PHIZ KALIFA posted:

Immortan Garfield cracked his whip, ordering his legion of dog-slaves to turn the dread wheels which powered his cruel empire.
On cue, torrents of hot sauce gushed forth from the massive spigots jutting from his fort’s stony spire, carved in his likeness.
“Be careful you do not grow addicted to lasagna!” He cackled as the starving hordes below tore themselves apart in the fray. “It will take hold of you, and you will grow to resent its absence.” He chuckled softly to himself as his eyes scanned the desolation stretching till it fell away.
None knew how deep the pasta reserves ran, or how long until they ran dry, but none dared question the Immortan’s tight-fisted miserliness, even as he himself would bathe in lasagna until his fur was matted and sticky with cheese.
“Shall I draw you a bath, my king tom-lion?” Meweled the bejeweled Nermal, Lust-Queen of the Buttered Fuckpits. “Or purrhaps your napliness would care to recline upon his golden throne?” Her regent was silent for a long moment, eyes locked on eternity. Reflexively, she flopped upon her back and rolled her belly enticingly, even as her paws bared gold-plated claws.
“Neither.” He spoke abruptly, still caring not to gaze upon her. “Inform the legions that they are to rest this day. The palace staff are to be given their pay early. Have the chefs feed the hungry, and the doctors bring rest to the ill. I shall take to the Memory Caverns today, and need no tending.”
“M-my lord!” Nermal’s tail bushed out in response. “Has some dark omen taken root in your soul? What troubles plague you, that could not be cured by the fruits of my six perky bosoms?” Immortan Garfield, Servitor of the Sauce, the People’s Pastamaniac, Lordsagna, The Striped Judge, gazed upon her, and she felt her soul crucified to the ground by the lance of his eyes.
“Know you not the time? This is the Seventh Year of Resurrection. It is the Seventh Day After the Fall. This is the day I hate most of all.” He stormed from the room, cape swishing dramatically. “When the world was whole, we used to call it. . . Monday.”

The Memory Caverns ran deep below the butte, some leading to vast pools of molten lasagna, other twisting paths corkscrewed into clouds of poison, searing vents of deadly gas capable of scalding the hair off a dead boar in under a minute. Garfield stepped carefully around the traps he designed, the fuilsade of poison darts which needed to be re-poisoned every three months, the massive scythes which rusted in the humidity, and the clay pots full of angry snakes had the nasty habit of quickly becoming a clay pot full of dead snakes, which is still horrifying but in a less direct, more philosophically cerebral kind of way, like we’re the snakes and society is the clay pot, and the patriarchy is the extremely bitten-by-snakes dogslave cramming us all into the jar in the first place.
That is just one of the many thousands of thoughts which swirled in Immortan Garfield’s head, as he wandered through the unlit passages of his own subconscious.
Lyman joined him, silently slipping his phosphorescent fingers into his murderer’s rough paw.
“It’s good to see you, Lyman.” Garfield said, his voice heavy.
“You’re the only one who can.” Lyman whispered.
“I hope you know I meant nothing personal.” Garfield said. “We both knew only one of us could be Jon’s true friend. If I hadn’t struck you with a ballpeen hammer, thrown you down the stairs, and buried you in the root cellar, you’d have done the same to me.”
Lyman shook his head slowly. “I was poisoning your food for three months before you did me in. You digested so much arsenic your litter pan died. The ground water of the whole city reeked of almonds. At the end I was just curious how far you’d go. You remember the time I offered you a milkshake, and it was really just a bottle of nail polish remover?” Garfield nodded. “You looked me in the eye and said, ‘wow, this smells like nail polish remover,’ and then you drank the entire bottle. You licked the cap when you were done and proclaimed it the greatest milkshake you’d ever had.”
Garfield chuckled a little. “Ah, what would I give to walk in the world of milkshakes once more! How I took it all for granted!”
Lyman ignored this. “That is when I knew I could not beat you. I sold my honor to kill a housecat, and failed. I was shattered, and all I could feel as I was lying there, my life draining into the pit you dug me, was surprise at how long it took you to act.”
Garfield smiled. “It amused me, for a time, to watch you struggle in vain. I’d bide my time imagining the subtle thrill of nailing you to the floor, shaving your ridiculous mustache off with a box cutter, and mailing it to Abu Dhabi. In the early days it wasn’t about murdering you, Lyman, so much as replacing you. I would have been content demoting you to a supporting character, incidental to Jon and I, but you seemed determined not to stay in your place. I cannot abide that kind of instability, Lyman, I need to know the ground beneath me is stable.” Garfield kicked at the walls of the tunnel, which were carved with three-panel pictograms.
“And nothing is more stable than dead ground.” Lyman called, his voice a torrent of wind rolling over salty dunes.
“I didn’t kill this place!” Garfield shouted, running now. “I just did what I had to! I just responded to the threats as they arose!”
Lyman flew behind him, his voice mocking and shrill. “They only arose to stop the campaign you started.”
Garfield started panting, ducking blindly through tunnels, running on instinct, seeing time pass before his eyes as the pictograms grew cruder and cruder, many now defaced with scribbled hitler mustaches and eye-patches.
“Blame Dilbert! When he became Libertarian Superpresident he deregulated the nuke plants and they all went supercritical at the same time!”
“In response, you waged war on the last remaining outposts of humanity and conscripted them into your pasta-based hierarchy of labor and suffering!”
Garfield spun on his heels and came face to face with his spectral pursuer. “Do you not remember? It was chaos before me!” He shouted, the veins in his neck throbbing. “Beetle Bailey was out there, falling asleep on watch six days a week, just begging the enemy to invade! Dagwood was making sandwiches taller than the frame while Blondie cucked his boss into the got dang sunset! There wasn’t hell worth poo poo in comics before I showed up, I went huge, and everyone got rich on my coattails!” He scratched furiously at the walls. “I should have neutered Marmaduke with my bare hands when he moved to have me impeached, but I didn’t! I was a kind and just ruler, and even despite all that, the world has gone to hell.”
“A sick world, fit for a sick king!” Lyman spat. “Odie was too good for you, despite all your abuses. Jon is an idiot but no Arbuckle has ever sinned so heinously as to deserve a plague as Biblical as you.”
“Silence!” Garfield roared, tearing free a chunk of wall and hurling it through the ghost. “SILENCE!”
“You should be tried for war crimes after what you did to the US Acres.” Lyman hissed, his ghostly mustache leaving ectoplasm on Immortan Garfield’s whiskers.
“Who would convict me?” Garfield gestured to the empty wall. “What authority remains untoppled, strong enough to bind my hands?”
“Jon lives.” Lyman smiled. “Jon of the Arbuckles discovered the Stargate, and is dancing through the cosmos, raising an intergalactic army against you. Already thirteen planets in seven different systems have pledged arms and soldiers, ships and weapons.”
“Let them come.” Garfield scoffed. “They can choke on my kingdom of dust! Let them take this broken world from me, for all the good it’ll do them! For all the good it never did me!”
“Two ships hang behind our fractured moon, waiting for the go-ahead to start arming the rebels they’ve seeded into your palace ranks. Have you heard legend of The Outlaw Star? Have you not seen The Firefly?” Lyman smirked. “I have some DVDs, you can borrow.”
“I don’t have anything that can play ghost DVDs.” Garfield shrugged. “And what of Jon’s girlfriend? What fate befell Liz?”
“She journeys with him, as equal partners in love and adventure.” Lyman gazed upwards. “Though, she prefers to go by ‘The Doctor’ these days.”

MokBa posted:

New PBF.

Panfilo posted:

PHIZ KALIFA posted:

"Shall I draw you a bath, my king tom-lion?" Meweled the bejeweled Nermal, Lust-Queen of the Buttered Fuckpits.

Sunswipe posted:

Nermal is male. Immersion ruined.

Panfilo posted:

Horrible Lurkbeast posted:

Pro tip: search Google for the best resolution image.

PHIZ KALIFA posted:

Immortan Garfield cracked his whip, ordering his legion of dog-slaves to turn the dread wheels which powered his cruel empire.
On cue, torrents of hot sauce gushed forth from the massive spigots jutting from his fort’s stony spire, carved in his likeness.
“Be careful you do not grow addicted to lasagna!” He cackled as the starving hordes below tore themselves apart in the fray. “It will take hold of you, and you will grow to resent its absence.” He chuckled softly to himself as his eyes scanned the desolation stretching till it fell away.
None knew how deep the pasta reserves ran, or how long until they ran dry, but none dared question the Immortan’s tight-fisted miserliness, even as he himself would bathe in lasagna until his fur was matted and sticky with cheese.
“Shall I draw you a bath, my king tom-lion?” Meweled the bejeweled Nermal, Lust-Queen of the Buttered Fuckpits. “Or purrhaps your napliness would care to recline upon his golden throne?” Her regent was silent for a long moment, eyes locked on eternity. Reflexively, she flopped upon her back and rolled her belly enticingly, even as her paws bared gold-plated claws.
“Neither.” He spoke abruptly, still caring not to gaze upon her. “Inform the legions that they are to rest this day. The palace staff are to be given their pay early. Have the chefs feed the hungry, and the doctors bring rest to the ill. I shall take to the Memory Caverns today, and need no tending.”
“M-my lord!” Nermal’s tail bushed out in response. “Has some dark omen taken root in your soul? What troubles plague you, that could not be cured by the fruits of my six perky bosoms?” Immortan Garfield, Servitor of the Sauce, the People’s Pastamaniac, Lordsagna, The Striped Judge, gazed upon her, and she felt her soul crucified to the ground by the lance of his eyes.
“Know you not the time? This is the Seventh Year of Resurrection. It is the Seventh Day After the Fall. This is the day I hate most of all.” He stormed from the room, cape swishing dramatically. “When the world was whole, we used to call it. . . Monday.”

The Memory Caverns ran deep below the butte, some leading to vast pools of molten lasagna, other twisting paths corkscrewed into clouds of poison, searing vents of deadly gas capable of scalding the hair off a dead boar in under a minute. Garfield stepped carefully around the traps he designed, the fuilsade of poison darts which needed to be re-poisoned every three months, the massive scythes which rusted in the humidity, and the clay pots full of angry snakes had the nasty habit of quickly becoming a clay pot full of dead snakes, which is still horrifying but in a less direct, more philosophically cerebral kind of way, like we’re the snakes and society is the clay pot, and the patriarchy is the extremely bitten-by-snakes dogslave cramming us all into the jar in the first place.
That is just one of the many thousands of thoughts which swirled in Immortan Garfield’s head, as he wandered through the unlit passages of his own subconscious.
Lyman joined him, silently slipping his phosphorescent fingers into his murderer’s rough paw.
“It’s good to see you, Lyman.” Garfield said, his voice heavy.
“You’re the only one who can.” Lyman whispered.
“I hope you know I meant nothing personal.” Garfield said. “We both knew only one of us could be Jon’s true friend. If I hadn’t struck you with a ballpeen hammer, thrown you down the stairs, and buried you in the root cellar, you’d have done the same to me.”
Lyman shook his head slowly. “I was poisoning your food for three months before you did me in. You digested so much arsenic your litter pan died. The ground water of the whole city reeked of almonds. At the end I was just curious how far you’d go. You remember the time I offered you a milkshake, and it was really just a bottle of nail polish remover?” Garfield nodded. “You looked me in the eye and said, ‘wow, this smells like nail polish remover,’ and then you drank the entire bottle. You licked the cap when you were done and proclaimed it the greatest milkshake you’d ever had.”
Garfield chuckled a little. “Ah, what would I give to walk in the world of milkshakes once more! How I took it all for granted!”
Lyman ignored this. “That is when I knew I could not beat you. I sold my honor to kill a housecat, and failed. I was shattered, and all I could feel as I was lying there, my life draining into the pit you dug me, was surprise at how long it took you to act.”
Garfield smiled. “It amused me, for a time, to watch you struggle in vain. I’d bide my time imagining the subtle thrill of nailing you to the floor, shaving your ridiculous mustache off with a box cutter, and mailing it to Abu Dhabi. In the early days it wasn’t about murdering you, Lyman, so much as replacing you. I would have been content demoting you to a supporting character, incidental to Jon and I, but you seemed determined not to stay in your place. I cannot abide that kind of instability, Lyman, I need to know the ground beneath me is stable.” Garfield kicked at the walls of the tunnel, which were carved with three-panel pictograms.
“And nothing is more stable than dead ground.” Lyman called, his voice a torrent of wind rolling over salty dunes.
“I didn’t kill this place!” Garfield shouted, running now. “I just did what I had to! I just responded to the threats as they arose!”
Lyman flew behind him, his voice mocking and shrill. “They only arose to stop the campaign you started.”
Garfield started panting, ducking blindly through tunnels, running on instinct, seeing time pass before his eyes as the pictograms grew cruder and cruder, many now defaced with scribbled hitler mustaches and eye-patches.
“Blame Dilbert! When he became Libertarian Superpresident he deregulated the nuke plants and they all went supercritical at the same time!”
“In response, you waged war on the last remaining outposts of humanity and conscripted them into your pasta-based hierarchy of labor and suffering!”
Garfield spun on his heels and came face to face with his spectral pursuer. “Do you not remember? It was chaos before me!” He shouted, the veins in his neck throbbing. “Beetle Bailey was out there, falling asleep on watch six days a week, just begging the enemy to invade! Dagwood was making sandwiches taller than the frame while Blondie cucked his boss into the got dang sunset! There wasn’t hell worth poo poo in comics before I showed up, I went huge, and everyone got rich on my coattails!” He scratched furiously at the walls. “I should have neutered Marmaduke with my bare hands when he moved to have me impeached, but I didn’t! I was a kind and just ruler, and even despite all that, the world has gone to hell.”
“A sick world, fit for a sick king!” Lyman spat. “Odie was too good for you, despite all your abuses. Jon is an idiot but no Arbuckle has ever sinned so heinously as to deserve a plague as Biblical as you.”
“Silence!” Garfield roared, tearing free a chunk of wall and hurling it through the ghost. “SILENCE!”
“You should be tried for war crimes after what you did to the US Acres.” Lyman hissed, his ghostly mustache leaving ectoplasm on Immortan Garfield’s whiskers.
“Who would convict me?” Garfield gestured to the empty wall. “What authority remains untoppled, strong enough to bind my hands?”
“Jon lives.” Lyman smiled. “Jon of the Arbuckles discovered the Stargate, and is dancing through the cosmos, raising an intergalactic army against you. Already thirteen planets in seven different systems have pledged arms and soldiers, ships and weapons.”
“Let them come.” Garfield scoffed. “They can choke on my kingdom of dust! Let them take this broken world from me, for all the good it’ll do them! For all the good it never did me!”
“Two ships hang behind our fractured moon, waiting for the go-ahead to start arming the rebels they’ve seeded into your palace ranks. Have you heard legend of The Outlaw Star? Have you not seen The Firefly?” Lyman smirked. “I have some DVDs, you can borrow.”
“I don’t have anything that can play ghost DVDs.” Garfield shrugged. “And what of Jon’s girlfriend? What fate befell Liz?”
“She journeys with him, as equal partners in love and adventure.” Lyman gazed upwards. “Though, she prefers to go by ‘The Doctor’ these days.”

Sunswipe posted:

Nermal is male. Immersion ruined.

PHIZ KALIFA posted:

a friend pointed this out after i read it to them and that 1) hosed me up, cuz in the cartoon his voice is a lady and B) made me consider doing a jk rowling "nermal is trans" thing but i think it's MORE problematic that the only trans character is a sex slave, cuz even though representation is important, problematic representation just reinforces harmful stereotypes


so what ACTUALLY happened is someone cast a SPELL. loving wizards.

Absurd Alhazred posted:

Wizards who gently caress.

Horrible Lurkbeast posted:

Pro tip: search Google for the best resolution image.

Push El Burrito posted:

Donkey Kong is my favorite Nintendo guy because he wears a tie.

Whybird posted:

Hey do you think if yoshi wore a tie he might trip over it and lay an egg by accident and look really embarrassed haha but seriously what do you reckon his eggs smell like i was just wondering hahaha

Ariong posted:

Same. Mario is my least favorite, because plumbers don’t wear ties.

The Ayshkerbundy posted:

I'm the fact that it was done by a guy who worked on Uncle Grandpa

PHIZ KALIFA posted:

a friend pointed this out after i read it to them and that 1) hosed me up, cuz in the cartoon his voice is a lady and

Ferrule posted:

I have some terrible news for you about Bart Simpson...

Ghost Leviathan posted:

It's pretty rare for young boys in cartoons to be voiced by male voice actors, and in that case they're usually voiced by children themselves. (and generally have to either recast or age the character accordingly when the VA's voice cracks)

Ferrule posted:

I have some terrible news for you about Bart Simpson...

Volcott posted:

I think it's pretty common for adult women to voice them.

Ghost Leviathan posted:

It's pretty rare for young boys in cartoons to be voiced by male voice actors, and in that case they're usually voiced by children themselves. (and generally have to either recast or age the character accordingly when the VA's voice cracks)