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Ziggy and Wiggy

My friends and I were discussing, with great wistfulness, the innocent delight and glee we obtained from the cartoons of yore. Oh, long were the playful arguments we had regarding the relative merits of Heathcliff versus Garfield, and of the mature, thoughtful quality of For Better of For Worse, against the rough, cruel life-lessons of Luann. But, needless to say, although they had long ago given up such gentle diversions for the more modern distractions of crystal meth and anal sex, the one thing they all had in common was a continuing love for the daily piece of craftsmanship that is Ziggy.

All of them, of course, except me.

I am a Wiggy fan. Always have been. Sure, Wiggy is in only a few papers, compared to the multitude that carry Ziggy. Sure, Wiggy's art is a little cruder, a little rougher, a little indicative of overmuch love for port and similar libations. Yet, it is the wry wit of Wiggy that has carried me through many a long, dreary night, when not even my bounteous porn can save me from the grinding and eternal infomercial hours.

Ziggy's loyal dog and bird stared at him joyfully when he fed them bones and piles of seed. Wiggy's dog and bird were only satisfied by being fed scraps of his victims.

Ziggy would often make wry and poignant comments about the world and his place in it. Wiggy made such comments too, but only after he stuck the needle in his arm.

Ziggy would cry out in inspiration upon seeing a glorious rainbow. Wiggy would cry out in inspiration upon seeing his much smaller cellmate.

Ziggy was always given the short end of the stick by life, but he realized that with enough goodwill and perseverance, he could get through anything. Same with Wiggy, but replace "goodwill and perseverance" with "discount rum".

Ziggy poured out his problems to his psychologist and mommy. Wiggy just poured out his problems to mommy. Wiggy loooooved mommy.

They were the cousins of the newsprint, twin rogues striking out against an uncertain world. And, as I cut out and swallowed each Wiggy strip, felt it travel ever so slowly through me and felt the messages dissolve and become part of my very cells, I knew that I would survive, that that constant laughing sound would stop, and that I would eventually be exactly the same way.

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