Each year we greet December
Decked out in green and red.
We count the days ’til Christmas,
And dream of what’s ahead.

We picture happy moments —
The sights, the sounds, the smells —
But as the month progresses,
Our tension level swells.

Instead of just relaxing
And taking things in stride,
We structure every minute,
All knotted up inside.

We haul out wreaths and garlands
And fight with tangled lights.
We decorate our rooftops,
Despite our fear of heights.

We wander seven counties
To find the perfect tree —
A process that requires
A forestry degree.

We send out inkjet letters
To people far and near,
Recounting every detail
About our boring year.

We gobble mounds of candies,
Cakes, cookies, tarts and pies,
Which somehow seek out pathways
Directly to our thighs.

We hear our favorite carols
Five hundred thousand times.
(It almost makes a person
Appreciative of mimes.)

We sit around at parties
We’d rather not attend,
Conversing with the husband
Of our neighbor’s cousin’s friend.

We start exchanging presents
With folks we’ve barely met.
(“Gee, thanks, I’ve always wanted
A mini-ratchet set!”)

As Christmas Day approaches,
Sheer panic fills the air.
The malls are packed with shoppers,
All tearing out their hair.

But there’s another option —
Not gimmicks, or a trick.
Let’s take our inspiration
From jolly old St. Nick:

It’s giving, not receiving,
That matters most, we’re told.
The gifts of love and friendship
Cannot be bought or sold.

So give yourself a present —
Wrap up your Christmas stress,
And mail it off to Nowhere,
With no return address.


I can’t be exactly sure when I did this drawing and the essay that accompanied it. But, based on my creative spelling (and the way I referred to “Nov. 22” without specifying a year), I’d guess that I produced it within a few months of the Kennedy assassination in 1963. So, I would have been — nine, maybe? Something like that.

I’m not sure where I got my “facts.” Clearly, I can’t blame the Internet for my unique historical perspective. (Oh, yeah, that’s right — I was nine. Maybe we should think of our current Web-heavy information age as “The Nine-ification of America.”)

In case you can’t read my handwriting, here’s what I wrote:

John Fitzgerald Kennedy 1917-1963

President Kennedy was assasinated Nov. 22 while riding through Dallas, Texas. Mrs. Connally had just said to Mr. Kennedy, “You can’t say Dallas isn’t nice to you,” when the 3 fatal shots rang out. The first one hit the President in the head, the next went into Gov. Connaly’s arm, hand and leg and the next one went into the Presidents neck. Presedent Kennedy slumped into his wifes arms while she shouted “oh no”. Mrs. Kennedy crawled on the trunk of the motorcade, shouting for a secret service man. At this, the car sped off toward the hospital with the wounded president. He was pronounced dead at 1 p.m. that afternoon. Then, Sunday Lee Harvey Oswald, acused assasin of the president was shot in the lower abdomen as he was being taken from the jail. He was shot by Jack Rubenstein, a night club owner.

Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.



Over the years, I’ve done a number of drawings and paintings of myself — and I’ve been fortunate enough to be the subject of drawings by a few other people. Looking back at this whole collection of portraits, it’s a bit difficult to see how they connect; If I didn’t already know what I look like, I’m not so sure that they’d add up to anything really cohesive. But maybe that’s the secret of caricatures: When they work, they exist outside the constraints of objective reality — while still managing to be truthful.

This first one, a self-portrait, was published in my college yearbook as part of a collection that included the chancellor, the student senate president, a basketball player, a cheerleader and the ever-popular professor who taught Human Sexual Biology:

This next one, also a self-portrait from my college days, is actually a five-foot-wide painting (which currently stares out into the neighborhood from the back wall of my garage):

Back in the Stone Age, when newspaper comic strips seemed like a big deal, I pitched a handful of concepts — one of which featured this pseudo-lookalike:

I’ve managed to save a few things by my friend and former co-worker David O’Keefe:

This O’Keefe sketch marked my departure from The Tampa Tribune in the mid-’90s:

As did this full-blown (and I do mean “full-blown”) caricature:

And here’s one more from the talented Mr. O’Keefe:

For a Christmas letter one year, I drew myself as Mr. Potato Head for a “Toy Story”-themed family portrait:

More recently, I included this self-portrait in one of my “Blogjam” comics:

And another recent cartoon:

But my favorite portraits may be a pair that were drawn by my youngest son, Jeremy; This one is from his Pre-Teen Period:

This last one from Jeremy (as a 15-year-old artiste) provides a glimpse of how “Old Greg” might look in 15 years:


A while back, my brother Eric and I pulled together a pitch for an animated weekly series – to be based
on true-life anecdotes and totally-made-up crap involving noted writer, raconteur and “Daily Show”
correspondent John Hodgman.

It didn’t pan out. But it was fun.

Each week (as we envisioned it), Hodgman’s character would embark on a fresh new intellectual journey
into the unknown.

Hodgman would be joined on his various quests by an impressive array of his very own friends, colleagues and musical collaborators – including the two Johns from They Might Be Giants:

In the plum role of Hodgman’s arch-rival, B-movie icon Bruce Campbell:

Hodgman’s faithful sidekick and personal troubadour, of course, would be none other than Jonathan Coulton:

Would there be big-name guest stars, you ask? Why, yes. To quote from our pictch, “… in a fond tribute to
(and blatant ripoff of) Mr. Peabody and Sherman, Hodgman might be joined by author and assassination buff
Sarah Vowell, with whom he would time-travel to the Garfield administration only to discover that, if they do not act to ensure that President Garfield is indeed felled by the bullets of a disappointed office seeker, the fabric of time will be ruptured and the very future of civilization endangered. There will also be hoboes.”

And, serving as Hodgman’s spiritual advisor in times of crisis – his “Obi-Wan Kenobi” – The Ghost of
George Plimpton:


Before co-founding The Onion, Wisconsin-based cartoonist Scott Dikkers created the anti-comic “Jim’s Journal,” which followed the excrutiatingly uneventful exploits of a human cipher named Jim. (Jim’s “exploits” involved a long string of bleak, emotionless inactivities, with a howling absence of conventional punchlines and no lessons to be learned.)

Many of Dikker’s comics were published in book form, under titles such as “I Went to College (and it was okay),”
“I Got a Job (and it wasn’t that bad)” and “I Made Some Brownies (and they were pretty good).”

During my college years (also in Wisconsin), I’d produced my own anti-comic, “The Blandies” – so, naturally, I was a big fan of Dikkers’ work. I vividly remember showing one of his compilations to my mother, who laughed until she cried, collapsing onto the couch in baffled delight, barely able to speak.

In Dikkers’ Twitter account, he hints that Jim may be making a comeback of some sort. Seeing this, I was inspired to create my own anti-animation of a classic moment from “Jim’s Journal”:

Check these links for more from Scott Dikkers:

Dikkers Cartoon Company

On Twitter:



I’m not sure what this says about me, but …

Every time I see one of these road signs, I picture Charles Manson.

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