(The Third and Last in the Series)

Bill Ouchly was born in the small town of Rusting Bumper, Michigan in the autumn of 1958. His formative years were spent at play in the polluted hills and toxic lakes outside of his hometown. Early in his youth, Bill discovered that he had artistic ability. His initial drawings were of his surroundings and when he was 14, he developed a cartoon strip featuring lovable mutant creatures that lived in a town dump. The editors and publishers at the many syndicates he submitted to, however, deemed his work too depressing and his project eventually ended up cast aside, ending up in the Rusting Bumper landfill.

It was about this time that Bill began to grow extra arms and hands. This wasn’t as unusual as it may seem to most of us, but it was fairly common in places like Rusting Bumper. He also possessed an extremely tough immune system, as most long-time residents of the place had, and aside from his extra limbs, was in robust good health.

Once this growth spurt had completed itself, Bill found himself gifted with a total of four complete sets of arms and hands. Except for some radical changes in his wardrobe, provided by one of the many tailor shops in his area which specialized in such work, he went through life unaffected. He discovered that he had complete control of his new arms and hands and could draw several things at the same time. It was this ability that eventually made him a wealthy man. Bill began working for other artists, turning out a week’s worth of drawing in mere hours. He was in demand by cartoonists everywhere and ended up working solely for others, all but abandoning the idea of producing his own cartoon-strip. He mastered several styles over the years and co-authored countless strips, animated films, and graphic novels.

Periodically, he would return briefly to his original dream of doing his own cartoon-strip and developed a few. Among them were features called “Superfundman”, “Dump-Chumps”, and “Oozies”. None of these caught the fancy of the syndicates, however, which seemed to prefer strips about talking animals and precocious children.

Bill still lives in Rusting Bumper. Although now retired, he still dabbles in art and has recently taken up the banjo. Also, the bass fiddle, the piano, drums, and pocket cornet.

(The Second in a Series)

The world has all but forgotten Ernest Foolish and Leroi Irksome, a cartoonist and writer team who lived in early 20th century Los Angeles. The two had quite different and distinct personalities, and pursued their respective careers separately until a chance meeting in jail brought them together in the spring of 1926. Up to that point, neither had found much success in their chosen fields and had both had turned to petty crime as a means of making a living. Ernest, the cartoonist of the duo, had only a large collection of rejection slips to show for several years’ attempts to get his work published. He drew constantly, but had great difficulty finding words to put into his characters’ mouths. Leroi was a failed writer. One reason for his lack of success was the fact that, try as he might, he was unable to write anything longer than a sentence or two before losing interest. They vowed to collaborate when they got out and when they were released, set up shop in a garage on a bleak stretch of La Cieniga Boulevard. It wasn’t long before they were cranking out the hits. You may remember, “Is that your nose or did you rent it?” And of course who could forget the classic “If that’s your wife, I’m not here!”

Their collaboration didn’t survive success, however. They had a falling out and went their separate ways after only two months of working as a team.

Ernest Foolish was later arrested on morals charges after being discovered in a Burbank hotel room with another man’s horse. He was sent back to jail, where he rotted.

Leroi became addicted to helium and toward the end of his life could be seen staggering through the streets of Glendale, talking to himself in a high-pitched voice and giggling uncontrollably. He died not long after this period, we assume, laughing.

Their names will not be familiar to you:
Ergkkk Nogl, Ernest Foolish, Leroi Irksome, Bill Ouchly…
But they all altered the course of the great art of cartooning.
This is the first in a three-part series of stories about these esteemed pioneers.

Ergkkk Nogl was the first caveman-cartoonist. While other artists of his time were obsessed with placating the gods of hunting and better weather (The intermittent rains of fire and hot lava in those days were especially irritating) Ergkkk was more concerned with getting a laugh. Instead of painting scenes depicting men killing large animals or besting each other in combat, Ergkkk sketched out what he saw as comical situations involving people falling down, stubbing their bare toes on rocks, or slipping on discarded fruit-skins, subjects which went over big in his time.

While his fellow artists worked in secret, closeting themselves deep inside torch-lit caves and promoting their image as magical persons with mysterious powers, Ergkkk worked out in the open, drawing with burnt sticks on any surface he could find, making his work accessible to the masses. He remained quite popular until he started drawing caricatures of his fellow cave dwellers. Up to that point, most of them were unaware of their appearance. There were no mirrors, of course, and the glimpses they got of their reflections in pools of water, etc. they took to be ugly lake or pond-dwelling spirits, trapped below the surface. Quite a few of the cave-folk were offended enough by Ergkkk’s drawings to threaten him with stones and clubs. Discouraged, Ergkkk eventually lost interest in doing his art for the public.

He moved to a cave outside of the village with a woman he had been “dating”. He clubbed her one day as she was strolling by his cave, and to his delight, she clubbed him right back. They fell in love. They spent most of their time together producing cave-children, of which they had a total of 37. Several of the children showed a talent for drawing, and Ergkkk spent his later years instructing them in the sketching of funny pictures, warning them to avoid the dangerous art of caricature. He lived happily to the ripe old age of 27 and keeled over at one of the many lifetime achievement award feasts held for him in the last years of his life.

As I’ve mentioned, Jack Ziegler is a giant of cartooning, but I may not have mentioned he’s also quite tall, in the neighborhood of 9 feet, if I’m not mistaken. Add to that the fact that we met in Denver, CO., the mile-high city, which seemed to have the effect of making him appear somehow even taller.

We arranged to meet in a dive in downtown Denver which is famous for its high ceilings. I arrived early and sipped a martini while I waited for the Z-man to arrive.

One effect of the altitude in that city is that it increases the effect of alcohol on the mind of the embiber, which in this case may have skewed the following report. Many of the details of our meeting are somewhat vague, still, in this reporter’s mind.

I was having a second martini when the daylight from the open door was blocked by a figure entering the bar. I squinted at the doorway, where I saw the silhouette of Mr. Z, ducking down in an unsuccessful effort to avoid hitting his head on the top of the door-jamb. A string of expletives burst forth from him as he entered the room, startling a group of off-duty nuns who had been hanging out quietly at the bar. They downed the remainder of their chocolate martinis and, donning their sunglasses, flew away.

Mr. Z sat down at my table. There were multi-colored stars and planets spinning about his head and his pupils were rotating in opposite directions. I suggested a martini to alleviate his discomfort, and he quickly agreed. Whenever he spoke, his words appeared briefly above his injured head in a speech-balloon, which I found a bit unnerving at first. I got used to it, though, as the afternoon progressed.

The conversation didn’t go the way I had expected. When I brought up the subject of cartooning and asked his opinion of the current state of our profession, for instance, only a series of large question-marks and exclamation points appeared briefly in the balloons over his head. We ordered another round of martinis. (His drink appeared to contain seven or eight olives, though I might be mistaken about this.) It wasn’t too long after our order arrived that Mr. Z’s twin brother appeared and sat down with him across from me at the table. When the brothers spoke, they did so in unison, though slightly out of sync, complete with overlapping identical speech balloons, which was quite confusing. Another inquiry, asking the standard question, “When you’re working, which comes first, the drawing or the caption?” produced conflicting answers from each of the twins.

A short time later, a dense blanket of gray fog, unusual for this time of year in Denver, among other places, rolled in through the door of the place. It obscured everything, including the Z-brothers across the table. The fog must have deprived my brain of necessary oxygen, because I seem to have passed out shortly after its arrival. I awoke some time later.

On the table, I found a note penned by one of the Ziegler brothers. It contained a cheery farewell and an apology for having to leave early. According to the note, Mr. Z had to rush off in order to make his scheduled annual appearance as Grand Marshall at a parade in his honor somewhere in the Midwest, apparently sponsored by his in-laws.

My only partly legible notes show little of our meeting after the fog appeared. There seems to have been some discussion of Mr. Z’s favorite color, though the page containing his answer to my question on the subject seems to have gotten lost, along with several others. (If anyone at “The Mile-High Pit” there in Denver happens to have found the missing pages, IRSBD would appreciate their return.)

Unless the rest of my notes are found, I’m afraid IRSBD owes its readers an apology. We’re very sorry that we are forced under the circumstances to file such a meager report.

We look forward to subsequent journeys, hopefully more successful in obtaining information of interest for our fans and those of cartooning in general. There won’t be any trips for awhile, however, while we wait for the IRSBD frequent flyer card to refill with enough miles to make another foray into the outside world.

Until then, we will continue to furnish our loyal readers with the robust weekly content they’ve come to expect here.

IRSBD is off again, taking another of its periodic trips in search of cartoon news and events of interest to you, our treasured reader(s). You may recall our previous trips to Rome (Where we unfortunately failed in our attempts to interview the Pope and suss out his views on magazine cartooning) and our recent trip to Martha’s Vineyard (Where we spotted Jules Feiffer in his garden and Paul Karasik in the surf.)

We find we still have enough money in our travel budget for another trip, this one to Denver, Colorado, where rumor has it one of the giants of New Yorker Magazine cartooning is visiting for a few days. We speak of the esteemed Jack Ziegler, with whom we hope to exchange important information on the state and fate of our profession, as well as the merits of the local cuisine and drink. We will return in a week or so with our report.

Until then…

According to the old saying, “Laugh and the world laughs with you.” Like a lot of old sayings, this one’s baloney.

I tried an experiment last week. I decided to laugh nonstop for 24 hours to test the veracity of the old saying.

Unfortunately, within 30 minutes, I was arrested. The police came to my door, backed up by a SWAT team. One of my neighbors had apparently reported suspicious noises coming from my apartment. I greeted the officers at the door full of good cheer.

“Hahahahahaha”, I said, “Come on in! Hahaha. Have a beer!” Not one of them cracked so much as a hint of a smile, let alone laughed along, though a couple of them did head for the refrigerator. The leader of the squad started barking orders at me. (My dog, Screwloose, gave him a funny look. I don’t know how he did it but the cop managed to sound like a cop and a bull mastiff at the same time.)

“Loose the laugh, bud.” He growled. When I didn’t, he promised I’d be laughing out of the other side of my mouth after a trip to the station-house. I tried that out, then and there. Laughing out of the other side of my mouth made absolutely no difference. I noted this in my journal before they cuffed me.

“You think this is funny?” the cop said as he led me, still chortling, to his squad-car. “It ain’t!” Screwloose bounded after the squad-car as we headed to the station. He had a big doggy smile on his face and his tongue was hanging out, which made me laugh a lot even while the cop next to me kept demanding I shut up and kept hitting me with his stick. The cop was laughing, but for the wrong reasons.

When we got to the station, they threw me in jail immediately. I was confronted by a bunch of tough, surly-looking fellow prisoners. Still trying to remain true to my purpose, I tried to amuse them with a series of guffaws, twitters, chortles, and yuks, but without much luck. They did, however, keep their distance, which was probably a good thing.

The next morning, after a long night of mirthful dreams, (I can laugh in my sleep, it turns out) I was taken from the cell. The other prisoners appeared happy to see me go, but unfortunately, their joy wasn’t expressed audibly. They merely fell asleep, some with small smiles of relief on their faces.

The judge I faced was no more amused than anyone else I had encountered. He was on the verge of sentencing me to be locked up in an asylum someplace when Screwloose crashed into the courtroom through a window. Mayhem ensued. Screwloose grabbed me by the sleeve and dragged me out through the broken window and we ran, laughing insanely together, down the street.

Things have calmed down considerably now. Screwloose and I are holed up in a movie theater outside of town. We’re watching a comedy. (Screwloose’s idea. He’s one smart puppy.) Everybody’s laughing, but not because they’ve become infected by my laughter. The movie is pretty dumb, actually, lots of pratfalls and people screaming, but they seem to like it. I must make a note in my journal.

My 24 hours is just about up. We’ll be on the lam for awhile, I guess, but I’m not worried. They’ll be looking for a guy who’s laughing all the time and I won’t be. I thought I might try weeping for awhile, but I hear “This stolid old earth has need of our mirth and has troubles enough of its own.”