Critic's Coroner

dispatches from the oldest profession

Hey gang. Last week I had a bit of a health wobble, which made me think about the time I’ve wasted reading crap online, and these are the cartoons I scribbled on what I rather dramatically assumed to be my deathbed.

These should give you a sense of my mental state, which hasn’t improved a huge deal, to be honest… oh well. Disclaimer—I have a tremendous amount of respect for critics, as long as they call me a genius.

And now, Foghorn continues, but only for my beloved paypigs. In the previous installment, Irma spent many pages criticizing other writers, only to end up in a big soggy puddle of self-loathing. This installment is a bit more fun as we get back to psychopathic tech CEOs and municipal erotica.