Like every other entry on Livejournal today, I am bummed that Steve Irwin died.

Whenever people ask about the inspiration for Digger, I tell them the same story–I was sitting around going “What to draw, what to draw…” and at that moment, a wombat took a chunk out of Steve Irwin’s leg on TV, and the rest, as they say, is history. I would probably have made a black and white comic anyway, and it would probably have been strange, but if not for Steve Irwin’s wombat, it could have been about anything on Animal Planet that day. I dunno if “Flapper–the story of a heron” or “Gronker–the tale of one hippopotamus’s quest to find meaning in a mad world” would have worked half so well.

It’s hard to imagine that someone like Irwin would be happy in a conventional heaven, so I will assume that somewhere, there is a vast mudpit in the sky full of grumpy crocodiles that need their toenails trimmed.

I realize he was a polarizing figure, but I ask that commenters refrain from speaking ill of the dead. I kept my mouth shut when Reagan died, and if I can do that, y’all can bite your tongue about a silly guy in khaki shorts.

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