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The mordant genius, John Callahan, is dead at 59. NYT obit here. Video of him here. The quality I loved about him was not just his extraordinary humor, but his indifference to his p.c. critics:

Callahan's quadriplegia was occasionally raised in defense of his more beyond-the-pale strips, particularly his frequent strips making a gag out of being in a wheelchair or otherwise disabled. But to make that argument -- to point and say, "Well, he's ALLOWED to make fun of that" -- misses the point of Callahan. He didn't care what he was allowed to say. Heck, I thought the guy was amazing, but there's a good third of his strips that I can't even read without shriveling in embarrassment or feeling my face flatten into a grimace of disapproval. And that taboo shattering was the point of Callahan. He was capable of funny yet innocuous gags when the spirit so moved him. But he was an artist who could make even his most fervent fans recoil in horror, and what's more, he wasn't afraid to do it.

After the jump, he sings "Lost In The City":

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