Author: Otto S. Fishbein

I laughed and shook his hand and made my way back home. I searched for Sunday Comics for years and years I roamed. I gazed a gazeless stare, we walked a million hills. I must have died alone a long, long time ago.

He’s the man with a plan, got a counterfeit dollar in his hand! He’s Misstra Know-It-All! Take my word, please beware of a man that just don’t give a care! He’s Misstra Know-It-All!

Cubs make fires on the edge of the golf course, but…there’s more of them than us now and they have come to settle scores.
So there’s bound to be some Sunday Comics on the B-road where they don’t fly the Stars and Stripes.

Why do you try to cheat and trample people under your feet? Don’t ya’ know it is wrong to cheat the tryin’ man? You better stop! It is the wrong ’em, boyo!

Put your hands over your eyes. Jump out of the plane. There is no pilot. You are not alone. Standby. This is the Comics. And this is the Sunday of the Comics. This is the time. And this is the record of the time.

I follow Victor to the sacred place. This ain’t a dream, I can’t escape. Molars and fangs, the clicking of bones — spirits moaning among the tombstones.
“I don’t want to be buried in a pet cemetery, I don’t want to live my life again.”

How do you say delicious? How do you say delovely? How do you say delectable? How do you say divine? How do you say deSunday? DeComics? How do you say Deee-Lite?

I like to sleep until the crack of noon, midnight howlin’ at the moon — goin’ out when I wanna,
comin’ home when I please. I
don’t have to ask permission if I wanna read the Comics. Never have to ask for the keys.