Howdie Doodie

I am the office cowboy.

Shirt & tie. Suit jacket, a half filled ball point poised at a threatening angle in my breast pocket. A whittled down 5 o'clock shadow hints in the creases of my face, a visage well accustomed to the flash of the photocopiers impotent open topped scan of a sweaty TPS report duplicated 3 days too late. The heels of my boots constantly pock-mark the cheap patterned carpet as I thud across the office savannah surveying all that is mine.

"That excel spreadsheet is mine!" I holler. "I should really save that at some point" I then think as it does have some pertinent data that I could get in trouble for losing. Sharpest saver in the west (side of the building) they call me.

A tip of the Stetson to the lil' lady in cubicle 3, a quick 'CTRL-S' on the keyboard and the task is done. No sweat. J'us another day in the badlands.

My CV proudly proclaims "Champion Paper Rustler 2005-2006". It's printed on cow hide. Well paper really, but I had a friend photoshop it so it totally looks like real leather.

At lunch you'll find my hide-out in the shadow of the murky yellow dusk which constantly envelops the cafeteria. I'll be hunkered down beside a camp fire made out of old bic biros and disused shredded paper.

Yessiree, I'm a modern, environmental, forward thinking kinda cowboy. Except when it comes to women.


I'm working on a new drawing tonight, a follow up of sorts to an older picture, with monsters and cinemas and explosions and beautiful women in it, my usual thing. I do have a new idea I wanna try out but I might save it up for a friends project that's coming up so get excited if you're the type of lovely weirdo who does that.