre-teen.

In other worse, he’s able to let loose in a way he has never been able to before not since the early days of 2000AD anyway.

And that is precisely why it does matter.

If it were just a comic, and a good comic, would it need to be called a webcomic? Would the channel of circulation even matter? No one calls “Garfield” a webcomic, and indeed, just as Peanuts reads like a Norman Rockwell lithograph, and ended up being some kind of bizarre, old-man’s slice-of-life short story repackaged and repackaged, it’s earned a certain status in the pantheon of American pop culture, and I’d like to think as Jim Davis heads in that same direction in his career, most people don’t send him piles of hate-mail when his cartoons aren’t funny.

Conversely, Penny Arcade and Chugworth and Megatokyo and other low-quality comics may have acheived print status, finally, but they’re still webcomics, and will always only ever be “webcomics.” They will be “comics not good enough to make it into print, who’ve found a wide and mediocre audience that will eat dog food if you serve it to ‘em, and through the powers of the internet, gathered this niche of chowder-headed buffoons and united them into a market that might actually buy the crappy book.” It serves two purposes. It tries to elevate them to the same status as any other book of newspaper cartoons you might find in the humor section, and it gives ‘em something pretty to sign at conventions, and we KNOW how much egomaniac artists and writers love to sign things.

I’m just tired of hearing, “Why don’t you do a webcomic??” over and over when some goober asks me to show them my work, and I pass most of their critical aptitude tests. The fact is, I look at the soulless piles of doodoo all over the internet, and I don’t even want to be associated with the medium. I find myself thinking, “Wow, there should have been an editor telling half of these people to go home and the other half minus one percent, to go home and never leave.”

The Encyclopedia Dramatica write-up on webcomics is about the best dissection I’ve seen. In plain words. “Shitting Dick Nipples” is pretty accurate. Are some of ‘em actually funny but hard to find? Yea, weird and esoteric? That too. But they’re all the way at the bottom of the review page, past all the other shitty shit at the top. Props for symbolism.

Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff? Genius. Better than a thousand Solomons dismembering Penny Arcade, Control Alt Delete, PvP, and whatever other attempt-at-parody derivative crap they’ve got lying around on the internet now.

Done.

I’ve always wanted to stick post-it notes on Chugworth at the local Barnes & Noble where an abortive compilation of the damn comic exists in print, and stick the sticky-note on ‘ere saying, “No! This is shit! don’t go in!”

I can’t believe I typed “non-legendary” instead of “near-legendary.” But then again, I’ll go with “non.” Fuck it. I’ve since read some of the echoes of Jon Solomon and his soul is still trapped out there on the ‘nets, tortured by these orbiting piles of printless thought-crap crap we call “webcomics.” I read and I hear the echoes of his goodness.

“I want the source material.” re-reading this, I can’t believe that I’m here translating it from English to English. Fuck it. I want compilations. I want copies. A URL, an archive of John. Anything. C’mon, there has to be one anime-watching chimp in the basement, out there somewhere, that cut and pasted this garbage into a notepad document or something.

By the way, Kids Next Door is a shitty cartoon. Maybe someone should blog bad cartoons.

I want the source material. Fuck, I’d PAY the guy for a booklet of cleverly-targeted vitrol. But, because this bastard now places the entire human race on the lowest rung of the ladder, lower even than Harlan Ellison on a good day, he’s decided to take all his toys out of the sandbox and bolt. He’s left us helpless, like the whining masses of Metropolis begging for Superman to please come back. He’s left us like Santa Claus left us in some shitty Rankin Bass Christmas special– and incidentally, no matter how shitty those Rankin Bass specials were when they were new to us, they couldn’t hold a candle to the shittiness of mass-produced piles of butt-mud like “Kids Next Door,” that guarantee the next batch of yuppies will end up even more in the thrall of The International Bankers.

Anyway, where the hell can I read the writing of this bastard? He put a portable hole on the wall, jumped into it, and reached his arm back through the opening and took away the hole. Fuckin’ bastard. The bawling crybabies need him! They need him like the Christians need Marylin Manson to hate. And he has a responsibility to his gift. Fuck, -I- can’t do it, because I sure as hell won’t waste my time looking at shitty webcomics all day. My meager lump of meat inside my skull that I refer to as “brain” would cave in and I wouldn’t even be able to write this post, representing ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLllll
of those people who feel exactly as I do.

IMHO!!!111111

Whoops!”

Oh well since he says it – it MUST be true!

“I started this blog to entertain people. Specific people. Like, seven or eight people. Everyone besides them is extra baggage, and usually crazy to boot.”
-John Solomon

Whoops!