Skunky Funkybuns (video)

The video, below, is of Chicago comedian Dan Ronan, who died a few weeks ago at the age of 24.

I did a little googling, and it looks like Ronan died of a drug overdose after a troubling downward spiral that his friends were unable to stop.


I found out about Ronan via a tweet from Kumail Nanjiani, who plays the hilariously racist (against white Canadian immigrants) programmer on HBO’s new show “Silicon Valley.”


In the clip below, Ronan plays the part of a 60-year-old cartoonist talking about his comic strip “Skunky Funkybuns.”  The sketch is pretty funny, and really hits on my pet peeve about comic strips (that they’re a lot like Scooby Doo and magic tricks, once you figure out the gimmick (there are no real ghosts, and the tricks aren’t real magic) they become a lot less fun).

I’ve often wondered about creative people. Whether it’s actors or poets, photographers, artists or even political activists — what makes you good at what you do, I suspect, is in large part a certain connection to the world, an empathy, a skill at observing things that others may not see.  And also perhaps actually caring (perhaps too much) about what you see around you. (Though I’m sure not all do.) And caring can hurt. Seeing things, including bad things, where most people see nothing, can be trying over a number of years.

I remember in undergrad I took a lot of poetry classes. I was a writing major, and particularly loved poetry. I was surprised to see how many great poets were either a mess, or worse, committed suicide. Sylvia Plath, one of my favorites, comes to mind. She wasn’t inspired in spite of her madness, she was inspired by it. And there’s the rub, as I see it, for people who are creative.

Plath’s poem “Daddy” is a work of art (and to this day, still somewhat inscrutable, to me at least).  It’s viciciously funny, and nasty, and brilliant. At the time, I’d never read anything like it. (And still really haven’t.) Here are the last five stanzas — the poem is about her father, who she clearly had issues with:

I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

I particularly love Plath’s use of the cadence — the boom-boom-BOOM that you can hear in her sentences. I’ve written about this before, the fact that I really believe good writing, expository writing, still has an almost poetic rhythm, a melody to it that’s not unlike poetry, whether the reader fully realizes it, hears it, or not.

I’ve always suspected that you need a good dose of madness to be truly inspired.  The trick is keeping the madness at 49%, and never crossing to 51.

Here’s Skunky Funkybuns.

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CyberDisobedience on Substack | @aravosis | Facebook | Instagram | LinkedIn. John Aravosis is the Executive Editor of AMERICAblog, which he founded in 2004. He has a joint law degree (JD) and masters in Foreign Service from Georgetown; and has worked in the US Senate, World Bank, Children's Defense Fund, the United Nations Development Programme, and as a stringer for the Economist. He is a frequent TV pundit, having appeared on the O'Reilly Factor, Hardball, World News Tonight, Nightline, AM Joy & Reliable Sources, among others. John lives in Washington, DC. .

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8 Responses to “Skunky Funkybuns (video)”

  1. Thanks for such a knowledgeable post. Film streaming musiqueFilm en streaming musique rai

  2. AnitaMann says:

    I suppose I can’t speak for anyone else, but I’ve had jobs that people would kill for and I never felt anything but the slow extinguishing of my soul.

  3. Maybe you would be content with it :) I’ve often wondered if the dumb dog isn’t happier than the smart one :)

  4. AnitaMann says:

    I’m a writer. I think your comment about keeping madness at 49% and not 51% is about the most succinct description of the creative dilemma I’ve seen. The other side of the coin is, if you let your madness to drop to 15%, or force it down to a negligible level you’re too likely to get a day job and keep it and make believe you’re content with it.

  5. Ok good, thanks :)

  6. mwdavis says:

    Plays for me ok. :-)

  7. Excellent point. And hey, someone mentioned they can’t see the video. I can see it fine. Anyone else not seeing it?

  8. mwdavis says:

    There’s another side of poetry, though. Not the tortured, agonized soul, but the soul that has achieved acquiescence to the the mixed beauty and pain that is life. I think particularly of William Stafford. a man of profound peace (a conscientious objector in WWII) who wrote with spare, controlled and subtle language. Here’s “Traveling Through the Dark:”

    Traveling through the dark I found a deer
    dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
    It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
    that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.

    By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
    and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
    she had stiffened already, almost cold.
    I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.

    My fingers touching her side brought me the reason–
    her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
    alive, still, never to be born.
    Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

    The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
    under the hood purred the steady engine.
    I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
    around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

    I thought hard for us all–my only swerving–,
    then pushed her over the edge into the river.

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