Heavenly widened roses
seem to whisper to me
notes from the
Jan 1, 2006
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
If they were assholes to you and left you
in the lurch when you needed them the most
Then by all means forget them
But you can't
Cuz they're all you think about
And you seethe with resentment and anguish
And you plumb the depths of your emo soul
Where your every thought is:
How could you do this to meeeeeeee?
You wish there was a memory deleting service
like in "Eternal Sunshine"
and you'd delete that motherfucker right
outta your mind
Am I right?
Okay, so maybe it's just me
I can handle it
Happy new year.
George Bush hates
March 6, 2006
Dear audience, let me explain. Baby please. Don't shut me out. I was... there was something I
had to do. No, there isn't another audience. I'm not seeing another fanbase behind your
back. How could you even think that? You're the only readership for me. I only draw for you,
you know that. What? These ink stains on my collar? That's nothing. White out smudges on my boxers? Okay. I was trying out
some new material for some test audiences. But they don't mean anything to me. It was just a
one time thing. Entertainment, that's all it was. Meaningless entertainment. With you I make art, baby.
You and me, we make fine art. What about you?
You been reading other cartoonists while I was away? Who? That hack? You've been reading
that impostor's work? Good lord. Did you laugh? Don't tell me you laughed. You did. Over
and over and over again... He made milk shoot out your nose... You rolled on the floor. You laughed harder than you ever
laughed at my... Stop. Don't tell me anymore.
I'm so upset I don't know what to do with myself.
Look like someone's got a
case of the Mondays
March 6, 2006
Some speculation on Tatsuya's recent disappearance:
· Offends gay mafia by wearing pink after Labor Day. Pursued cross country by an angry Elton
John, Tatsuya seeks sanctuary in the Playboy Mansion.
· Auditions for the "Asian guy" role in Lost. Shows up to the casting call dressed like Gilligan.
Gets banned from the ABC studio lot forever.
· Is stalked by Jessica Alba and Scarlett Johansson. Because women love Tatsuya. They
really really do.
· At long last meets his arch nemesis, the dreaded Anti-Tat. He looks just like Samuel L. Jackson
from Unbreakable and calls himself Mister Ass.
· His testicles finally drop. Voice changes, gets pubes, develops desires for females. Holds a press conference to announce
· Willy Wonka declares war on Sinfest Nation. A battalion of Oompa Loompas raid the Resistance compound, but the invasion
quickly reaches a standstill as neither the Oompa Loompa's fabulous musical numbers nor the Resistance fighters' hilarious one liners
seem to do much damage to their opponents.
Don't mess with
a missionary man
March 20, 2006
Back in junior high school I used to cut my own hair. People would gently hint that it looked
awful but I was too proud to even admit I did it myself. It was ridiculous. I looked like
Calvin when Hobbes cut his hair. It was that bad. There were patches sticking out like weeds,
bald spots peeking through, errant strands all over. I would try to gel it down, mousse it up,
make some parts spikey, but it
was no use. My head looked like a carpet exploded on it. Looked like a chia pet that stopped
trying. People must have thought I was in some horrific accident or my barber was blind and malicious.
I had serious hangups about this, and it
probably had something to do with the fact that I couldn't afford a haircut.
Yeah, I was just a poor boy from a poor family. Now that I'm huge and successful I
go to Supercuts all the time, two, three times a week, and sometimes, not often, but every once in a while when I'm
feeling really uppity, I even go to
Fantastic Sam's. Please don't be jealous. I worked hard for these privileges. I can hear people gasp in
amazement every time I walk into those fine establishments, and I think to myself, "Tatsuya,
you've made it, baby."
Then I saw her face,
now I'm a believer
April 23, 2006
A Day in the life of Tatsuya Ishida. So I go to the 7-11 down the street and it's
like 3 in the morning, nobody there, just the way I like it. I gather up a couple of
drumstick icecreams, the ones with the flat swirly top. I'm into these because they put
a block of chocolate at the bottom of the cone to stop the leakage. Brilliant. I support that kind
of dessert technology. Anyway, I also get some Sour Cream & Onion Lay's Potato Chips, a V-8
Berry Juice thing and I'm good to go. The Indian dude rings me up, when this
Armenian cat walks in and he asks for a condom. Suddenly I feel embarrassed. I actually go,
"tee hee." Like a damn schoolgirl. I mean, I'm there with a bunch of junk food and this guy is
purchasing a sex device. He sure as shit ain't marveling at the innovations in ice cream
technology. He's thinking about getting laid. He's thinking about getting compensated.
And me, I'm standing there holding my bag of goodies, as if I'm hoping to win the Golden Ticket
to the Chocolate Factory... My God, what happened? When did The Dream go so horribly wrong? Sigh. But
at least my drumsticks won't leak.
How many zen masters
does it take to screw
in a light bulb?
April 23, 2006
On subliminal messages. So I'm debating this girl on morality and she says, "It's all
relative," which has the subliminal effect of making me feel like a relative, like I've known her
all my life, and then she goes
on about "dogmatic views" and
I start scratching myself like a dog and then she mentions
"catalyst for social change," and now I feel like a cat and I start grooming my hair and acting
all aloof, and she says "purity and perfection are not the purpose," and it sounds like she's
purring cuz all the "prrr" words and I figure she's just speaking my language because I'm a cat
and all, and then she throws out something about the "horrors of the world" and this makes me feel
like a whore and I start preening and posing and then she starts on about
Eastern philosophy and
"renunciation" and this makes me feel like a nun on Easter Sunday and I start behaving all saintly
and pious and
by the time it's my turn to speak I have no idea who I am and in fact am having serious
identity issues, so I just agree with everything she said and run straight to the self help section
of a nearby Borders.
What is the point
of rhetorical questions?
May 10, 2006
On death. Death is a funny thing. It's like magic. We're here. Then poof. We're gone.
Imagine what it was like for the first organism to experience death. The amoeba.
He must've been like, "Oh shit! Oh shit! I'm... fading away! What the hell
is this sensation!? Aaauughhh! Oh Amoeba God, make it stop!" And then, after a fierce protoplasmic
death rattle, it's gone. Poof. Magic. Maybe his amoeba buddies gave him a proper burial,
dressed him up in a little black outfit and placed him in a tiny casket. Actually, no. They all must've
been freaked out. It was the First Death Of Anything Ever. They were probably like, "Dude, what
happened to Fred?" as they watched his lifeless single-cell body float off in the
primordial ooze, nary a trace of the jubilance and zest for life he once displayed. Maybe they
thought it was cool. Maybe they were like, "Wow. Check out Fred. He's all frozen! That's so
weird! I want to be dead too! I want to be dead like Fred!" Fred probably started the whole Goth thing.
In his wake, he inspired countless other single-cell organisms to be sullen depressives,
moping around, wearing little amoeba boots with huge buckles on them, putting on too much mascara and singing Nine Inch Nails
songs. So it's all Fred's fault. Fred the Amoeba: Inventor of Goth.
I intend to hold you
for the longest time
May 17, 2006
So I'm at the laundromat, right, and I'm waiting for my clothes to dry as I scan the room,
and look at all these dryers,
so many clothes went into them, so many people used them. Suddenly I felt
sorry for them. These poor dryers, nobody appreciates them. Not really. People just throw their
clothes in, drop a couple of quarters and ignore them. They must feel so used and unacknowledged.
So I turned to my
dryer and silently said, "Um.. Number 6, how's it going?" It roared on, round and round, doing
its thing. I just stood and watched, pressed my hand up against the glass to feel the warmth, when this
Latin babe pulls up with her cart and starts
putting her underwear and frilly lingerie in the dryer next to mine. Now I don't know if it was
the lacy undergarments or the heat from the dryer or what, but right then and there I pop
a boner. Naturally I start frantically digging in my pockets to conceal the bulge, tried thinking
about Jabba the Hut or Rush Limbaugh or diahrrea, anything to halt the sudden surge of erotic energy welling up
inside me. Luckily, an obnoxious family came in making a huge ruckus,
snapping at their fat kids, which successfully deflated my libido. Close call. It was at that moment when I
realized the purpose of ugly people: Inconvenient erection stoppers.
I swear you're
just like a pill
May 24, 2006
I'm thinking about starting a religion which is the exact same as Christianity, same book, same
story, same rituals. Heaven, hell, sin, salvation, all that good stuff.
The only difference would be that instead of the name "Jesus" I would insert the word
"Dude." And instead of God it would be "Voltron." Otherwise everything else is in tact. So you
got Dude of Nazareth and Voltron Our Father in Heaven. Has a certain ring to it, don't it? I can imagine a Sunday
sermon about Dude in the desert being tempted by Satan. What did Dude do? He resisted! Yay! Way to
go, Dude! And Genesis would read: In the beginning there was Voltron. Voltron made the earth and the
heavens and on the sixth day the Lord Our Voltron created man in his own image. When he saw that it was good, Voltron rested.
Moses, of course, would be known as "Beavis."
I think it has potential. The Church of Dude. And Voltron. We could play
team basketball against the Subgenius people and the Flying Spaghetti Monster Cult. We could form
our own league.
Winner gets dominion over all existence.
Vote for Pedro
June 8, 2006
Many of you have already heard the bad news and have passed on your condolences, for which I am
truly grateful. It's been a dark time around here, the mood often pitch black with despair.
Yes. Once again I have been snubbed by People magazine's 100 Most Beautiful
People List. I know. I'm just as incredulous as you. Every year I campaign so hard for inclusion in
this prestigious tome and every year,
nada. Nothing. Zip. I do crunches. I apply skin lotion like, almost every day. I pluck my
nose hairs, brush my teeth, exfoliate my pores. What more must I DO?? Seriously. My breath is
minty fresh. My armpits are
fragrant. I smell fabulous. Go on, smell me. I got herbal organic
cucumber mango flavor junk all over my skin. I'm a fucking tropical paradise. Toucans fly out of
my ass, I'm so tropical. Sigh. Maybe it's an inner beauty
thing. Maybe I need to let the inner light shine on through. Like being compassionate to
others and shit like that. I don't know. Maybe I just need better
hair products. Whatever, I don't even care anymore. It's just a silly magazine. Who cares? I'm so over it.
I had my "Magnum" look all ready for the
photo shoot, too. Damn. Life's so unfair.
Some seek stardom
then they forget Harlem
July 9, 2006
Finally on my own! I am so stoked. After six years of people telling me
how awful my website design was, I finally got around to doing something about it. It was pretty ghetto, I admit,
but it did have that certain amateur porn site charm to it. I kinda liked the raggedy makeshift vibe about it.
Mark my words: You'll look back on those muddled html pages with wistful fondness. Those were the days,
you'll say. You'll sit back in your rocking chair and tell the grandkids: I was there before Sinfest got all fancy and legit. I was
there at the beginning with his shitty little webpage made out of stones and dirt, back when there was no fancy
schmancy search feature. Back in the day we had to slog through his fucked up archives for HOURS to find one
strip that probably wasn't that funny anyway. And the
bastard never returned a damn e-mail, posted on his own forum, or even once acknowledged another human
being. It was great. But hey, all things must come to pass. And to all endings there is a new beginning.
So here's to new beginnings. Thank you all so much for your continued support. xoxo
If I was king for just one day
I'd give it all away
July 16, 2006
I'm working on a screenplay for a disaster movie where the
greenhouse effect kills off
the entire human race except hard core drug addicts.
Turns out, their chronic narcotics consumption has inoculated them against
the peculiarities of the
new toxic enviroment, thus making them the sole survivors of the planetary holocaust.
Junkies Inherit The Earth, I'll call it. Starring Keith Richards
and Kate Moss. Crackheads, tweakers, coke fiends, speed freaks, pill poppers, stoners,
freebasers, dope fiends, acid freaks, tooters, speedballers, shroomers, bingers,
and geekers all emerge from hiding to
breathe in delicious swaths of poisonous air, as they make their way into suburbs and business
districts, stepping over corpses of "healthy" people along the way. After the looting and mass rioting
dies down, Keith Richards defeats Kate Moss in a multi-substance ingest-athon, and
proclaims himself King of the Drug People. He forms a new
government with a two party system of "Uppers" and "Downers," drafts a Constitution guaranteeing
"life, liberty, and bloody DRUGS, mate!" Eventually some people develop
dangerous habits like moderation and exercise, for which they are demonized, incarcerated
and shamed into rehabilitation.
Such a beautiful way
to break my heart
July 23, 2006
So I'm eating my pizza right, and I come down to the crust edge and there's no fucking cheese.
What a ripoff! So I call the Pizza Hut Corporation and they took care of it. Now their pizza
comes with cheese injected right into the crust so I'll never have to suffer the indignity of eating the last
bit of crust without any cheesy goodness. Another time, I'm eating my tortilla chips, dipping
them in salsa and having a right good time. Then in my haste to load up my mouth with
crunchy tortilla strip laden with zesty picante sauce, I spill salsa on my
brand new shirt. Unacceptable.
So I call the Tostitos Corporation and they took care of it. Now they make
tortilla chips that are shaped like cups to prevent such accidents. Damn skippy. Speaking of
Skippy, I was making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and I got so annoyed having to open
two separate jars. I'm a busy man. I got places to go. People to meet. Shit to DO. I can't be bothered
opening one jar for jelly and another for peanut butter. So I called the Skippy people and
they took care of it. Now they have jelly and peanut butter in one jar. God bless America. Dance, my little
How do you move in a world of fog
that's always changing things?
July 30, 2006
Sometimes I think I'm just a spaceship operated by a tiny team of cellular adventurers. I imagine a
Kirk hunkered deep down inside me, commanding his crew of neurons and hormones to boldly go
where no human spaceship has gone before. To the bathroom! I hear him announce. And it's a
huge production, you know, going to the bathroom. Dilithium fuel crystals, warp factor 10, "I
need more power, Scotty!"--all that jazz. After all, things can go wrong. Terribly wrong.
The spout might malfunction and spray urine all over the place. You never know. It's fraught with
peril. Every moment, every tiny motion, every move I make is an adventure.
Whenever I trip or bump into something, the crew must get jostled about,
flailing this way and that,
holding on to some protoplasmic console for dear life. Oh noooooooo! AHHHHHHHHHh! Until the craft
stabilizes and resumes a steady course.
Sometimes I can even hear the little Kirk talking. "Stardate: 2006-07-31:
Crew morale low. Haven't tapped any alien ass in ages. Must... Get... Extra.... Terrestrial...
Action! Mr. Sulu, chart a course to Chicktron in the outer rim of the Pussy Galaxy! Engage!"
Come on feel the noise,
Girls rock your boys
August 13, 2006
You know how when you're having a bad day, and the very last straw, the thing that sends you
over the edge is the littlest, most insignificant thing? Like
your shoelaces getting untied or the remote running out of batteries or some stupid thing? As far as you're
concerned it's the end of the world. You slump your shoulders in utter defeat and
weep uncontrollably at how the universe hates you. You curse God, the sun, the stars, all that
is holy and sacred, you condemn all civilization, the very existence of... existence, the
atoms and molecules that have conspired to bring you to this place of ruin.
You're the black sheep of the cosmos. A mistake of creation. Everyone else in the world
singing in perfect harmony. Except YOU. An abortion of nature. Shoelaces untied. No
power in the remote. Pathetic. Then in a flash you remember that one time long ago, the asshole who
totally humiliated you in front of everyone. How they laughed and laughed. And it comes back to you. Your mission. Your purpose. To put that
motherfucker in his place. Rejuvenated, you tie your damn shoelaces, get some fresh double A Duracels, and you plot your revenge.... One day... Oh yes... One sweet day...
The teacher knew
I had the funk
August 28, 2006
As many of you have already guessed, I was away on my annual trip to Bohemian Grove, where
the rich and powerful gather to plan the next course in world
domination. I smoked a bowl with Bono and Arnie before the Cremation of Care, the ritual sacrifice to
the Dark Lord Molech. Good times.
Sinfest, of course, is a major player in the New World Order, disseminating encrypted messages, via webcomic, to
the Secret Order of the Brotherhood of The Clandestine Society
of The Black Skull of Illuminated Knowledge of Darkness.
The layperson only gets the surface jokes, but there's a
complex Da Vinci Code type thing going on, buried in the panels, embedded in the pixels, accessible
only to initiates. If the punchlines in Sinfest are sometimes lame, that's only because you don't know
the code. I assure you it's hilarious. It's so funny you don't even know.
Sometimes the "cover" punchlines are deliberately lame to camouflage the fabulous inside jokes.
It's all very technical.
Alas, I've said too much already.
Oh, and here's a coded message for all my fellow pledges of the Dark Brotherhood:
The Ancient Astronaut has landed.
Operation Snoopy Tits is a GO!
Those in the know know what I'm talking about. Shouts to all my oppressor buddies.
Go, World Domination!
I can't really explain it
I'm so into you
October 18, 2006
Back when I was a kid I could never figure out why my stomach hurt, not realizing
that it was the jalapeno cheese nachos I had the day before. My attention span just
wasn't developed enough to put those two things together. The peppers didn't even
figure into my thinking--I mean, geez, it was yesterday, that's like
forever ago, and as far as I knew the stomach ache was a brand new, completely separate
development, a mysterious phenomenon that sprang spontaneously into being.
It had the character of divine intervention, the pain taking on epic proportions,
without beginning or end, and accordingly I'd get all
moral about it. I thought I was being punished by some higher power for being bad.
I'd be on the toilet doubled over in agony, apologizing to God for some unidentified
transgression. I'd be there blubbering to myself, "Sorry, I won't do it again. Whatever
it was I'm so sorry..." Now, decades later, having blossomed into a
mature and magnificent powerhouse of rationality,
when I get stomach aches, I'm like Sherlock Holmes, man. I break the shit down. What did I eat?
Was it those falafels? Was the meat bad? Am I allergic to meat?
Did the waiter spit in my food? Was he a terrorist unleashing a biological attack on my person? I'm like those forensic
fuckers on CSI. Very methodical. Very analytical.
Shit, now when I have religious experiences I immediately retrace
my steps, try to track down what series of events led me to this euphoric spiritual
illumination. I investigate, gather information, and hypothesize, in a cool and detached manner.
It was probably those blueberry waffles. They were heavenly.
contents © copyright 2006 by Tatsuya Ishida/Museworks. No
duplication, reproduction, or reprinting of Sinfest strips and/or
related characters allowed without written permission from the