Ted Forth: His Own Words (Part the One), Monday, February 21st, 2011

Despite the soul-crushing loneliness, the heart-wrenching isolation, the head-pounding untreated medical condition; despite the hollow echo of one’s own voice in lieu of meaningful dialogue, the feverish handwritten  love notes to old Hanna-Barbera characters in lieu of true companionship, the relentless screaming in lieu of being able to afford a cell phone; despite the lack of hope in finding a friend, the want for any semblance of human contact or the complete dearth of any music whatsoever as you slow dance naked to your own diminishing pulse in the corner of the storage unit that would cost you upwards of $15 a month to live in if it were indeed your storage unit, cartooning is not the solitary profession I assumed it be would be when I was young and so pathologically shy that I thought it best to hide in the woods than get that transplant I still kinda desperately need.

In fact, cartooning involves a lot of communication with one’s professional, financial and visually pleasing betters, often utilizing such phrases as “Where’s that strip?” “We can’t publish that strip” or “If it helps you get out of that storage unit, we can pay you in pants.” But it’s that middle phrase I wish to focus on today. You see, over the course of the 13 years I’ve written Sally Forth–first  with a cowriter I never actually met, then alone and now with a rabbit only I can see–some comic strip panels failed to reach your newspaper due to prudent editing on the part of my editors (see “professional, financial and visually pleasing betters” above). And for reasons that I have yet to fully comprehend, all those edited panels prominently feature the title character’s husband, Ted Forth.

So this week, for the first time, I’m going to share those expurgated panels with you, the readers who gave up on comic strips long ago and come to sites such as this hoping to read new webcomics that I haven’t been able to post for the past few days because my scanner isn’t working and I hate it so much and life is just one goddamn relentless kick in the nads occasionally interrupted for Bowflex ads.

I hope you enjoy the following and if you have any questions please ask your local god. They usually have the answers or at least can open a dialogue that doesn’t engage in false self-deprecation or use of the word “nads.” Thank you.