cerisesss asked: Will you marry me? So we can be Dane and Lane Martin?
Yes.
cerisesss asked: Will you marry me? So we can be Dane and Lane Martin?
Yes.
(To be sung in a sobbing, shouting, desperate voice:)
Little Squirrel on the snowy fence
Bought a collar for fifty pence.
Collar was wrinkled, so he took it back,
And put his earnin’s in a burlap sack.
Someone found my blog by searching for “cartoon horse with question marks,” and you will never know how deeply sorry I am that I did not deliver. I am thoroughly wasting this internet opportunity.
walkingspanish asked: where can I buy some of your stuff? it's rly great :)
Thanks! These are all I have at the moment, and they are going fairly fast and thick— http://danemartin.bigcartel.com/product/dane-martin-s-purity
I am going to try to create a real internet shopping presence some day soon, even though the idea of it makes me physically ill. If you have ordered a package and you still haven’t received, it is coming soon, plus an extra gag or two for your trouble and patience. The fun paks may come back in the near future in a more manageable fashion.
wileyguillot asked: pssst... dane... saltminesmoonroom is you right? i can't believe i didn't know about this until now i love it so much
Thanks! It’s me. I have no idea what direction to take it in. At the moment, I have been posting whatever garbage catches my fancy. Then, when I scroll down at everything, I feel ill and detached from it, and I don’t post for weeks.
enzyme-deactivated20130722 asked: aha, thanks, and, thanks- im in a meat moodtoday. where are you from? who are you?
My name is Dane Martin. I’m from Michigan. I am glad you appreciate a good list.
Anonymous asked: can you draw a picture of a guy grabbing two bottles of cold ones from an ice chest then plopping them under his arm pits and then twisting them open and then having the foam spurt out under his arm pits?
Stay tuned.
cockydoody asked: Love your blog, Mr. Martin!
Thank you very much, Mr. Doody!
Anonymous asked: how did you become part of the lust to dust antho?
The editor saw a comic I did about a bird lady giving verbal abuse.
Anonymous asked: your name is suspiciously similar to dean martin's
This is the comment that has been made to me more than any other in the entire world. It could be worse.
enzyme-deactivated20130722 asked: can i put a link up to your blog on my website?
Of course.
enzyme-deactivated20130722 asked: asdzxfcgvbkjnlktvibea,m gben,fv; bjn afM>Bber OH MY GOD do you do this art yourself?
Yes. I like your list of meats.
At night, after the supper was done, Henry always, without fail, kept a bottle of nail polish remover in his breast pocket. This was not out of superstition, and it was not an obnoxious attempt to catch the attention of those who appreciated the mindlessly absurd, the cute, or the “funny.” Henry was not an attention-getter. He was not a showman. He had qualities that were the opposite of these traits. Henry believed wholeheartedly in taking a practical and comfortable approach to life. He wore his socks and garters to bed, and he always drank a glass of milk with his sea bass. He kept his buttons tightly fastened and his hair gently moist. Henry believed in the two h’s – health and humanity.
Henry’s nail polish remover bobbed and swayed in his breast pocket as he scrubbed the night’s supper dishes clean. He sung a candy-glazed tune his grandmother used to sing to him when he was a young Henry, small and sincere:
“The devil may take my heart strings
And play them fast or slow.
But he won’t know the tune of my heart strings
If I never tell him so.”
Henry did not mind getting more wet than most people when he did the dishes. Long ago, he had figured out the most practical, efficient, and endlessly pleasurable method of washing the night’s supper dishes. It involved smearing nail polish remover all over the dishes, and spreading them around liberally, with ample careless splashes, in a basin of room temperature sud-water. This method was far more efficient than any of the classical, more familiar approaches. Henry called his particular method the “lickety-split.”
It was probable that Henry had Asperger’s disease, and he accepted this fully.
Henry’s grandmother was an impressively efficient dish woman herself. She and Henry, deep in thought at the dish pit, would happily experiment with various methods of efficiency. It was fascinating to Henry to observe the barrage of successes and failures. Henry’s grandmother kept a notebook on her bedside table detailing the process completely, and these were young Henry’s most prized possessions in the entire world.
As an adult, Henry had solved it. The puzzle was complete. He cracked Grandma’s code. Henry had, throughout a lifetime of obsessive trial and error, come to the most logical and efficient possible conclusion. He had discovered the single mathematically best way of soaking up a night’s worth of soiled dinner dishes. Henry was perhaps mildly pleased with himself, but he was much too busy spending the riches to take any time at all to analyze or scrutinize them. He was a dog in the mud, and he knew to take advantage of the sensations he felt while he was in that mud, contently frolicking.
The antique dishes took the longest to completely transform into clean objects, and, under Henry’s newfound method, cleaning even those was a Saturday hammock breeze. Grandfather’s fourteen-inch lavender serving tumbler was wiped clean with minimal effort, and the emerald-encrusted drinking bowl, handed down through Henry’s family through the century with elegance, grace, and efficiency, was always given a thorough ten-second quick scrub, and came away unscathed and sparkling.
But, when Henry was not washing the after-supper dishes, he was never thinking of his method, or dishes of any kind. Henry preferred to compartmentalize his life. The dishes were of great importance to Henry, but only when he knew the time was proper. Henry did not believe in sensationalizing his natural gifts and inclinations by obsessing over them when there were other matters to attend to.
It should be noted that Henry was broken inside, thoroughly, one hundred per cent. He did not work correctly. Where other men shined, Henry shriveled. Henry’s stuffing was falling out and his decaying seams were showing. Henry’s speech was forced and vacant. Some would say Henry was missing a pumping heart… the soul of a man. Henry rarely smiled or made optional conversation. To appear confused would be against his manner in every way, yet no one was more confused than Henry. Every action he made was a slow, careful, hesitant disaster. Henry had few good qualities. He didn’t know who he was.
All this made it that much more remarkable that Henry was so talented at dish efficiency. It would seem to an outsider that Henry chose the worst possible thing to concentrate on and excel at, but it is obvious that Henry did not have a choice. The dishes chose Henry, and he had no say in the matter. Because of the obsession, out would flow a trail of poisonous hell water, destroying every aspect of Henry’s life. But he did not choose this to be so.
sonsofnortherndarkness asked: do the penis chart. no homo. or even better... draw what your penis looks like in the most demented way so then tonight i know what sausage to buy. bonus points if you draw upset vintage cartoon sperm. signed with love xoxoxo
Stay tuned.
es-obvio asked: new shits in my flickr gallery :)
Beautiful as always! I love this one: http://www.flickr.com/photos/esobvio/6518656829/in/photostream