Chris' Original Blogbeque

A fresh, vinegar-based examination of life

Yukon Ho!

C: Hey Hobbes, want to see an antelope?

H: An antelope?!
C: C’mon!

See, she’s coming down the ladder to her boyfriend’s car!

You’re not laughing.
H: It’s not funny.

C: Can you believe this? Some idiot tossed garbage here in this beautiful spot.

I’ll bet future civilizations find out more about us than wed like them to know.

Look, another can thrown on the ground! Boy, this makes me mad!

By golly, if people aren’t burying toxic wastes or testing nuclear weapons, they’re throwing trash everywhere!

You’d think planets like this were a dime a dozen! Now I’ve got to carry this gross thing.

H: You know, there are times when it’s a source of personal pride to not be human.

(Calvin takes off his clothes)
C: I’m with you.

C: I’m never gonna get married. Are you?
H: Hmm… I suppose if the right person came along, I might.

Somebody with green eyes and a nice laugh, who I could call “Pooty Pie.”

C: “Pooty Pie”??
H: Or “Bitsy Pookums.”

C: I think that would affect my stomach a lot more than my heart.
H: “Bitsy Pookums,” I’d say. “Yes, Snoogy Woogy,” she’d reply…


M: Good heavens, Calvin! What do we say after that?
C: “Must be a barge coming through!”

M: What do you say?!
C: “That sure tasted better going down than coming up!”

M: Three strikes and you’re history, kiddo.
C: (sheepishly) Excuse me.

S: Hi, Calvin. I brought Mr. Bun over so we can play house. You and I can be the parents, and Hobbes and Mr. Bun can be our children.

C: oh, right. Hobbes and I are gonna put our big plans on hold so we can play house with a stuffed rabbit? Forget it!

S: I don’t see why you’ll play with your dumb ol’ tiger and not with Mr. Bun and me! You’re just mean, that’s all!
C: Go play in a microwave, Susie. We’re busy.

C: Girls are like slugs—they probably serve some purpose, but it’s hard to imagine what.
H: Mr. Bun seems comatose. Did you notice?

C: Kiss Hobbes good night too, Mom.

H: If you don’t get a good night kiss, you get Kafka dreams.

C: Since September, it’s just gotten colder and colder.

There’s less daylight now, I’ve noticed, too.

Oh no! This can only mean one thing!

The sun is going out! In a few more months earth will be a dark and lifeless ball of ice!
H: Well, gee, now I don’t feel so bad about not setting up an IRA last year.

Calvin writes Santa a critical letter, listens to “Santa Claus is coming to town”
C: Santa Claus: Kindly old elf, or CIA spook?

This Santa Claus stuff bothers me… especially the judge and jury bit.

Who appointed Santa? How do we know he’s impartial? What criteria does he use for determining good and bad?

And what about extenuating circumstances? Kids should have the benefit of legal counsel, don’t you think?

C: This whole Santa Claus thing just doesn’t make sense.

Why all the secrecy? Why all the mystery? If the guy exists, why doesn’t he ever show himself and prove it?

And if he doesn’t exist, what’s the meaning of all this?

H: I dunno… isn’t this a religious holiday?
C: Yeah, but actually, I’ve got the same questions about God.

Gosh, Hobbes, what if I don’t get any presents this year because I doubted the existence of Santa?

C: Well I’ve decided I do believe in Santa Claus, no matter how preposterous he sounds.

H: What convinced you?
C: A simple risk analysis.

I want presents. Lots of presents. Why risk not getting them over a matter of belief? Heck, I’ll believe anything they want.

C: What do you think is the meaning of true happiness?

Is it money, cars and women?

…or is it just money and cars?


H: Did you make any resolutions for the New Year?
C: Heck no.

I’m fine just the way I am! Why should I change?

In fact, I think it’s high time the world started changing to suit me! I don’t see why I should do all the changing around here!

If the New Year requires resolutions, I say it’s up to everyone else, not me! I don’t need to improve! Everyone else does!

How about you? Did you make any resolutions?

H: Well, I had resolved to be less offended by human nature, but I think I blew it already.


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