When it comes to horror and comedy I’ll admit my tastes can get pretty corny, and when Halloween rolls around they get extra CANDY corny.

On that note, here’s two audio goodies to pop into your plastic pumpkin treat collector.

The first segment of this podcast is all in good fun—and hopefully doesn’t land me in court.

As for the second segment, I had to assure my wife, the hobby gardener, that I wrote this piece almost a dozen years ago and it has nothing to do with her. However I did notice that lately she’s been spending a lot of time sharpening her garden tools. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.

Please enjoy the show.

The Transcript

(For those who want to read along or can’t understand my ridiculous accents.)

The Zombie DR. Wuth Show

SOUND: RADIO DIAL TURNING THEN MUSIC

ANNOUNCER: It’s that time once again for the Zombie Dr. Wuth Show! Sex and Relationship advice for Monsters and their loved ones. Now here she is, fresh from the morgue, Zombie Dr. Wuth!

SOUND: APPLAUSE

ZOMBIE DR. WUTH: Velkommen Everybloody! I’m Dr. Wuth, your undead devotee to sex and relationships! I’m here with my new assistant Ted who will be helping me to take your calls.

RIGHT, Let’s get into it tonight, shall we?

Hello Caller, Voo are on der Air! How can Zomibie Dr. Wuth help you?

CALLER: (heavy Breathing. Sound of Wolf howl.)

ZDR: (Sound of disconnect) ACK! I always get der heavy breathers! It must be my ghoul looks! Next Caller!

ASSISTANT TED: Doc It looks like we have a man named “Vlad” on the line 2 for you.

CALLER (Vlad): Helloooo Doctor.

ZDW: Tell me, Vat’s yer problem?

CALLER (Vlad): I’m having a problem vid my brides.

ZDW: BRIDES? JUST HOW MANY BRIDES YOU GOT?

VLAD: Usually 3 to 5, but it really depends on da century. But I’m thinking I might just stick to being a bachelor. Da women today are just too demanding. Blah! My last couple of break ups with have sucked me dry!

Folks may call me a blood sucker but none of dem have met my wives’ lawyers! Oo boy! BLAH!

Thankfully when you’ve lived as long as I have you learn how to bury your valuables in more than one grave, if you know what I mean. HA! HA! HA! But honestly, all I vant is to catch a quick bite with a nice girl and have her not be a crypt-digger!

I tell ya, It’s driving me batty!

ZDW: Vlad it sounds like the next time you’re looking at a pretty neck, perhaps ask the lady for a pen and get her to sign a “Pre-nip Pre-Nup!”

NEXT CALLER!

ASSISTANT TED: We’ve got Ann on the line 3 and she’s got question about height differences effecting relationships.

ZDW: Go ahead, Ann. Tell me your problem.

CALLER (Ann): (Woman with Brooklyn accent) Hello Doc. Do you think a big height difference can be detrimental to a healthy relationship?

ZDW: It depends. How much of a height difference are we talking about?

CALLER (Ann):CALLER (Ann): A couple hundred feet.

ZDW: Ah.. I see. Go on…

CALLER (Ann): Well, I wouldn’t mind this big hunk so much since he’s got a nice head of hair, and a body to match, but sometime his jealousy can be too much!

ZDW: Really?

CALLER (Ann): Whenever he sees me even looking in the direction of a man, he goes storming off.

Next thing you know, we have to hash things out, like every weekend from the top of the Empire State Building!

He says it’s the only place where he can gather his thoughts and quietly discuss his problems. Which is kind of a lie when you consider he spends the whole time swatting at planes!

ZDW: Ahhh, it sounds like vat you have is the classic Aggressive/ Accommodating Struggle in a relationship. He gets aggressive, and you accommodate his rages. Dis is a form of emotional abuse the two of your share. You should end things immediately him!

—Just be sure to do this somewhere in New Jersey since I have a nice condo in the building next to the Empire State Building!

NEXT CALLER!

CALLER: (heavy Breathing. Sound of Godzilla.)

ZDR: (Sound of disconnect) ACK! I don’t have patience from you Wisehiemers! NEXT CALLER! WHO’S ON THE LINE TED?

ASSISTANT TED: We’ve got Jerome on the line 4.

ZDW: Hello Jerome, Tell me, vat’s yer problem?

CALLER (Jerome): Hi Zombie DR. Wuth. I’m hoping you can help me with my husband. He’s constantly booking surgeries with our Doctor…Doctor Victor Frankenstein. He’s a wonderful surgeon. He’s practically a miracle worker! Anyhow, my hubby is always at his lab, getting a nip here, a tuck there, a new limb, eyeball, whatever.

But no matter what he has done, hubby immediately regrets his decision and goes rampaging through the west village and disrupting the nearest drag performance. It has the local queens so upset they’re threatening to burn down our brownstone! What should I do Dr. Wuth?

ZDW: Ohhhh. Dat is drastic! A real conundrum. Lemme me chew this over with my assistant and pick his brain a bit.

CALLER (Jerome): Oh thank you, Dr. Wuth.

ZDW: Teeed?

ASSISTANT TED: (intercom): Yes Dr. Ruth?

ZDW: Will you come in here?

(door open sounds) TED: Yes?

ZDW: Come a little closer Ted.

Ted: OK…

ZDW: Closer.

SOUND: Horrible sounds of zombie attacking, screams And them munching sounds. Followed by a burp.

ZDW: —Der dats better. Ted gave me some food for thought on dis matter.

It seems like your hubby has a serious case of Body Dysmorphia. The best thing you can do is give him positive reinforcement. The next time he comes in with a fresh set of stitches, compliment him on the quality of the workmanship and the freshness of the parts.

Do it enough and eventually he’ll be a whole man again, proud to be back out on the dance floor, and doing der Monster Mash.

CALLER” Ohh Thank you Dr. Wuth!

ZDW: Happy to oblige. NEXT CALLER!

CALLER: (HEAVY BREATHINGwith Mooing of cow)

ZDW: AGH! TED YOU HAVE TO DO A BETTER JOB SCREENING THESE CALLS! Ohhh wait…. If you know anyone who wants to break into radio, the Zombie Dr. Wuth Show has an opening.

NEXT CALLER!

MUSIC TRAILS OFF.

THE GOOD DEED

While walking home late one day, I saw an old lady toiling away,

in her yard, where she was gardening.

When I approached nearer who this was became clearer,

Even though the sky above was darkening.

It was "The Toothless Old Crone”as local kids would intone.

“She boils babies into broth for her sup!”

Silly children see dangerin every wrinkled old stranger.

She didn’t look that scary closeup.

A small elderly frametopped by soft greying mane.

She was struggling to dig the topsoil.

I said “Need help with planting?”She looked up,Exhausted and panting,

And replied, “Yes, please help my toil.”

She gave me a spadeand I dug with that blade

several holes nearly deep as Lake Erie!

I asked why she neededsuch holes to be completed.

She said, “For placing roses, my dearie!”

Aftre my digging this kindly old lassbrought me iced tea in a nice tall glass

for the good deed of my hard shoveled labors.

As my thirst drank it backshe then handed me a sack

and asked if I knew any neighbors.

I said I knew noneand most strangers I shun.

I noticed the sack smelled of tomb.

She said, “be a good souland dump these in the hole.

They work Miracles for the best bloom!”

But as daylight fell quickly,I started to feel sickly,

My limbs were as heavy as stones.

Then I peeped in the sackand was taken aback!

IT WAS FULL OF SMALL CHILDREN’S BONES!

I shrieked at the sight!Lost my balance in fright,

and into the hole I was throne!

I looked up from the hole,as the tea took its toll,to the face of the Toothless Old Crone!

The last sight I sawwas her toothless maw

hissing a welcome to my new home.

I hope you enjoyed these dreadful audio treats. I hope you have a wonderful Halloween and avoid all the ghouls and goblins, unless of course if that’s your thing, then go have a graveyard smash. Cheers!

Ed

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.erflynncomics.com/subscribe

This Podcast is a part of a related post on Substack. Click here to read that.

An astrophysicist, a politician, and a priest were taking a walk in a park while they discussed the finer points of cosmology, science budgets, and the religious implications of space travel.

Just as they were about to exit the park, a flying saucer dropped out of the sky and landed right in front of them.

The three stopped in their tracks at this sight. As they stood there, wide-eyed and in shock, a hatch opened on the spaceship. From it exited a small green alien dressed in a nicely tailored business suit. The alien walked toward them. The three noticed that the alien was carrying what looked to be a book.

“Greetings, Earthlings!” The alien spoke in perfect English. Although if truth be told, to the trained ear it spoke with a slight Brooklyn accent.

“I am a representative from the Intergalactic Fidelity Publishing Company here to offer you ‘Intergalactic Truths and Solutions.’ Within the pages of this book are answers to the universe, as well as solutions to your world’s problems. These fine leather bound and gilded books are made available to you so that you may achieve a more harmonious and perfect world.”

“Will it solve Global Climate Change?” inquired the astrophysicist.

“Yes! Volume. 2, Page 237.” the alien replied.

“World Hunger?” asked the priest.

“Volume 3, page 45.”

“Wars and Political Strife?” asked the politician.

“Indeed! Volumes 6-7, pages 78, 156 and 459.”

The astrophysicist rubbed his chin in thought and, “When you mention ‘volumes,’ I see that the book you’re currently holding reads that it’s only Volume 1. Where’s the other volumes?”

The alien’s face lit up with a smile as he spoke “Ah, how observant of you! Yes, for only a small monthly subscription we will send you a new volume each month. ”

The politician was the first to grasp the situation and blurted out “Subscription? Wait a minute—”

But he was interrupted by the astrophysicist, “—You’re an extraterrestrial encyclopedia salesman!”

“It’s a living. Think of me as more of a ‘messiah’ offering you a better world. Seriously, think about how much the children of your world need this book. You’ll barely notice the cost of the subscription fee compared to the benefits.” the alien offered in his best honest sales appeal.

The politician was getting visible perturbed, “Who knew our first off-world emissary would arrive with a sales pitch!” He then became demanding, “Please, no more beating around the bush. What’s the cost for these books?”

“The Intergalactic Fidelity Publishing Company only requires that you to send us five priests every month in exchange for each volume.”

“Errr…What do you do with these men of religion?” The priest asked with more than a hint of ambivalence.

The alien moved a little closer to the priest and replied, “We eat their brains! Blind faith makes for the sweetest tasting brains in the universe!” He then showed the priest a toothy, saliva dripping smile.

“WHAT! THAT’S UNACCEPTABLE!” Screamed the priest.

The alien tried to assuage the priest’s dismay. “Don’t worry. We do this in the most humane way possible. While each subject is sedated, we gently scoop out their brain and replace it with a highly evolved, symbiotic flan. Afterwards, we return these individuals back into their natural setting. Honestly, friends and loved ones hardly notice any difference!”

“THAT’S NOT HELPING TO CONVINCE ME!” The priest shrieked hysterically.

The politician turned to the priest, grabbed his arms and shook him. “Now just calm down. Is it really that bad of a trade? We send them a few of our more nutty fundamentalists and in exchange we get a paradise on Earth.”

“Seems like a very reasonable contract to me.” the astrophysicist chimed. He then spoke to the alien, “May I have a closer look at that Volume 1 you’re holding?”

As the alien handed over the book to the astrophysicist, the priest turned to the alien and asked, “Can it be any priests, or preachers, from any religion or denomination? I mean…ugh…I guess we could start with some Episcopalians…”

The alien hissed, “Mmmmm, Delicious!”

The priest started mumbling to himself and walking in circles as he considered further denominations for the exchange.

Suddenly two shots rang out!

The priest and the politician both dropped dead to the ground. The alien turned to the astrophysicist who was holding a gun on him.

The astrophysicist scowled, “No sale, my green-skinned book hustler! According to Volume 1, page 1, line 1:

‘The secret to solving a world’s problems is to first get rid of all priests and politicians!’

We astrophysicists have been saying this for years! Once that’s done, we’re smart enough to figure out the rest! Earth doesn’t need your books! BE ON YOUR WAY!”

The alien, upset that he failed on the sale, shrugged his shoulders, took back his book, and turned to retreat to his space saucer. While stepping back to his ship, he made a few mental notes as to where his sales pitch possibly went wrong.

However as the alien entered the saucer’s hatch, he turned for a moment to glance back at the astrophysicist.

The human was obviously elated; waving his hands in the air, dancing around and gloating over the dead bodies of his fellow humans. The alien assumed that perhaps the astrophysicist was overly enthusiastic and satisfied after having read a printed validation to his malevolent beliefs.

Seeing this made the alien realize to not to disparage his sales ability. His stop on Earth might not have been a total waste of time.

In fact, this sale might have gone better than expected!

The alien concluded that if a group of arrogant fools, like this astrophysicist, were going to commit murder based on a quick peek at couple lines of text from a book, this meant that soon Earth would be a yummy smorgasbord of self-righteous, faith-filled, …and very gullible…brains.

The alien laughed as he sat in his pilot seat and pressed the launch button. The saucer raised and then zipped off into space.

The alien then leaned back in his seat, put his feet up on the console, and relaxed for the long ride back to the office. He started musing over how to spend that big raise he was definitely going to receive from the Intergalactic Fidelity Publishing Company.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.erflynncomics.com/subscribe

Let me apologize for the delay in posting comics. The July 4th Holiday and then a bit of home construction pushed back my schedule a bit.

Once you hear a more detail description of what I’ve been up to, I’m sure you’ll understand that certain events were out of my control, or more accurately, slipped out of my control.

A Small Update

My wife calls me a “small man with small measurements.”

This wonderful little nickname arose about twenty years ago during our drives we’d take in upstate New York. On each weekend we’d pick a different destination and take a shot as to how to get there. Since I didn’t own a GPS unit and smart phones weren’t invented yet, all I had to rely on was a well-worn Rand McNally map tucked inside the glove compartment.

Invariably though, during every one of these drives, my wife would require a bathroom stop, exactly when we were in the middle of nowhere.

I would try to ease her bathroom urgency by telling her that a rest stop was just a mile or so down the road.

It took her a few years to realize that I was speaking in terms of “a country mile,” which anyone who grew up in a rural setting knows that this means a distance ranging from 1 to 50 miles.

I guess it was about the 30th time that I used this ploy when Deb lost all patience with me.

“JESUS CHRIST! YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE THE NEXT GAS STATION OR REST STOP IS, DO YOU?” She screamed at me.

I calmy replied, “What? Like I said it’s just a mile or so up the road. We’re practically there! Look at the map in the glove box!”

I knew Deb, the perpetual New York City urbanite, couldn’t read a road map to save her life. This always bought me a few miles before she went nuclear on me. However this time, I guess the launch codes were plugged in and the piss missile was about to exit the silo.

She yelled, “GOD DAMMIT, FLYNN! YOU’RE A LIAR! YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ARE? YOU’RE A…YOU’RE A… YOU’RE A SMALL MAN WITH SMALL MEASUREMENTS!FIND ME A BATHROON NOW!”

With a command like that, a person becomes extra motivated to go full speed to the next available toilet.

Fast forward to today.

I may have waited some twenty odd years to prove her wrong about my measly measuring abilities, but alas, I did!

I waited until we owned our first home together to prove to her that my dimensional estimating abilities were above par. This fixer-upper we owned was purchased, partly because that’s all we could afford, and partly because I saw it as an opportunity to show my measuring prowess.

This was due to the fact that so many things needed repairs: Floors, Windows, Closets, Toilets, Walls, Ceilings and the Doors. To make matters worse, not a square angle or standard measure can be found anywhere in this hobby built hovel. From what I could tell the home was built in the 1940’s by a man who was crosseyed and only measured in cubits.

Despite all those negatives, this place was a perfect testing ground for me to dispel my wife’s opinion of my survey abilities.

Oh, I made a big show out of every project. Huffing and broadcasting my every move with a variety of tape measures, rulers, straight edges, snap lines, angles, and even a map compass if I needed it!

Loud exclamations of my exactitude in analyzing the distances between points A and points B were made with every cut.

I wielded a tape measure like a samurai sword. I was the shogun of Measuredom.

Then finally my coup de Grace came when we decided to replace the back doors on this house. They were moldy, old French doors that barely functioned. Every year required some kind of maintenance to keep out old man winter. Squirts of Caulk around the cracks. Weather stripping over weather stripping. The doors where looking more like the gates of Hell than anything even remotely designed by the French.

Finally a few months ago my wife lost patience with this abomination and decided to order a new door.

She wanted to also pay for the door’s install, but I convinced her that was wasted money. Since I had installed all the windows surely a door install was well within my capabilities.

And so the first thing before we ordered the door, I set about to measure the space for the new door.

As I went into the garage to get my trusty tape measure, I thought to myself that this project would once and for all truly would prove to her my measurement mastery!

I calculated out all the sizes need to replace these doors: The inner casing width and height, The outer molding width and height, and the overall depth of the door.

I wrote it all down, along with a diagram, on a 3”x 5” piece of paper, as if it was the tiniest of treasure maps. Once that was done, off we went to the local big box hardware store.

We approached a sales associate in the door department, who was a gentleman named Bob.

Bob was in was in his early 70s, and had all the friendly attitude of an old west bartender who’d just been insulted about the quality of his whiskey.

When I handed him my 3” x5” card, Bob had expressed, that for the sake of his eyesight, I should have been a wee less miserly with paper.

“Maybe next time write it all down on a postage stamp.” He said sarcastically.

So for the next twenty minutes, I helped him to decipher my arcane measurements until he understood enough to order the new door. It was a beautiful 38 inch wide door with spectacular glass panels that was paired with a matching sidelights on either side of the door.

It was a real dream…on paper at least.

Unfortunately on the day that the door arrived at our home, I saw my dreams turn into an outsized nightmare.

Apparently someone…I refused to acknowledge who…but I’ll blame Bob…had screwed up the measurements!

When Deb saw the door, her trust in me diminished.

Now in your mind image putting the Arc de Triumph as the entrance way on a small two bedroom ranch house, and that would be the relative size dimensions of how badly I overestimated the measurements on our new door.

On the plus side, I could no longer be accused of underestimating distances!

Instead of sending the door back and getting a proper size door, and have it installed by a trained professional, like any sane person would do, I chose to make the house fit the door.

I stood back I looked at the new door, then looked at the old door, then scratch my head, grabbed a crowbar and got to work.

With a healthy amount of American Can-do attitude, plus hours of YouTube surfing idiocy, I grabbed my trusty saws-all, assorted chisels, a hammer, plus a handful of dynamite and blasting caps, and dove into this home remodel.

Two days later I had a giant gaping hole in the side of my home.

There’s something liberating about creating a huge hole in one’s house. It really opens up the space in a tiny little s**t box. I swore I could hear Frank Lloyd Wright whispering in my ear, “Who needs support walls when you have a great viewwwww.”

With the removal of every wooden stud and cutting back of brick face, I could feel my home value climb to being on par with those of Beverly Hills! Or was it more Beverly HillBillies? Hmm.

But I digress. Either way, The hole in the house was finally ready for its new splendiferous entrance.

It took a lot of struggle to put in place the new door. It was far too heavy even for my Ant-man like strength so I employed my good buddy Steve to help with the install.

You know you have a great friend when their help can be acquired for the price of a six pack of beer.

Steve and I managed and we got this door in place with only a few minor adjustments. But now that it’s done, it is glorious site to behold! Why if you didn’t know better you’d swear this door was one of the gates of Xanadu.

(Just don’t look at the house attached to the door.)

But please allow me to give you a sonic idea of the majesty that this new entrance imparts on my home.

Here let me open the door.

It sure brings a whole new elegance and grandeur to the place. It makes me feel like I’m living in the Taj Mahal, or Windsor Castle, or Valhalla or maybe even Castle Greyskull.

Although my wife is calling it Castle Numbskull.

Now that I think about it, the most useful tools I’ve used in every repair or install on this home has involved a hammer and chisels.

If there’s such a thing as “The Michelangelo School of Home Remodeling,” I should qualify for admission. I bet I probably would have fit right in making homes back in the fifteenth century.

At least, that is, until they burned me at the stake for being a heretic.

Thanks for Listening. I hope you enjoyed this podcast. I’ll be posting new comics in a couple days. Until then have a wonderful time.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.erflynncomics.com/subscribe

I don’t know about you, but I spend at least two hours every week on the phone and screaming into automated phone systems, “Operator! Operator! Representative! …Human! Let me talk to a Human!”

This experience on its own makes me very apprehensive regarding the use of Artificial Intelligence in any way, shape, or form.

If you’ve read any Issac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, or even older, Karl Capek, you know one thing: That all robots are not to be trusted and they hate humanity!

Of course we really can’t blame AI and Robots for this hatred. If Humans are the creators of these machines, and we’re are one of the most screwed-up, self-destructive species on the planet, then it’s no big surprise we’d create something as equally funny in the head.

It’s been a while since I released a new podcast episode so I thought I have fun with this one. This episode is dedicated to the hilarious insanity of our future robotic dystopia.

Here’s a list of the segments on this podcast:

0:00 - Intro

0:25 - The future of computers

1:45 - AI Insult Comic

4:40 - By the end of the Century

5:00 - Doc Bot 5000

8:08 - No, that’s Good!

8:41 - Extistential Computer Humor

10:11 - Rent-a-Friend

19:43 - Outro

I hope you enjoyed the show. A new cartoon will be heading your way shortly.

Cheers,

Ed

Useful Links to Consider:

https://ledger.humanetech.com/ - The Center For Humane Technology has created a factoid site that presents the invisible harms to society which uncontrolled social media and information distortion is having upon us.

https://www.humanetech.com/course - a Course to help people train those who are creating technology to remember to build it with humane standards in mind.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.erflynncomics.com/subscribe

This is a Halloween Special episode of The Escape from Clown Town podcast that features creepy music, scary sounds and stories plus and array of weirdness to amuse any fan of Halloween.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.erflynncomics.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.erflynncomics.com/subscribe

Given what’s occurred in the country recently, I thought I’d make a podcast episode that points out just some of the foolishness of where the United States is and where it might be headed. But I’ll leave the final analysis of these stories for you to decide the meanings.

The Beach

One sunny day, a man drives his modest gas-practical little car to a beach at the shore. He parks his car on a street near the beach and proceeds to walk to it. Upon entering the beach, he then takes off his shoes so he can enjoy the feeling of the sand and sea water massaging his feet.

Meanwhile, another man drives his giant gas guzzling four by four jeep to the beach at the shore. He drives fast and recklessly, screaming at the slower cars to get out of his way. He is looking forward to being on the beach, where he can then loudly play his music while barbecuing steaks on the large gasoline powered grill he’s loaded onto the back of his jeep.

Once he’s arrived to the entrance of the beach he sees there are others just like him who have driven their large jeeps, trucks and SUVs onto the beach. Resembling an encampment of an invading army, or perhaps more like the burning oil fields of Iraq during the gulf war, the other drivers have set up their large grills next to their autos and are enjoying the beach enhanced by the smell of burning meats.

The man admires his fellow gas hogs and then looks down the beach to see a lone man walking on the beach.

He huffs in scorn at he man’s foolishness. After all, why bother to walk to the beach when one can drive up as close to the water as possible?

The man in the jeep then precedes to push his gas pedal to the floor as he charges onto the sand.

Unfortunately, the man has made an error in judgment. Due to all the other jeeps, truck and SUVs also charging onto the beach, the sand at the entrance to the beach has been churned up and softened into a series of lumpy sandy tire traps.

As the man attempts to speed onto the beach, he finds that his Jeep gets quickly mired in the sand.

He tries to put the Jeep in reverse to back out of the holes his tires have dug into the sand, but the aggression with which he uses to gun the engine only sinks his tires deeper into the sand.

The angry man gets out of his jeep to inspect the situation. The oversized tires on his auto are nearly buried in the sand.

He yells over to his fellow Jeep, truck and SUV brethren for help. However, they pay no mind to him, as they’re listening to their music too loudly while filling their bellies full of grilled meat.

Other large vehicle drivers, who are a bit more careful, enter the beach and pass by the man, giving neither a glance his way nor an offer of assistance to him and his hopelessly stuck jeep.

The man tries to call a tow truck but he finds that his cell phone has no service.

Meanwhile down the beach, the man who was walking on the beach has had a sufficient amount of the sand and sea water gently massaging his feet. He decides to leave the beach.

As he walks off the beach he sees the distressed jeep driver and the collection of selfish other drivers. He makes a wide path to avoid them as he exits the beach and heads back to his modest little car parked on the street. Upon arriving at it, he shakes some sand off his shoes, enters the car and starts it up.

As he drives off, the man looks into his rear view mirror and catches a glimpse of the entrenched jeep driver who is now screaming and cursing at his vehicle.

The man smiles and drives away.

Soviet Scissors

Yuri Popovich sat at his boring and repetitive job on the production line in the Comrade Khrushchev Scissors factory. He watched the scissors die-cutting machine stamp and spew scissors to the conveyer belt.

As he sat there he thought about his squalid little state supplied apartment and how it needed plumbing repairs; Its mildew stained walls also badly needed painting. Yuri then thought about how the apartment lacked electricity at certain times of the day, and how the apartment also never had adequate heat during the long, cold Leningrad winters.

He then reflected on his inability to buy a decent loaf of pumpernickel bread, or even purchase a stick of butter, or a jar of jam to smear onto a slice from one of those scant loafs of bread.

It was thinking of a nice dollop of jam on toast, which motivated him to make the slightest of adjustments to the scissors die-cutting machine.

Not a major adjustment, just a minor twist of the dial. Enough to make one side of the scissors off by just a minuscule 1/10th of a millimeter.

After doing this, he watched the scissors getting pressed and move down the production line. He subtly smiled, satisfied that his adjustment introduced a small bit of chaos to this mundane rundown world.

When his shift was over he was still smiling as he passed his comrade co-worker, Sergey Totopnick, who replaced his position on the line for the second shift.

Sergey wondered what Yuri had reason to smile about. It wasn’t like the interminable routine of this job would offer any levity.

It made Sergey very curious.

As he sat on the production line watching the scissor die-cutting machine, this curiosity wormed its way into Sergey’s brain. He looked around the factory floor to see what possibly could have amused Yuri so much.

Was it one of the other drab, joyless co-workers?

A few meters away sat Doliv Fricktov, a slovenly pile of a man. Was he the one who was somehow amusing Yuri?

Doliv farted as Sergey watched him.

However this didn’t amuse Sergey since Doliv often farted due to his known overindulgence in kielbasa and cabbage.

No, it was something else.

This curiosity started to push Sergey to really resent Yuri. How dare he be allowed even a smidge of joy at this miserable job!

It was then that Sergey was struck with the idea to play a trick on Yuri and the other comrade co-workers.

He made the slightest of adjustments to the scissors die-cutting machine.

Not a great amount but just enough to make a pair of scissors slightly off by a 1/5th of a millimeter.

Sergey derived a great sense of satisfaction at his jest upon Yuri and the others. This elation with his adjustment helped Sergey enjoy the rest of his shift. He even gave a wink to comrade co-worker Boris Clinkonoff as Boris replaced him at the end of his shift.

Boris was taken aback by this wink. He wondered what Sergey’s wink signified? Was it some kind of warning?

Did he know how Boris smuggled a pair of scissors out of the factory?

Boris contemplated this wink as he watched the die-cutting machine spit scissors down the production line.

Paranoia seeped into the cracks of his brain. He worried that somehow Sergey had told the floor comrade about his theft and that he’d be sent to the gulag over his need for a pair of scissors.

It was a perfectly innocent theft. How else was he to shorten the length of of his oversized work pants?

Boris started to panic and nervously scanned the factory floor for any secret police coming to take him away.

It was at this moment that he devised a scheme with which to distract from his thievery.

Boris decided he would make the slightest of adjustments to the scissor die-cutting machine.

Not an obvious amount, but just enough so that when confronted about the purloined scissors, he could quickly distract his accusers by pointing out how the scissors die-cutting machine was off by 1/2 of a millimeter and posed a serious threat to product consistency, the factory’s reputation and the superiority of Soviet Manufacturing!

For the rest of his shift, Boris broke out in a cold sweat as he worried he’d be whisked away at any moment.

When his shift was up he walked hurriedly by Mishka Foopnick, the comrade co-worker who was taking over the seat for the next shift.

Mishka noticed the edgy and sweat-laden state that Boris was in as he passed. This made Misha very worried. He began to obsess over reasons why Boris acted this way and became concerned about his own safety.

By the end of the week, the Comrade Khrushchev Scissors factory flooded Soviet shops with pairs of scissors where no two sides were exactly alike and none of them actually worked.

NEW BONUS ALTERNATE VERSION!

I decided to create a more “Russian” version of the Soviet Scissors story.If you enjoy really goofy Boris Badinoff impressions you’ll enjoy this:

I hope you enjoyed this podcast and thank you for listening.

Enjoy the Podcast and my comics? Please feel free to share this post with your family, friends, and comrades.

As a special motivator, the person who shares this post the most receives a “Only Weirdos Become Artists!” T-shirt! (see below for details on the shirt.)

Care to chime in about this post, comrade?

Cool Swag Alert!

I am now offering a T shirt with all paid subscriptions! It’s the “Only Weirdos Become Artists!” T-shirt in special 3D-O-Rama! (a fancy term for off-register design.)

Subscribers also get a FREE digital copy of “The Nightmare Year” along with other free cool publications I’ll be coming out with at the end of the year.

If you’re not a subscriber what are you waiting for? For the monthly price of a cup of that overpriced java from a dreaded union-busting slop shop, you can get yourself a really cool T-shirt! Don’t be a conformist, join up today!

Escape from Clowntown | Comics of E.R. Flynn is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

If you subscribe this week, I’ll even toss in a free issue of The American Bystander to the first five people who become paid subscribers!

Until next time, have a great week being a non-conformist!Cheers,

Ed

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.erflynncomics.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.erflynncomics.com/subscribe

In this episode let’s talk about memory.

Did you ever consider what you’d be if you didn’t have any memories? Would you be the same person? Would you have the same values? Would you be without any sense of conscience or morals to know what’s right or wrong?

Think about it.

Memories are the core of your essence. Your experiences and what you remember of them are the human operating system that guides your every decision in life. It’s the algorithm of memory that expands and reconfigures with each new day of existence.

It could be said that memories are what defines the soul of a person. They give us the ongoing narrative that helps us through our lives.

But the thing about memories is that while they feel true, they aren’t an exact recording device of the past.

In fact, memories can be outright fabrications, created by our minds to justify an action, or to assuage some emotional pain.

Neurologist Oliver Sacks knew this and spent much of his career delving into the mysteries of the human mind. He studied how memories are conscious or unconsciously created and blurred between experience and fiction in the context of viewing the past.

Over the course of the past two years I realized this fascination with memory and history has also been a theme in my own life.

It was partly inspired by my father’s own experiences delving into Genealogy.

Back in the early 1990s he created histories of the four different family lineages that made up our ancestors.

At the time this wasn’t easily achieved since the internet was barely in its infancy. Dad had to travel quite a bit to visit state and local historical societies and search their records; he traveled to Washington DC to look at government census and immigration records, plus he even made a trip out to Salt Lake City where the Mormon Church kept records on just about every American.

There’s a whole reason and history behind the Mormon collection of family records for which this podcast doesn’t have the time to get into. But let’s just say that the LDS wants to make sure that none of their members are left out of their heaven when the Apocalypse comes.

I’m fascinated by the detective work required to discover the lost strands of the truth

Anyhow, I inherited my Dad’s interest in history and this was amplified by my college education. I got into courses on medieval art and church aesthetics. This later grew into an interest in ancient cultures and other religions. After college I got into videography and that developed into getting schooling on documentary film making.

It was in that training that I learned one of the main tenets of documentary film-making: Memories aren’t reliable evidence.

This fact intrigued me to pursue documenting the past. I’m fascinated by the detective work required to discover the lost strands of the truth that lie within those cloudy memories of the past.

Most of the time these investigations always start with an audio interview, or recording that I’ve discovered.

For example I was hired by Tryon Creek State Park, in Portland, Oregon to document the creation of the park. The history was known but was quickly fading from time since many of the founders were getting very elderly or passing on. This is when I was brought in to interview one of those founders, Lucile S. Beck.

After I gather any audio history, next comes the search for corroborating evidence to validate it. These searches include going to Historical societies and libraries for related old newspaper articles, archived photos, and any other related stray data. When properly stitched together in the proper historical context, they clarify a forgotten narrative, or reveal a universal truth.

Whether it’s a personal documentary or an organizational history, the search and discovery involved on these projects is half the thrill.

Fast forward to now, while the past couple of years of the pandemic may have stymied my film making pursuits, I’ve channeled that historical sleuthing of memory into the comics I post on substack.com

I used to be more into creating cartoons that satirize current events and politics, but I’ll admit after what we’ve all been going thru over the last two years, I started to feel like it was a form of depressive doom scrolling.

So instead, I decided to plum the sunny past for the fodder of my comics and thankfully I have a wealth of experiences to choose from.

I’ve traveled the world, met a fair share of celebrities and oddballs, done ridiculously dangerous stunts, and experienced tragedies that most can relate to.

So here I am madly illustrating 50+ years of wild, hilarious misadventures while also keeping an eye out for new ones.

The current project I’ve been creating is a compendium of stories from my days in a struggling local rock band in upstate New York in the early 1980s.

The band, which we named Hammer, was only around for a couple of years but during that short life span we managed to survive a slew of ludicrous events: insane bar owners, near-misses with the law, and our own poorly planned antics.

We were a band at a time when Elmira was in flux between great local music acts, and the start of a recession which would shutter many of the venues that featured these acts.

Here’s a few of the lost performance spaces of Elmira.

Going back to tell these stories now is definitely a memory challenge since there is very little left of the Elmira I and my band mates once knew. Urban renewal projects and redevelopment has really transformed the area to be almost unrecognizable. The bars and practice spaces we played in are either gutted ruins, bricked up shells, or have been completely removed from existence.

While I’ve searched for any relics of proof that these places existed, it may prove fruitless.

Heck, all I have left of that time is one lone cassette tape that was recorded at an outdoor graduation party in 1981.

At least I and the band mates that I have been in touch with have our collective memories from which to cull stories and that’ll have to suffice, even if it does tread into the arena of “imaginative reconstruction.”

But thankfully when it comes to comedy, the truth is just an additive to the memory oil which greases the engine of narrative.

If you want to start reading these Hammer Stories go here. You can subscribe to get them in your email box as well as look over the other comics I’ve created which are spun from the flotsam of the past.

Also over the next few months, on the podcast I’m hopefully going to get interviews with the other fellows in the band and you’ll be able to hear their side of the comics I’ve created, as well as what they went on to doing in life and what other adventures they’ve had.

This has been Escape from clowntown. I hope you’ve enjoyed the show, and thanks for listening.

A few other examples of memory based documentaries requiring corroborating evidence.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.erflynncomics.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.erflynncomics.com/subscribe

I grew up in the small town of Elmira in upstate NY during the 1960s. This was a time when there wasn’t the internet or Cable TV to connect us 24/7 to the world and all its distractions. Instead we only had 3 local TV and radio stations, a couple of public libraries and a few local news stands.

One of those newstands was Rubin’s Cigar and News Stand in downtown Elmira.

Each week I would eagerly anticipate the trip Dad and I would take to Rubin’s. He would go there to buy a Sunday Newspaper while I would scan the stands for issues of Mad or Cracked.

I was an avid reader of these magazines and could always cajole my Dad into buying me the latest issue.

But one Sunday I noticed an issue of Famous Monsters of Filmland calling out to me.

Famous Monsters of Filmland was a visual gateway drug

It was issue #52 and on the cover was the vampire Barnabas Collins from Dark Shadows. Dark Shadows was an afternoon gothic soap opera about a Vampire who returns from the grave, and in a nutshell, basically bothers his descendants.

It was a huge hit in 1968 and since Dad knew that I watched it with my Aunt, who would babysit me and my sister during the afternoon, he thought that Famous Monsters was a perfectly harmless Hollywood rag.

Oh how little he knew…

Famous Monsters of Filmland was a visual gateway drug to the bigger world of horror and sci-fi movies, and then comic books, that would twist my little mind into the artist I am today.

Warren Publishing which produced Famous Monster of Filmland also put out Eerie and Creepy Magazine. These were horror comics in a magazine format which exempted them from carrying the seal of the Comics Code Authority.

The comic code authority was created in 1954 in response to a drummed up phony public concern over gory and horrific comic-book content. But thanks to the Code being self-governed by the comics industry publishers who chose to not use the comic-book format were free to have content as gruesome and as ghoulish, and as adult, as they wanted.

I discovered these two magazines, Eerie and Creepy, not at racks of Rubin’s, but at the Drugstore down the block from my grade school, while I snuck out during lunch recess to buy some candy bars with my lunch money.

Yes, back in those days kids could easily sneak out from school to go back home for lunch, or down the block to the drugstore, or to some park…without the threat of abduction…mostly.

Anyways, once my young little eyes feasted on the mind-blowing art between the covers of Eerie and Creepy, I then saved up my week’s lunch money all month to buy each issue when it hit the stands.

Between the Famous Monsters, Mad and Cracked magazines I would con my Dad into buying, and the Eerie and Creepy mags I bought on my own, I was amassing quite a collection. The space under the bed in my bedroom was filling up to the point where it was starting to make my bed kind of lumpy.

However my addiction for horror monster mags was only made worse by Saturday Afternoon TV.

That’s when Channel 3 out of Syracuse would air MONSTER MOVIE MANTINEE. This show would feature schlocky horror and sci-fi movies from the 1930s to 1950s which TV stations would acquire from distributors who marketed these movies in bundles with such great names as “Shock!” or “Sci-Fi for the 60s”.

Stations around the country who were desperate to fill their airwaves with content (and advertising) saw the potential for success in such programming that would keep a regular audience for weekly late night horror showcases.

This in turn gave rise to the what we now know as the late-night horror host.

While other TV markets had the late night Vampira, or Ghoulardi, or Zacherle hosting the creature features. Channel 3 in Syracuse opted for a Saturday afternoon show which followed Saturday Morning cartoons in order to keep the kiddies tuned in.

The show was hosted by a Dr. E. Nick E Witty and his servant Epal. They really made the program worth watching thanks to their ridiculously low budget and low brow humor, which of course young boys, like myself, found hilarious.

The show opened with a mix of music lifted from the scores to various American International horror movies. See if you can recognize what Film the music is from in the following samples.

As the music played, the studio camera would pan over an obvious model of a haunted house on a hill enshrouded by quickly evaporating dry-ice fog.

The shot would then fade into and interior shot of a single hand playing an organ’s keyboard (or writing in his “book of Records” or from inside a coffin). Each of the hand’s fingers was tipped with comically large and long black fingernails and rings adorned each finger. The hand would start to articulate like a Revlon hand model as we began to hear “Kind Host’s” Dr. E nick Witty’s voice introduce the show. His servant Epal would usually walk on stage as the camera zoomed out.

This banter between Witty and Epal would continue before and after each commercial break as they drew out some overly long cheap gag involving either a magical ring, or brain under glass, or a threat of Epal’s lycanthropy returning.

Truly low-brow magic meant to inspire laughs.

The other inspired magic was the art found in those Warren magazines. It’s what made me want to be an artist. I would drool over the work by Berni Wrightson, Reed Crandall, Richard Corben, Alex Toth, John Severin and others. Warren mags really did have the best artists. I would see magazines by his competitors like Skywald’s Nightmare and Psycho ,or Eerie Publication’s Witches Tales, Weird or Terror Tales, but even then at my young age, I knew they were lesser quality.

Warren publications further amped up their visual wow factor to me when they started using Spanish Artists from the Barcelona Studio of Spanish agency Selecciones Illustrada.

These artists included Esteban Maroto, Jaime Brocal, Rafael Aura León, Martin Salvador, Jose Ortiz, Luis García, José González, and cover artist Sanjulián.

My god the talents of these artist were incredible!

I would try, and mostly fail, to copy the artist’s work just so I could learn their techniques, as much as any young teen could without any real art training.

The only other comics artist whose work had a major influence on me is that of Will Eisner, who of course I didn’t learn of until Warren reprinted all of Eisner’s The Spirit comics from the 40’s and 50’s.

Yes, I owed a lot to James Warren for introducing me to a world of comic artist talent that was hard to surpass.

Thankfully I got less of a grimace than my pals did.

Years later, around 1998, I met Jim Warren. It was in a business meeting arranged by a couple of pals. We had dreams of starting up a new Horror/Sci-fi fan magazine, and in our hubris, thought we could pitch the idea to miraculous James Warren.

While Jim was a bit older, he had lost none of his business acumen. Upon meeting us, He knew we had only half thought through our magazine idea and he let us know that in quick order.

When he was done berating our half-assed plans, I thanked him for not only the short lesson in publishing, but for also teaching me how to draw.

Thankfully I got less of a grimace than my pals did.

To this day I still have a box of Creepy, Eerie, and Famous Monsters Magazines hidden deep in the closet of my office. Every once in a while I trot them out when feeling nostalgic.

No matter how much they’re starting to molder and yellow, or how musty the newsprint stinks, I can still detect the slightest wiff of the fresh ink smell that I looked forward to every month when the magazine was fresh on the stands.

Or perhaps it’s the last hint of magic.

To read my related comic, click here.

Have a guess on what horror or scifi movie(s) scores were lifted by Monster Movie Mantinee? Put your answers in the comments.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.erflynncomics.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.erflynncomics.com/subscribe

This podcast episode features a chat with my good friend, Jd Michaels, who is one of the smartest and funniest people I know.

Of course that’s not to say the rest of my friends aren’t smart. No, it’s quite the opposite. All of my friends are geniuses. They only associate with me to gain tax credits for fulfilling a government “Dunce Quota.”

Thankfully Jd, a man of varied experience and good attitude, knows the quicker he placates my half-witted ramblings, the sooner he can get back to creating the multitude of projects which make the world a better and more joyous place.

I thank him for his patience. I also thank you for yours, since you’ll be listening in as he and I discuss what influenced his comedic insight, how fatherhood has helped broadened his perceptions, plus how comedy has helped him confront hatred and racism.

I hope you enjoy the show.

To hear and learn more about Jd Michaels, check out these links:

Jd has recently joined Substack. You can read his columns here:

https://lowerblackpain.substack.com

Other links:

Litraedio from CabsEverywhere Productions:

https://litraedio.com/

A slew of wonderful, insightful poetry in the above link. Here’s one of the works below.

Cabseverywhere Productions:There’s a wealth of info and creative goodness under these links:

* Creative House:

https://www.cabseverywhere.org/

* Production House:

https://www.cabseverywhere.net/

A series of short (1min or so) humorous stories guaranteed to make you laugh:

https://thesecretclubhouse.com/

Here’s a fun little bit from a while back but which still makes me laugh:

I have exciting news to share: You can now read Escape from Clowntown | Comics of E.R. Flynn in the new Substack app for iPhone.

With the app, you’ll have a dedicated Inbox for my Substack and any others you subscribe to. New posts will never get lost in your email filters, or stuck in spam. Longer posts will never cut-off by your email app. Comments and rich media will all work seamlessly. Overall, it’s a big upgrade to the reading experience.

The Substack app is currently available for iOS. If you don’t have an Apple device, you can join the Android waitlist here.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.erflynncomics.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.erflynncomics.com/subscribe