I heard "Dead Man's Party" by Oingo Boingo on the grocery store Muzak the other day and thought, "that's hilarious, a Danny Elfman tune from before he was famous..."

can't really top that first post, though...

Yep.

Four frames instead of eight terrible cartoon frames would have sufficed. Better yet, just one frame and then Keith Knight deserves to be hammered to a Characters Tree?

You understand? When ya's got to go golfing with Saint Nick, who has a golf bag over his back, gets Loonier! I'd rather golf with a porky-pine.

The pouting face hit with a white snowball could have been a Dollop golf ball?

Next we'll have lighted fairways, lit up with 50-caliber red tracer bullets?

For some unknown schizo-reason, I had my hands on my hips reading 'Life's little Victories' and yelled "FORE!"

You know, like when impatient and having a fun day outing at the golf course and the green fees are exhorbatent, and the mood is lousy anyway-- then, slow putters hang out on the green studying the ball and Thar green lay, the curves, each blade of grass, the uphill grade, and the tulips, and the old ball you use is a ball that is all sliced up and water logged. Everything needs to be considered if ya's got a mulligan?

Yep, and so far after losing almost 2'000 balls, I've played just rubbishy as the drawled, bagged, homeless, sinner-Nick.

Some more skilled par-person from the clubhouse outta' ram a sharp sandwege three feet into Saint Nicks belly. Then we'd sorely need a bad-joke. The stupid veterinarian needs to be called after that. "Medic!"

The vet drains the intelligence. He collapses at the green's hole like he's got dead-memories. He wanders into a giggle-schizo-land. He thinks red tracer 'rounds' may come from the woodline along the fairway? Gads. The vet for mangy wounded gofers hit by dunlops or titleist hackers cause him to cup his hands around the mouth, and then yell "doc!"

Nope, nothing useful ever flows from the keyboard or lips, Keith Knight. It's best to golf in the night and not irritate daydreamers, is right. You said it here first. Thanks Sir Knight.

Canada has a good Keith brand beer for fisher-persons and wacky cartoonist.

It's best to scroll pass the mangy dog venturing along the woods. O, go drive and practice hitting some appaloosas balls before going back to the clubhouse with a mutt. What damn giggles interrupt the focus and serious concentration if you take a humping leg dog in a refined establishment for a bowl of philistine foreskin salad. huh.

Dawdles. The bastard waste our time and yells, "incomming"...hit the dirt.

One caddy elf that sits on a upside down zinc bucket in the caddy shack needs to give Loon-Tunes people a goofball towel. Saint Nick needs aloft of help too this war season.

He lies to children. Santa Nick likes to only see his name flashing on neon lit signs all over the glorious fairway and rolling greens at night.

He's wacky at the green.

O, a terminal schizoid!

He's surprisingly not a wild Mister Monster? Given. So OH, the Benito of the doubt,

Gracious.

After strolling down elephant ruff grass and pine-trees, it's not a pleasure to be knowing a scruffy deranged one who blogs total nonsense 2,000 times. That's not even counting other alias names like clownishness. A veteran life ought to be euthanized.

There is no commonsense.

Santa is no good at golf.

You realize? That any once fairly respectable mare/stud can go bonkers wild and loco? Y'all ever try to put a halter on a wild beast? The head rears upward. The hothead beast snorts, then purses the lips. And nips. The beast whirls. The nature of the beast is he/she will throws the neck back.

O, pop a few rounds of iron to the head to hear a melodious crackling, and that one-pop smack will take care Ode all the accumulated irrational trauma. Fire-power. Time. Something is bad wrong sometimes? huh. You best ignore the cartoon and my response. It's a innocent goof and poke at the game of Life.

Golf. Gofers. war. play.

Life's little Victories.

I enjoyed the K Chronicle.