Letters to the Editor
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Honest Tea?
Hey, I just had one of the teas with Opus on it...lightly sweetened peach. Just like you lik.
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Now begins
...the screeching about peaches, no doubt.
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It's a gift
Actually, there's something appealing about Opus' ability to find something good to hold on to in life amid all the negative things going on that could too easily overwhelm us. I don't think he's ignoring all the bad that's going on. He's just reminding us that there is more to the world than that. That is cause for hope...and a gift.
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I dare say, old chap
AKASmith's comment to me about two weeks ago...
Here is an amazing what if: What if he [Brightstar] fell in love?
Does he dare to eat a peach? Or will he keep measuring out his life in coffee spoons?
-- AKA Smith
Coincidence???
I think not,
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Cat sighting
Hey, Bill's in the lake!!
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If I didn't know better...
...I'd say Salon commissioned this piece to speak directly to Garry.
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The Penguin is right about the peaches
Indeed.
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I'm sure
the peaches were picked by slave Mexican labor. They were sprayed with toxic chemicals which killed all the frongs and then sold at Wal*Mart/
Breath Deep the Evil in Everything.
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Strange, but true
Not three minutes before reading this strip, I had just returned from the co-op where I had been lured into buying several delicious looking peaches. Mmmm-mmmm!
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Bad
Peaches cause cancer of the hair and are composed, in part, of human tears.
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Somewhat ironic...
All the peaches in the Illinois/Missouri area were killed by a freak cold snap this spring (which may or may not have been caused by global climate change). It's a terrible world when you can't get a fresh peach in summertime.
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It gets worse
the peaches were picked by slave Mexican labor. They were sprayed with toxic chemicals which killed all the frongs and then sold at Wal*Mart/
Also the plastic the peaches are sold in has phthalates which leach into the water and change the gender of the fish
The peaches are shipped from halfway around the world
Raw sewage is leaking onto the peach tree fields
Evil corporations are genetically modifying the peaches so they accidentally produce enzymes and amino acids that will give you cancer of the sphincter in forty years, when of course you will be forced to spend all your money to be cured, because there will be no private insurance anymore and only the wealthy will have access to governmemnt sponsored med care.
The corporation that owns the peach growers is actively sending money to prop up the one world government fascists.
A trade dispute with the nation handing us the offending fruit will get into an international spat that will eventually lead to WW Five
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Anybody got an mint
To go with my peach?
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Anybody got an mint
To go with my peach?
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I've always been partial
to Plums.
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Just when you think you're out, they drag you back in
If I didn't know better...
...I'd say Salon commissioned this piece to speak directly to Garry.
-- ChefColeman
I'd say you're right, Chef. You don't know better. Salon doesn't take a side against me in this. In fact Salon editors actually like, and encourage, most of my commentary as long as I don't cuss too much or call them names.
But since you admire me so much as to bring my name into this turgid discussion, let me clue you in on something:
Actually, Berkeley calls me every Monday morning at about 11:21 a.m. and asks me what I'd like to see in his next Sunday strip. He's usually drunk on his ass on peach Stoly. I don't know why he listens to me, I don't know how he even remembers what we talked about, but he dotes on every word.
So I said to Berk last Monday, "I got a great idea Berk. Do one of your color-saturated acid dream sequences where you out doo doo yourself with metaphors so broad and unmistakable that even the most dull witted moron Salon reader won't miss. You know what I mean, Berk?
This Sunday, let's celebrate the great American farmer's market where all the beautiful suburban white people in their pastel L.L. Bean polo shirts, khaki Docker patchpocket shorts and leather sandals go to by a little bag of peaches grown in somebody's back yard. Get really sticky-peach-juice dripping with smug about it. You know your audience by now, Burk.
Make the bad guy Steve Dallas represent all the people who are obsessed with the world's woes and are so humorless about it all the time that they look like fools. It's actually pretty ironic when you think about it.
"After all, Berk, you're not struggling anymore. You're a millionaire many times over. You don't even go to the summer farmer's market. You order your organic hand-picked Japanese peaches right out of the Harry and David catalog and have them Fed Ex'd to your place in Aspen. (If your idiot readers and fans only knew how much contempt you have for them, they'd choke on their Sunday morning free-trade decaf hazelnut espresso macchiato.)
Berk, I heard that there are still four or five people living off the grid outside Ely, Minn., who haven't figured out that Opus represents your broad self-caricatures of your innocent, but selfish, ego, always seeking pleasure and avoiding pain. Your audience never tires of seeing the same act played over and over, like Dagwood making a sandwich, like Lucy telling Charlie to kick the football, like the money-shot in a porn movie.
"So for the sake of those five people, do yet another strip where fat, selfish little Opus indulges himself yet again and tells the worried people of the world to either lighten up, like you Berk, or go fuck yourselves.
"Berk! Just had a great idea, buddy. This time, throw in a glimpse of Bill the Cat, but don't make it too subtle, because most of the idiots might miss it. But dump him upside down with his ass sticking out of the water to symbolize the fact that you're not going that direction any more. No more edgy characters. They didn't sell very well and you just wound up confusing and alienating your suburban sheep readers. Bill was too disturbing. I tell ya, Berk, it was pure genius when you stole the penguin idea from Disney Studios.
"Hell, Berk, the royalties on stuffed Opus toys, Opus lunch boxes, Opus bumper stickers, Opus beach towels, Opus toiletries, Opus Pez dispensers and all that other shit will keep your Gulfstream jet topped off with fuel for the next fifty years.
"So give the suckers what they want, Berk. Every Sunday give 'em the same shit over and over. They're so stupid they don't even remember that they saw nearly the same damned thing last week.
I think Berk passed out from the Stoly, but I see he got the gist of it. He's gone and out doo doo'd himself again.