I can’t draw cute. I’m physically and psychologically incapable of it. My hand cramps up and goes into seizures. My heart starts racing, my breathing becomes labored and I turn the color of week old snow. I almost died once trying to draw a smiley face.
But my partner T Lewis can draw cute in his sleep. I think he actually does draw in his sleep since he illustrates the strip between 1 and 5 AM the day before deadline (“Same day he gets the script from me,” he said self-deprecatingly). This is because T is, by nature, cute. He says things like groovy and gee-whiz and gosh-golly. And he hums. He hums happy songs like, “76 Trombones,” and “Sugar, Sugar.”
I do not hum. I say things like, ”What do you mean I can’t get a #@$%!! beer here.” I brood. I fume. I spend an embarrassing large part of the day having imaginary arguments with people I’m upset with. My coronary arteries are probably blocked with the bile of a thousand imagined insults. T’s arteries are as spick and span as a McDonald’s restroom. T once said he’d hooked his wagon to a dark star. That’s me. Look toward the southern sky in the constellation Dickus Major.
Sugar… Honey, honey… You are my Candy Girlllllll. And I can’t stop lovin’ youuuuuu….
Crap! Now he’s got me humming it! Curse his cherubic cheerfulness!