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Pouring My Art Out by Arthur H. Browne is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.Based on a work at https://pouringmyartout.wordpress.com/.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.
Pouring My Art Out 
That’s one way to do it… Scooby is pretty resourceful though, I’m thinking he could handle the “water pipe” on his own.
Once again, I must accuse you of overthinking…
Once again, I must act confused and say, “I have no idea what you are talking about?”
Now you got the idea.
I do?
Oh, okay, good. I’m glad we got that settled.
I am just here to tell you when you get ideas.
I thought you were here to provide hilarity?
Yeah… well… see how hard my job is?
You either make it look easy, or I’m easily amused…
Both…
Big surprise there…
Oh… they are also gay… not that there is anything wrong with that…
Um, I don’t think “gay” is the right word…
Well it is and it isn’t.
We must insist that this be your next photo. We suppose that you may call it: The Origin of Scrappy-Doo. This would please us.
I am not doing a picture of bestiality… not even the stoned cartoon kind…
Okay so this is where you draw the line? We are most disappointed. You could do it tastefully. It could even be romantic. Kind of sweet really.
I might do one with him and Under Dog…
Insufficient. Scooby and Snaggy or no go. I suggest Brokeback Mountain style. Cozy tent. Snow outside. Cowboy hats strewn all over sleeping bags stained with substances best not identified. Some light fondling. Some heavy petting. A butch, a bitch, a couple of joints later and suddenly you’re in a movie. Epic. That’s the Oscar baby.
That boat has sailed, I’m afraid.
You should be afraid. Very very afraid.
I always am.
When I was in junior high school, I had a black ceramic bong in the shape of a human skull. The toke tube cam out of the top and the business end was by his mouth. For real. Late one evening, we were walking back from the woods and my friend thought he heard “the cops” coming and threw it as far as he could into the dark. A few moments later we herd a smashing-into-little-pieces sound. Weed. It’ll make you paranoid.
I wasn’t going to admit this but what the fuck’s the difference. It’s not like I have an image to protect.
I actually had a name for my bong. “Skully.”
Nice.
Nice name; this was so you could enact kissing scenes from the X-files?
The question has been raised.
Is that what you call it?
Maybe.
Among other things.
I’ll give you that one. 🙂
Yay.