I can think of very few things more painful than having something sharp plunged into an eyeball.

An Adam Sandler movie marathon, perhaps. Waking up each morning knowing you voted Liberal. Anal hornets.

But lets’ go with the eye thing. Don’t blink.

“Repeat: I have landed on the strange orb, and am now preparing to plant the dedication flag…”

The idea of undergoing an interview process to get into a suicide cult is, to me at least, inherently funny. I mean, you’re an apocalyptic sect that firmly believes that whatever awaits you on the other side of death if preferable to this lifetime of gummint taxes takin’ away your freedoms and guns or whatever. Surely you’ll take any body that’s warm enough and doesn’t think too hard…

So Luscious faces her past as a member of a pack of bigoted religious scumbag zealots an apocalyptic religion by creating a Youtube channel and engaging in activism to help people see the truth behind the curtains, and I, who have never been a part of one, draw bad cartoons.

The important thing is we’re both helping…

“You’re a suicide cult. I don’t see myself anywhere in five years.”

Devil at the crossroads, musical competition, pick the saddest or most inappropriate musical instrument possible… okay, so occasionally it’s not rocket science, and occasionally your not-rocket kind of implodes and crumples to the launch pad.

It’s an obvious trope, an obvious joke, and honestly, a trombone would have been funnier.

I kind of like the skeleton in the garret, though.

“Well, a fiddle is traditional, but I guess I’m willing to give it a go…”

Look, this is just piss-poor. There’s no excuse. They can’t all be great. or good. Or mediocre. Or… you know what, just pretend it’s a Garfield cartoon and we can all hate it together, okay?

“Tell me if this one is any clearer.”

I don’t know what happened when I scanned this piece, and I have absolutely no memory of what that last word should be!

Send your answers to “Past Lee Needs To Learn How to Fucking Crop Properly”, care of the email link somewhere on this website……

“Huh, whaddya know. Turns out it’s (illegible due to shitty cropping. Squirrels? Who the fuck knows?)”

I drew this over twenty years ago.

My issue comes out next month.

“Apparently, we’re due to be the centrefold in next month’s issue of Debt Collector Monthly.”

Ayyyyyyyyyyyyyy, housewife jokes, amirite!

I can’t think of single excuse for this one. I was young, it was a different time, it doesn’t represent me as a person, etc etc and so forth.

Seriously, I was such a dumbass in my younger days.

“Does my femglax look big in this?”

Ghosts and ghouls and things that go bump in the night. Shove them into a domestic setting, and it’s automatically funny, and then you can make a really shit Thor film that people love for some reason and maybe also JoJo Rabbit.

Anyway, here’s a vampire one. I’ll have my Thor film, now.

“Call it intellectual curiosity if you like, Vlad, but I still say it’s sick.”

Medical stuff is funny. Fact. It’s probably something to do with our deep-seated psychological need to address our mortality without giving into the fear that the subject prompts within us. Or it might just be that squishy bits make us laugh.

Either way, it’s been at least 20 years since I scratched this out, and it still makes me snork.

“Something bit me!”

Take the framework of one subject, apply it to a second subject that is similar enough to be familiar but different enough to be risible. Comedy gold, amirite?

I beg to differ. Exhibit A:

“Tragedy strikes when Rona gets her yoga book mixed up with John’s furniture-making manual.”

Yeah, so when I was trying to work out whether or not I wanted to try for a career in cartooning, (Morgan Freeman voiceover: Naaaahhhhh.) I read that it was important to be able to work up a portfolio of subject-specific cartoons, to show that you can attract work across a wide spectrum of magazines. Sports. Sports is always a good one.

This is a sports cartoon. And that is all I have to say about that.

“It can happen to anyone.”

Okay, I admit it: I have absolutely no idea what that little figure at the top left is. It looks like a teaspoon playing the maracas while shooting a laser out of its eye, but that can’t be right… can it?

Can it?

Hadrian’s back fence.

I don’t know what God’s reaction would be if a couple of religious loons knocked him up first thing on a Sunday morning wanting to talk about how the adult son he can’t get out of the bloody house and into a real job is some sort of superman figure with the power to forgive humanity all of the evils it should have known better than to pull in the first place… but I’m guessing ‘smite’ figures large in the calculations.

“I’m guessing you won’t need a copy of The Watchtower, then.”

Okay, I have no idea what prompted this cartoon, but I can pretty much guarantee I drew it before I found out that chicken farms do almost exactly this.

Bloody oracle, me.

“You’re supposed to sex them by locating a tiny, almost invisible spur on the back of the leg, but I just work on the assumption that I’ve got to be right roughly 50% of the time.”