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"Calvin and Hobbes" Creator Bill Watterson Looks Back With No Regrets
With fifteen years separating us from the last appearance of "Calvin and Hobbes" on the comic pages, reclusive artist Bill Watterson gave a rare interview reminiscing about his legacy. "The only part I understand is what went into the creation of the strip. What readers take away from it is up to them. Once the strip is published, readers bring their own experiences to it, and the work takes on a life of its own. Everyone responds differently to different parts. I just tried to write honestly, and I tried to make this little world fun to look at, so people would take the time to read it. That was the full extent of my concern. You mix a bunch of ingredients, and once in a great while, chemistry happens. I can't explain why the strip caught on the way it did, and I don't think I could ever duplicate it. A lot of things have to go right all at once."
Those are bootlegs. The licensed ones have him pissing on Chevy.
This one makes me rage. I'm going to look into making a sticker of Calvin pissing on a cross or the word "religion".
This one makes me rage. I'm going to look into making a sticker of Calvin pissing on a cross or the word "religion".
Calvin pissing on a Chevy or Ford is ok, but religion makes you 'rage'?
Maybe you could use a bit of religion...
There's no place like
My dad passed away during my infancy. Killed in a drug deal gone bad. I have no recollection of him, but my mother always called him a "loser" and she constantly told me that I would grow up to be a loser like he was.
My mother was very cold. She called me a "horndog" and ignored me for days everytime I asked for a hug. She always told me that I was too feminine to get the girls to dance with me and that I would eventually be paying dominatrices to step on my balls with their stiletto heels. She started telling me this when I was 8.
I still live with my mom, by the way, in her basement. She would have thrown me out long ago except that she needs somebody to abuse. Everytime she looks at me, she sees that loser of a man who was my father. Whenever I ask her a question, she mimics exactly what I say in a mousey, high-pitched voice and tells me, "Go fucking Google it, you idiot. Sheesh! Am I going to have to wipe your ass until I'm sixty?" Then she chops up her Xanax and Percocet into a fine powder and dissolves it in a pilsner glass full of Carlo Rossi sangria, chugs the whole thing, and passes out in front of Shawn Hannity. Every night. Sometimes a large black man comes over and they both go into her room. Man, it must be nice to be respected...to be manly like that black man is.
But it's okay, because I'm going to get a job and go to school when the economy picks up. And I'm gonna get me a girlfriend, too. I'm gonna be so manly that I will channel the energy of the world's most powerful negro, Lexington Steele. Fuck YEAH!