The long hair, the slim fitted shirt, the look of reluctant apathy. This man is a hipster and his shirt says "Please Kill Me".

Is there anything sadder than a man trying so hard to be removed from society's labels that he wants to kill his very being?

The hipster is a leming who hates being a leming and wears a t-shirt that says "Where is the Cliff?"
Pssst ... have you read about the secret war? Shhhhh, it's a secret.

"...the number of bombs dropped on Iraq actually declined after the start of the war in March, 2003."


Ive decided not to finish up the "Bat Night" series.

The idea was that terrorists attack a small town, wiping everyone out. Everyone except a small group of bat-wielding patriots.

It was sometime last night that I realized, "That's actually kind of stupid. Let's not do that."

Often times, I will have ideas that I am convinced are the greatest thing to ever enter a head. Lucky for you, often times I get distracted by the thought of a sandwich and forget them.

Often times, this happens ...

Last night at dinner, in public.

R. Girl: I think I'll take my fish home, but the french fries will just get mushy.

Me: (To the tune of "Yummy, Yummy, Yummy") Mushy, mushy, mushy. Mush- mush - mush- mush- mushy. Mushy-mush mushy-mush mush mush!

R. Girl: Do you have A.D.D.?

Me: Why?

R. Girl: You're sitting there saying "mushy" over and over again.

Me: I was?


If you're unwilling to accept Kurt Russell as the man who can take off and put on a shirt instantly then you might want to get off this imagination train right now.

Man, looking up pictures of Frankie Muniz is a creepy thing for a man in his mid-20s to do.

This past weekend I decided to grill some steaks. Charcoal grilling, ladies, not that's-what-you-got-a-stove-top for sissy boy gas grillin'.

So, R. Girl invited over a couple of her friends. Girl friends.

When 4 dudes get together to grill some steak and listen to some Pete Yorn it goes much like this ...

Dude 1: (Nods head)

Dude 2: (Nods back)

Dude 3: (Chews)

Dude 4: (Chews)

When it's me and 3 chicks eating steak it goes like this ....

Chick 1: Ewww, there's like some fatty bubbles in it or something!

Chick 2: Where? Where?

Chick 1: Here! See?

Chick 3: Mine's bloody. Is the blood okay?

Chick 1: I think that's juice.

Chick 3: Juice is red?

Chick 2: No that's blood!

Chicks in Unison: EWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

Me: (Chews)


If you're unwilling to accept Frankie Muniz as the boy who can age instantly then you might want to get off this imagination train right now.

My Dad thinks he looks like Kurt Russell. So, naturally when I have to pick someone to play the Dad, I pick Kurt.

Just like Tom Cruise in Vanilla Sky.


Man, you gotta love Craigslist. Just a bunch of people coming together to sell come couches, show off their wee-wees and discuss Terri Schiavo.

Then there was this lady. She wanted to know if any men still wrote poems for their women.

I couldn't help but reply.

If I had a show on MSNBC it'd be called "So, Where's Osama, Prick? With Brent Kinkade".

It would just be me sitting around for a half an hour each night asking top officials, "So, where's Osama, prick?".

This is the final Violent Stick People.

I wanted to wrap this story up for the 15 people who read this site. Look, Hamburgarr showed up!

Thanks for all the ideas and the reading.
Does anyone in the Seattle area want to play a lil' disc golf? I'm looking for a friend.


Bored at work?

Maybe you should call the White House (202-456-1111) and suggest that Karl Rove resign for his comments regarding 9/11. I did.

Even the staunchest neo-con Republican has to agree that politicizing a national tragedy is disgusting.

I don't want to be Evan Harris. I've seen "The Bourne Identity". I know what happens next. My girlfriend gets shot and I have to bust through a stained glass window. No, sir.


Evans enjoy kind of a Southwestern thing in their kitchens. Brents tape a picture of Roger Moore to their fridge and call it a day.
Last week, as I was disc golfing ....

I found someone's disc in one of the rough patches. Written on it was "Johnny Blaze". Disc golf etiqute is to call the number usually written on the back of the disc.

For example, my discs say "Kinkade 1-800-FUN-BUNS"

Except the number written on Johnny Blaze's disc had been rubbed out. I put it in my bag and decided to leave it at the kiosk in the parking lot. Except I forgot all about it.

On Monday I went to go play and found Johnny Blaze's disc still in my bag.

"Shit," I thought, "I forgot to do that thing. You know what, I'll just leave the disc right here and let someone else deal with it."

So, I go on to play a horrible game where I actually end up losing a disc of my own.

On my way out I see the Johnny Blaze disc I had left laying about. I decide that since I lost a disc God owes me one.

So, I pick it up. As I'm holding the disc I see a dude working on a new type of putt that I'm trying out.

"Hey, man can you show me how you do that thing that you're doing?" I ask.

"Sure," he says.

I toss a few discs until I get a feel for how to do it. We both walk around to pick up our discs.

Then I notice it.

On the back of his discs is written "Johnny Blaze".

"You ... you're Johnny Blaze?"


"This is your disc then. What are the odds? What are the odds that I would use the very disc I had just decided against leaving in the woods in front of you? I mean, what are the odds of us meeting right here as I was just thinking about you, a complete stranger?"

"Yeah... Hmm. Wow."

"Yeah. Well, take it easy."

And as I left Johnny Blaze I could hear him still saying. "Huh.... Hmmm..."

Cause that's how I like to leave my impression on people. Grateful they met me. A little confused. Questioning the very fabric of the universe.


A lot has changed since we last visited that rooftop of despair.

For one, I quit smoking. I started when I was 13. My lungs were very angry.

I've also given up soda. That's right, I said soda. I'll have the occasional unenjoyed diet junk, but that's about it. I haven't gone on a soda binge in almost 7 months.

I hardly drink alcohol either. Maybe a glass of wine or two. No more 12-pack-a-night Brent. My liver was very angry.

I've also grown fond of bench pressing. I never thought I'd say that.

I haven't mentioned any of these things, have I? Huh.


55% of America agrees with this comic.


Watching a robot dunk a ball would be like watching an ice cream scoop dance. It'd be stupid. And that's how I know we're safe.

An update on my neighbor Hammer Girl and Her Dude.

R. Girl had the other day off from work and got to hear this pleasant and healthy exchange of emotions.

Dude: You aren't nothing but a tweaker! You're high on crystal meth and that's why you can't keep a man!

Hammer Girl: FUUUUCK YOU!

Kent, Washington: Where there's always someone yelling at someone on a balcony.

(Psssst! Look! My sidebar has been remodeled. New shiny things have been added.)


Many ladies have woke up to that note.

(Last Panel Trivia: Did you know that law requires any reporter covering a hurricane to show what the storm did to the local telephone poles?)
Say, were any of you up at 3:30 this morning telling yourself "You aren't going to jail. You aren't going to jail"?

If you were, I was cosmically with you.

I had this horrible dream that I started up a roughian gang. It was me and two big, blond Iowa farmboys.

But we were kind of lazy, so the only thing we could think to do was go mess up my upstairs neighbor's apartment.

We were knocking all the stuff off of their coffee table and throwing their potting soil all over. I think I even put some dirty dishes in with the clean load in their dishwasher.

Out of nowhere I decided to take it up a notch. So, I pulled out a knife and stabbed the closest person to me. Maybe it was one of my thugs, maybe it was my neighbor. I wasn't sure. I just wanted to take it up a notch.

Then I heard cop sirens and started to run.

In my dream I kept saying to myself, "That was a BAD idea. It's very obvious that you stabbed that person."

(This seems to be a recurring dream. Any ideas on why?)


Provocative questions from The B-Man this late Spring evening.


Before we begin .... A joke R. Girl made up:

Why did Snoop Dogg carry an umbrella?

Fo' drizzle ....

And now the proof!

We had no reason for Iraq! We had our invasion plans before we had our reason!

"The US Government's military planning for action against Iraq is proceeding apace ... little thought has been given to creating the political conditions for military action, or the aftermath and how to shape it."


This is going up in my office.
Speaking of cars....
Today I went in to get my oil changed. You know, instead of working. Well, after changing my oil and a belt they dropped a bomb on me.

"Yeah, you see how your engine is just shooting out coolant all over our shop? That's not good."

"Can you fix that here?" I ask.

"No. No, we can't."

So, I called a mechanic.

"Yeah, sure, I can fix it. What kinda truck?"

"98 Chevy S-10. 6 cylinder."


"Can you give me a ballpark estimate on how much it will be?"

"Let's see ... hmmm .... 98 ...."

"Wha- Oh, I thought you were going to say it would be 98 dollars."

"No. Hahahahahahahahaha!"

It's not a good sign when your mechanic laughs like a mad scientist before he gives you an estimate.


In every sales office there's a guy with a poster of a Ferrari. Billy Ginsby is that guy.
Last night R. Girl and I were returning from working out ....

"I like to do the bench press first, it really opens up my ..."

"Excuse me. Y'all don't happen to have a wire hanger do you?" asks a neighbor lady standing in the parking lot right outside our apartment.

"Um, maybe," we say "You locked out of your car?"

"Yes, and no one will help me .... BECAUSE MY BOYFRIEND IS A DICK!!!!" she screams at the open window above and catty-corner to our place.

I'd heard this couple argue before. Last time it was over a spider. ("Why can't you be a fucking MAN and get the goddamn SPIDER?!!!?") But, this was my first time meeting them.

"Yeah, we'll go check on that wire hanger."

Once we get inside things heat up outside.

"FUCKITT! I'm hitting the damn window with this hammer!"


"Holy shit! She's trying to break the window!" I say. And she was. Right outside our bedroom window she was swinging at her window with her proverbial hammer.


"Where's a hanger? WHERE'S A WIRE HANGER?" I ask R. Girl.


"Calm down," says R. Girl.

"She's going to


send glass flying all over


our cars!"

We find some wire. As the man, I'm expected to know how to break into the car with the wire hanger. And as a proud man, I have no choice but to stand around and act like I do. So, I shove the wire between the window pane like they do in movies. Then I start jiggling it ... like they do in movies.

"Yeah, man," says the increasingly loud neighbor lady, "We got to move out because my boyfriend gonna go to California and my son and I ... Say how much you pay in rent? I ain't got a place to go to and I got my son and damn it all I'll just smash this fucking window I don't care about - Aw, shit, it's the cops."

Sure enough, two police officers are walking towards us.

One says, "We have a report of a drunk girl trying to break into a car."

For the first time I stop and realize that maybe she isn't a damsel in distress. I turn to her with the wire still in my hand and shoved down her door and calmly ask ...

"Wait a minute ... is this your car?"

"Yeah, its' my car, it's just my boyfriend ain't got the sense to-"

"See? See? See what happens when you drink," says the boyfriend who's decided to stand on his balcony and yell. "I gotta call the cops on you. I gotta call the cops on you!"

And as quickly as it takes me to realize I'm one camera away from being in an episode of COPS I've dropped the wire hanger, excused myself from the officers and run inside.

A minute later, R. Girl comes back into the apartment. We hide in our room and peek out the curtains at the lady and the cops.

"Hold on," I say "Did you tell me to calm down? How am I supposed to calm down when a crazy lady is smashing up cars right outside our apartment?"

"I don't know," she says "You just do."


My Dad's been doing a lot of business in China lately. His Chinese friends nicknamed him Da Shan ("Big Mountain"). I figure I gotta make Poppa proud.

I don't want to have to do any bangin' or have to go through any initiations or anything. I just want to be Lil' Rocky.

When I was a kid I had this irrational fear that street thugs or Mafioso were going to try to get me to join their gangs. I was scared that when I told them "No" they were going to beat me up. Then I was scared that if I said "Yes" to avoid the beatings I would end up killed in one of those bloody scenes where they put an icepick in the skull of everyone involved in some crime that the cops had been snooping around about.

The climactic part of "Layla" playing. Found days later frozen solid in a meat locker.

Other pre-teens were starting to learn about cars. I was practicing how I would talk myself out of a gangland hit.


America might need a time-out.


(In 'Predator' I would have played the part of a villager who drops his sandwich when a grenade went off behind him.)

If I was a celebrity reporter, my first question would always be "Why are you a dick?". My follow-up question would be "Sucker punch? SUCKER PUNCH!".

I'd be a celebrity reporter with unchecked jealousy issues.

!!!!! A year from today we'll all drink the blood of The Goat!!!!!


This was the song that greeted me this morning. Since hitting the snooze button was a little much to ask of me, I laid and listened.

I'd never noticed the little debate at the end of the song over playing that funky music 'til death.

"'Til you diiiiiiie!"

"'Til you diiiiiie?"

"Oh, 'til you diiiiiiiie!"

And, just so you know, that's exactly how I see James Brown leaving this world.

All waving his cane and saying "Not so fast, Mr. Death." Belting out one last jam until his heart just goes out on him. Floating up to Heaven without even noticing he'd passed away. Dancing at the Pearly Gates.
So, my important thing? Forget that.

It was a job interview that I blew so hard I got sick.

Seriously. As I drove away from the interview my throat tightened up and my sinuses shut down. I've spent the past two days laid up at home chugging vitamin C and watching The People's Court.

Not to worry, though.
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