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WHERE DID ALL THE HAMBURGUR HELPUR GO
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a nigger stole it
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Jim Davis is possibly a new master of the craft, a... a genius of the eye; they very well may say the same things about Jim Davis in five hundred years that we say about the great philosophical and artistic masters from centuries ago... Jim Davis is a modern day Socrates, or... Da Vinci... mixing both striking visual beauty with classical, daring, unheard-of intellect...
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>>5611264
BUT WHY ARE YOU EATING US OUT OF HOME GARMFIELD
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Another child died today Garfield. He was terrified. In that moment I wished I could merge with his fear and slip into a saccharine foreverscream. But this is my duty Garfield, have you stopped eating my lasagna? Have you ever looked in that pan? When was the last time you tasted what you were chewing? You shuffling, bumbling, crusty, dumb fuck cat Garfield. If I pelted you with rocks who would hear the dumb screams? If I set myself on fire and smothered you who would die first? You're a tumor Garfield, but God made cancer, just like he made lasagna, except I made the lasagna. Does that make me more than a man?
They call you a "bad cat" but they will never drink from the fat and rotten juices, they are unfit to be in the kingdom of Heaven and Hell Garfield. You are cut from the nape of the Earth, you little bitty cat. Don't kick Odie off the table!! Gaaarfiiieeeeld!!!!
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You stumble home drunk and your bits are all cut away. Did you let someone get to them? Did you snip them off yourself? You won't tell me. Instead you sit in front of the telly, sagging and staring at a sitcom. Your bits are still bleeding. Chunks soak into the upholstery. You'll be fine tomorrow Garfield
You live here, Garfield. You are in between the walls and the beams but you live here. I breathe you in sometimes. It makes me remember innocence. I scream and shake outside of the shower. I try to step in but I slip on a wacky tie. I catch a glimpse of you on the way down just outside of the door frame. Your smile all pus and burn scars. Whose face will it be tomorrow? Garfield, I am your keeper. I just can't seem to get a date!
A thousand shifting fever dreams couldn't molest my love for you, Garfield. It runs through the wires and the cogs and the paper cuts and the plushies. It died twenty years ago. It's pumped up again from a rotten river bottom and vomited onto naked little bodies. Can I remove myself from its fate?
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They pick at you like a great big feast. Garfield, your bulbous thoughts were always clear. I just didn't want to hear. But now it doesn't matter. Now you will see tomorrow. A thousand million living things melted for you. A hundred thousand writhing tongues coming from you. It's a wonderful world and this is all that there is. Tell me you're happy, you fatty cat. Tell me to sleep. Garfield tries to catch a bird Nermal comes to visit
Strive for your next breath, you big bad kitty cat. Believe that with it you can do more than with the last one. Use your breath to power your capacities: capacity to eat, to stretch, to complain.
And just where do your capacities come from, Garfield? Why do you always go where I want and do what I say, with a grumble in your wake and a hiss of incompetence with each step you take?
Perhaps you're just running a fool's errand, doing everything as I've planned, never able to change your course. You would do well to believe that I know it isn't much unlike how you can't change your course of meal - being lasanga after lasanga - just as I can decipher the chaotic motion of your thought process for each bubble that comes to par, motions against me - your valued owner - for a choice circumstance.
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Or, perhaps, that is not the case.
Perhaps, you are doing what you were meant to do. Your animalistic mentality screams for vengeance and thrives on the hunger that you say you can hardly endure. I had many times beckoned to you to get up and move about for the sake of exercise, to eat when necessary, but to always eat is your jurisdiction. Do you care about that lasanga, or do you use lasanga as an excuse? An excuse to exist in a world where your merits are ill-conceived and nigh impossible for the demands that plague your everyday lazy life. A world where violence is only a kick of a dog away. A haze of laughter to come, but you and I both know what truly you wish for in that abrasion of what is normality.
Your brothers and sisters are constantly fighting for life on the streets outside. Every breath, every motion brings them one instant closer to their death. With that kind of heritage and destiny, how can you deny yourself? How can you expect yourself to give up violence?
It is your nature.
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Do you feel free, Garfield?
Garfield, if I removed your tail, would it float in water? And in formaldehyde, just as well? Would you chew your food with holes all through your jaw? Would you undulate a sickly hate for Mondays out from beneath those shimmering puncture wounds? In spite of the answers, I am luculent. You, Garfield, are the one who's mad. Gone from all fours to salient lethargy, a mockery of beast and man. Your rotund zingers leaking into open air like mustard gas, making me question the meanings of master and servant. Now I know they are two sides of the same lasagna pan.
They stretched your hide across the Earth out of a wretched love for you. It tore at the seams but never ripped apart, covering me like a child, over and over. Through the folds I saw your infinite faces snarling and laughing. My tormentor. My play pet. At the precipice of the kitchen counter, in birdbaths past and future, I reached out for you. I grasped your bubbling silhouette, bathed in a roar of birthday-cake-flame. And I recognized dimly that somewhere nearby yet also insurmountable, I did not make this choice.
In spite of that, Garfield, I want to ask you. Do you bleed?
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>>5611253
I got rid of it, jorn. Hambrugrer Halper is gone.
Forever.
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