I drew this old chestnut in the early 90s - I suspect a time when most of you donks and donk-wranglers were still swimming in your papa’s nutsacks. Before AI, before the internet, before Photoshop, erotic doodlers like me used Scotch tape and glue to cobble together an image.

My Big Boy Daycare is so understaffed that sometimes my hairy babies have to talc themselves. I guess I’m a victim of my own success, but still, I feel guilty not giving them individual pampering. I do, however, make sure to give each one a kiss and cuddle before nap time.

Don’t be deceived by the size of those diminutive clowns - they’re some mean hombres. Before this freshly tailed quarterback realizes what’s happening, one of those little bastards will hop on his back and ride the terrified animal around till he collapses in exhaustion, ready to be gelded.

Another life drawing model whom I accessorized with a fine set of donk ears and a sassy tail. I don’t know if he appreciated my artistic license, but he didn’t seem to mind.

I once had a cute donkeyboi come over to my apartment for a drawing session. I believe I paid him with baby carrots and Skittles. I still remember the feeling of his tongue between my fingers as he ate from my hand. Unfortunately, the neighbors complained that the building had begun to smell of donk

It’s been almost 10 years, but I recall Carlos being a hot donk who didn’t mind me giving him ears and a tail. I quit going to drink-and-draw events because I ended up drinking as much as I was drawing.

It hasn’t been 24 hours, and I’m already exhausted from looking after my 200-lb bouncing baby poop factory. Who wants to take this big boy off my hands? I’m not up to being his wet nurse.

And lastly, here is a new image to ring in the New Year. Remember guys, whether you’re a dogboy, a donk, or a big ol’ baby, everybody poops.

He’s as clean as a whistle.

They grow up so fast.

Special delivery. Do I have to sign for that?

This widdle guy just fudged his Huggies.

Who wants this big boy to suckle their titties?

Now this is what I call a Manchild.

This big fella sure does love his Pooh.

Even big boys still like to get pampered.

Have anyone else noticed that Dude Wipes and baby wipes are essentially the same thing?

While enduring some dude I barely knew at a Xmas party, go on about all the marathons he ran this year, I thought of this old sketch I made of the Pleasure Isl. annual running of the donks. Did he notice me faintly smiling at the notion of him being chased by some of the locals?

It’s always nice to spot a familiar face like @mrkristofer.bsky.social when I visit Pleasure Island. Here he is welcoming party boys with complimentary cigars. Although between you and me, I’m not sure whether he is management or livestock.

Business is a-boomin’ for veterinarians south of the border who run back alley clinics that specialize in tail removal and ear docking for gringos who’ve had a change of heart about their Pleasure Island makeover. Some even offer surgeries to remove their indiscreet equine penises.

Brad’s fiancée, Tiffany, did not approve of the Pleasure Island makeover he got on his bachelor party weekend getaway. As soon as she saw him get off the plane with his sassy donk ears and baggy, bulging sweatpants, she called off the wedding and abandoned him at Animal Control.

“You’ve got tail” - now there’s the title of a romantic comedy I’d go see. Well, maybe it’s not everyone’s idea of romantic, but it is mine. I heard that at its premiere at Cannes, the leading “man” lifted his tail and took a big ol’ donkey dump on the red carpet.

This year I hope Santa brings my precious Scoot a flea collar. He always gets infested when he’s had one of his playdates with Flapjack.

Scoot loves Xmas with his whole doggy heart. He hopes Santa knows what a good boy he’s been this whole year.

I know some of you would like to have Santa drop one of his yule logs down your chimney.

Santa’s Elves are crack reindeer wranglers who know how to push the animals to their limits.

Even though they have miles on them, smart shoppers know that used reindeer are a great bargain.

I do love dressing my doggies up like reindeer.

It just wouldn’t be xmas without the caroling of dogslaves.

“One of us! One of us!” chant the donks. It’s all fun and games until the Coachman rolls up and all that equine brotherhood nonsense goes “poof” in an instant. Watching the freshly transformed desperately attempting to scramble away still brings a smile to this weary old face.

Folks ask me how I’m able to concentrate on my Pleasure Island sketching with all the donkey nonsense going on around me. I find that sipping on a Jackass Julep helps me block out the background noise of donks calling out for their mommas, and runners getting hogtied by wranglers.

It’s hard not to notice that the Pleasure Island maintenance workers and carnies all pack ginormous donkey cocks inside their baggy overalls. Personally, I think that making those over-endowed dudes wear clothing is a form of animal cruelty. It’s just so gosh-darned unnatural.

I find it curious that the preferred brand of stogie among Pleasure Island donks is Blammo Reliable Exploding Cigars. I mean, the name says it all, right? Besides, I think they smell like satan’s asshole. I’ll stick with my mood-elevating gummies and edibles, thank you.

On this year’s Pleasure Island getaway, I noticed a number of tech bros added to the usual mix of frat boys and bachelor party-goers. Rumor has it that one of the island’s old salt mines is being turned into a data center powered by donk shit, which PI has in vast amounts.

All the digital AI slop in the world has given me a hankerin’ to work in physical media again. So, on my most recent Pleasure Island getaway, I packed along a sketchbook. Although I hadn’t forgotten how to use a pencil, I sometimes tried to pinch-and-zoom to enlarge the paper.

This old chestnut from the early 2000s is a memory of two brothers, Mike and Mark, I once worked with. They’re probably out there somewhere today, grey-haired, with college-age sons of their own. I prefer to think of them living “pants-free” and smoking stogies on Pleasure Island.

Although I’ve seen it a hundred times, I still love the Pleasure Island Players production of Pinocchio.  I know some of you poo-poo immersive theater, but how can you not love it when ol’ Pinoke breaks the fourth wall to cry out, “This is no dream, this is really happening!”

It suddenly dawned on Chandler that he was also one of the donks for sale that the sign he was holding was advertising. Before he could even think about fleeing, he and his two donkey brothers were sold to the owner of a sugar cane plantation on a sweltering Caribbean island.

On Pleasure Island, the donks are as proud of their big ol’ donkey ears as they are of their fabulous tails and big, stinky donkey cocks. I take note of the less-endowed ones because those are the ones that sometimes retain the ability to speak and might cause us trouble later.

I chuckle at the fact that whenever a donk is terrified that he’s about to be shipped off to the Great Circus in the Sky, he often cries out for his ‘mama’. It seems that even in the most cocksure quarterback who has banged a hundred chicks, there’s a frightened little donkeyboi.

Logan had never left the States until that one wild vacation to Pleasure Island. How a gringo ended up being a cruel luchador’s pony slave south of the border is a mystery. Perhaps he escaped, perhaps he was sold. Sadly, he can’t tell his story because he’s just a dumb animal now.

Not all donks are servile beasts of burden. Some two-leggers have an in-your-face attitude about their body modifications. In fact, they are proud of their mighty ears and sassy tails. They don’t give a f*ck what the folks back home think. These dudes are living their best lives.

There are pharmacies all over Pleasure Island where guests can stock up on medications they’d need a prescription for back home. The raucous lads are like kids in a candy store, grabbing mysterious mood and body enhancers, and they just love the island’s “pay later” policy.

There’s nowhere for the freshly donked to escape to if they decide that a life in the Pleasure Island salt mines isn’t for them. After a night or two trying to eat thistles and hearing the local wolves get closer and closer, they’re ready to surrender to animal control.

I sometimes like to spend a night or two in Puerto Vallarta on my Pleasure Island getaway.

All good things must end, as they say. It’s time to fly back home to the North Pole to break in a new batch of Santa’s reindeer. So I say farewell to my freshly donked friends here, and hope they’re tough enough for their new lives in the salt mines of Pleasure Island.

A blast of ass gas is the traditional greeting guests receive when they disembark the ferry to Pleasure Island. It’s sort of like receiving a lei in Hawaii, but much more fragrant. And like aloha, it means “hello” and “goodbye“.

A few of Pleasure Island’s “guests” end up being park “employees” instead of being sent to the salt mines. They work the concessions and pick up all the endless piles of donk shit. The biggest ones, football player types, even help wrangle their freshly transformed brethren.

Whenever I visit Pleasure Island I always make sure I leave with a big jar full of donkey sauce—it makes an excellent face moisturizer, which is how I maintain my youthful good looks. Some of the vendors even let you milk it fresh from the animal.

I always make sure to take in a Donkey Show whenever I visit Pleasure Island. Last year I saw a drunk finance bro win the the title of Mr. Bouncy Balls. Gosh, he was proud of his swollen orbs, each the size of a cantaloupe. I wonder if he was allowed to keep them.