Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Channel Suffering

Oh, hey! Look what's on TV!

It's Joss Whedon's 2012 superhero mega-hit! What a delightful surprise! Such a fun movie! Clever writing, appealing performances, great action, terrific effects! The Hulk, Iron-Man, Thor, Captain America ... the whole gang!

Better pop the popcorn and crank up the surround sound! This is gonna be gre--

You're a mean son of a bitch, TV.

A mean, mean son of a bitch.

Till next we meet ...

Sunday, November 11, 2012

It's Like They Always Say ...

When all you have is a hammer ...

... every problem seems like a Yolato bell.

Also, what the hell is Yolato?

Till next we meet ...

Friday, October 19, 2012

The Squawking Dead

"Well, hello there, Daryl Dixon. How are you doing this fine day? By the way, if you give a hoot, don't p--"



And that was right about the time the kids at Hogwarts stopped getting their mail.




"Say, Daryl. Did I get any letters from Dumbledore tod--?"



Till next we meet ...

You Ever Get That Not-So-Fresh Feeling?

I sometimes get the occasional dirty look when I use public rest rooms in NYC and then don't wash my hands.

But I have my reasons.

Chief among them?

There is an extremely high probability that my tender nethers are cleaner than anything in that room.

Your Honor, I offer these recycled tweets as proof:

And now you have that image burned into your brain meat, too!

You're welcome.

Till next we meet ...

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Silent But Peril-y! (Stick Figures In Peril!)

Another sign that Peril is ever-present in the Stick Figure Universe ...

Despite the obvious need, Beano does not exist in the Second Dimension.

Presumably the box contains a Jumping-Jack-Flash-In-The-Box. Because it's a ... you know ... a gas gas gas.

Because farting!

(Tee-hee-hee! I'm seven years old!)

Till next we meet ...

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Awww! But Eskimos Offer the BEST Corruption!

At work we recently had to complete an online course to help us learn how to not be corrupt.

But I found this page of the quiz to include one weirdly specific example. See if you can spot it:

This is a problem for me, since, as a pre-condition of my employment, I ONLY accept payment in the form of MXZ Ski-Doos with Sport packages and Rotax 550F engines.

Till next we meet ...

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Thanksgiving Dinner is Going To Be Perilously Awkward (Stick Figures In Peril!)

Mom? Dad? Nanna? Weird Uncle Larry?

I ... I don't know the right words ... so I'm just gonna say it ...

This Chest of Drawers and I are in love! We're getting married! And there's not a thing you can do or say that will change that!

God! That felt so great to say that out loud! It's like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders! What's that you say, Chester? Exactly! Like a huge weight has been removed from your top drawer! JUST like that! Our minds! You see! It's like they're linked! This is why we're soulmates!

No, Dad, he's not Lutheran. He's Chippendale.

No, Nanna, not like the dancers.


What do you mean, "old?" He's not "old," mother! He's an antique! There's a difference!

No, he most certainly did NOT rob the cradle! I don't care what you heard at the salon! Those charges were dismissed!

Because that cradle is a lying skank is why!

(An icy silence settles over the dining room. Uncle Larry continues chewing noisily, as though nothing is happening. Mother and daughter eye one another warily.)

Chester, could you pass me one of my sweaters. It's getting a little chilly in here.

Till next we meet ...

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Got Squash?


A group of AD MEN hunch over a conference table. Smoke hangs thick in the air. Brows are furrowed.

The AD MEN stare at the blank note pads in front of them. Someone taps a fountain pen, deep in thought.

Dammit! Think, people, think! The client needs a mascot for their squash farm! Something memorable! A character people can identify with! Here's the thing, though ... the client insists that this mascot be a fleshy, dissolute, New York City cab driver from the 1950s. The kind of guy who, and I'm quoting here, "looks like he's got multiple sex crimes convictions and may be sweating out a major heroin bender as we speak."

Wait. How would that help sell squash exactly?

Remember boys, satisfying the client is job number one.

Hang on a--

I got it! We oughta call my Uncle Louie!

AD MAN 3 takes a photo out of his wallet and slaps it down in front of AD MAN 1.

I don't know if--

What are his qualifications?

He has to put up fliers every time he moves to a new neighborhood!



Also, he's kind of slow because of all of the massive and repeated head trauma!



And then there was that thing at the petting zoo ...



Put Uncle Louie's picture on a sticker and slap one on every squash in the store! Gentlemen ...? Our work here is done! That's lunch! Time to swill gallons of scotch and smoke bales of unfiltered cigarettes!

The AD MEN file triumphantly out of the conference room, back-slapping and congratulating each other as they go.

AD MAN 2 hangs behind. He picks up the photo.

Oh! Oh my ...!

His hands begin to tremble as the photo slips from his fingers.

Oh, dear sweet Jesus!

He buries his face in his hands and weeps.

AD MAN 2 starts screaming. He may never stop.


Till next we meet.

Monday, September 17, 2012

Where There's A WILL ...

One of the biggest surprises of my writing life has taken place over the last year and a half.

In tinkering with a particular project, I’ve been pleased to rediscover a writer that I had A) largely forgotten existed, and B) never thought much of when I was aware of him the first time around.

That writer?

Me. From about 18 years ago.

Now before you start picturing Present Me climbing aboard a time machine bound for the mid-90s with a box of wine and a half dozen gas station roses in hopes of giving Past Me a deep, self-satisfied soul kiss ...

"Well, hello there, Me. Couldn't help but notice what a handsome devil we are. How would we like our smug self-wienering? Vigorous or Gentle?"

... let me explain.

Due to cutbacks at work over the last several years, like everybody else I was feeling the financial pinch of the bad economy. So, the idea of establishing an alternate income stream was starting to look pretty appealing.

I took on a few freelance writing gigs, but unfortunately, that’s not the kind of work you can depend on coming around with any regularity. Also, they kind of kick your ass at tax time.

So I got to wondering ... did I already have some piece of writing that was just sitting around collecting dust when it could instead be collecting money?


Since Hollywood was stubbornly not begging to buy my prodigious stacks of unfinished screenplays they couldn’t possibly know about ... the most logical of my lazy options was to dust off my old grad school thesis play, WILL.

Over the years, I've had a couple of short plays published in various collections and they've brought in a little cash for performance royalties from time to time. (We're talking low three figures ... lllllladies.) So, if I could get it published, it stood to reason that this full-length piece could maybe generate a smidge more.

So the plan became: Do a quick and dirty polish and ship it off. If I could get it published, maybe I could sit back and collect a modest check once a year. Boom. Financial hole plugged. Fiscal hemorrhaging stanched.

Move over, Suze Orman! It’s my turn to be a financial genius! Now ... where to get me a set of them giant, terrifying teeth ...


Anyhow, it seemed like a pretty straightforward plan. Based solely on economics. Nothing personal. Nothing artistic. Just business.

Well, that was the idea, anyway.

I should point out that my history with this particular play has been ... well ... complicated.

Before I wrote it, WILL had been a huge, impossible idea that kicked around the inside of my skull for the better part of a decade. As ideas went, it was a doozy. And one that, back then, I didn't have the first clue how to write. I simply didn’t have the tools. It wasn’t until I got a little seasoning and some of that fancy book-learnin’ in grad school that I actually got up the nerve to even attempt to set it down on paper.

But while I did absorb some fine tutelage (from the late, great Roger Cornish), for a variety of reasons (nearly all of my own making), my three years at grad school were also some of the least happy and most personally dysfunctional of my life.

As a result, the production of WILL proved to be pretty rocky and contentious behind the scenes. Some long-standing relationships were strained, some cracked, some irrevocably shattered.

Which was a pity, because on stage, the show was a runaway success. The entire run sold out and audiences were extremely enthusiastic. (Both, fairly rare occurrences at that school back then, I'm told.)

I was grateful, of course, for the audience approbation, but given the chaos and strife I was experiencing and/or perpetuating behind the scenes, I was never able to see the end results clearly.

And soon after the show closed, graduation came. And with it came the very real and very inescapable reality of having to scratch out a living. Out of necessity, theater quickly disappeared in my rearview mirror. Rent needed paying. Life needed sorting. And priorities needed reshuffling.

I made a half-hearted attempt to market WILL, but cast size, along with set and costume requirements (it's set in Elizabethan England) seemed to prove daunting among the festivals and regional theaters I contacted. Interest, to put it politely, was slight.

So into the drawer it went. Along with all its attendant emotional baggage. A disappointing and painful chapter of my life quietly and unceremoniously laid to rest. It was time to move on.

Years passed. Lots of them. And slowly ... painfully slowly ... I managed to grow up a little. I eventually carved out a life for myself, found the absolute best girl in the world, and settled into what’s turned out to be the most stable and happy decade of my existence.

I even found myself writing again. A few screenplays got penned, a few shorts were filmed, a Hollywood screenwriting career was briefly flirted with.

But during all those years a funny thing happened. With WILL forgotten in that drawer, unbeknownst to me, all the bruises faded and the scabs flaked away.

(Yes, I AM aware of how gross a flaky scab metaphor is. But it works, dammit! Now hush!)

Anyhow, when I opened that drawer a year and a half ago looking for some financial help -- a drawer that was once so crammed with negative associations -- I was shocked to find just a script. All that emotional baggage that once seemed so important was gone.


All that was left was a play.

And you know what?

That play kind of doesn't really suck very much.

Trust me, I was as surprised as anybody.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stand down, folks. Nobody get excited. No, it still sucks. We checked. Just not as much as usual."

Because my first response to most things I’ve written is generally not praise. I tend to be a pretty blood-thirsty self-critic.

Was it flawless? Oh, hell no. But it was a far sight better than I remembered.

But at this point I had put enough distance between me and the script that it didn't feel like my work at all. The person who wrote this play doesn’t exist anymore. Past Me was a very different guy than the one plinking the keys on the other end of this blog. Since then I’ve (fingers crossed) matured into a slightly less asshole-ish person. And I've evloved a somewhat different writing style and dramatic voice, too.

The play needed work, of course, and I do think I made a few improvements with this recent pass. But as I tinkered, I kept finding myself not hating it.

High praise.

So yeah, if I did have access to that time machine, I really would like to go back to 1997 and shake that guy’s hand.

You know ... if doing so wouldn’t fracture the space-time continuum and vaporize us all in a massive clap of matter and anti-matter.

"Oops. Sorry. TOTALLY my bad."

But, barring that ... yeah. A handshake would be nice.

Good job, kid.

Also, maybe try to stop being such a douche to everybody?

Till next we meet ...

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Oh Hai, PathMark ...

You're looking very sexful today.

Awwwwwww, yeeeeaaahhh.

Can you direct me to where you keep your sweet, sweet Can Meat?

Aisle 14? I assume that's in the back ...?

Till next we meet ...

Monday, June 4, 2012

THIS Is Why I Love The Internet ...

Because you find stuff like this there:

Presumably this is from Her Majesty's lesser known, but far more exciting "Lead Jubilee."

Till next we meet ...

Friday, June 1, 2012

The Call Is Coming From Inside Your Mouth!

Oh, shit!

The linguini! It's become self-aware!

Man, it's gonna regret asking for that ride when it finds out that by this time tomorrow we plan on turning it into poop.

Well, such is the burden of sentience, I guess.

Till next we meet ...

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Oh Noes!

It's bad, isn't it, doc?!

Give it to me straight!

I got me a case of Tiny Hand, don't I!

"Oh, noes! My hand! So tiny!"


Hang on! What's that you say, doc?

Maybe it's a case of Giant Head!?

Oh, noes!

Till next we meet ...

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Mount Doom Emergency Procedures

So you've decided to leave your cave deep in the bowels of the Misty Mountains and go out for a stroll.

A long stroll.

Say ... like, a thousand leagues or so.

To a volcano.

Well, inside a volcano, technically.

I mean, seriously ... right in-freaking-side! (Though why you wouldn't instantly keel over dead from all the super-heated poisonous fumes is kind of a mystery to me ... but hey, not the point.)

No, the real point is, sooner or later, inevitably ... you will find yourself gnawing off a dude's finger to get at his jewelry.

Hey, it happens to us all. I mean, come on! Who among us hasn't found themselves gums-deep in some guy's bloody knuckle stump? (And not for the first time, I'll bet! Am I right?)

Anyhow ... sometimes a person in that situation can get a little ... let's say ... over-excited. Sometimes there's dancing and gadding about. Who's to say? We don't judge.

But that's when accidents can happen.

That's why we here at the Mount Doom Tourism Board (a member of the Greater Mordor Chamber of Commerce) want you to know that we take your safety and comfort seriously.

"Gah!! My lungs! So full of finger meat!"

In the quite likely event the need should arise, our highly trained staff of medical professionals are on hand 24/7 ... night and ... well, more night, I suppose (we don't get a lot of sun in these parts) ... to wrench your sinewy innards about in an attempt to dislodge any offending manflesh.

"Annie!? Annie?! Are you okay?!"

And they'll look great doing it! Our staff is always dressed for success!

And by "dressed" we mean "some strappy heels and a pillbox hat and nothing else."

So go ahead and plan your Mordor vacation today! Because finger meat is back on the menu, boys!

Till next we meet ...

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Oh, Come ON, Graffiti Taggers ...

Could you at least put a LITTLE effort into it?

Honestly, it's like I'm the only one who still cares about quality vandalism these days.

Till next we meet ...

Monday, May 14, 2012

This Is Either: A) A New Thai Restaurant In My Neighborhood ...

...Or B) the Muay Thai equivalent of the "Dick Punch."

"Yes, I'd like to start with the Chicken Satay ... and then for my entre, I'd like the Pad Thai--

Um ... Why are you kneeling and drawing back your fist?"

Till next we meet ...

Friday, May 11, 2012

I Call Bullshit ... On Halloween.

That's right.

You heard me.

I said it.

Halloween! I call a long belated (or is it prudently early?) "bullshit" on you!

Apologies, dear readers. If you could indulge me a moment, I need to take a second to hike my pants up to my ribs and holler at the damn punks on the lawn. Ready?

Wait ... why am I doing a post about a holiday that's six months in the past and/or future? Because shut up is why.

Okay. Are we ready now, Mr. ThisBlogIsntTopical?

Okay, then.

Annnd ....


Now, to be fair, my problem isn't with Halloween proper. I actually dig the ever-loving shit out of the holiday. As an enjoyer of quality horror films, a frequent scribbler of creepy yarns and an enthusiastic, near-bottomless consumer of vast amounts of high-fructose corn syrup ... it really is my favorite time of year.

Or at least, it should be.

So why isn't it? What's changed?

Trick-or-treating. Nobody knows how to do it anymore.

And who's fault is that?

Surprise! It's not the kids.

"Did I mention BULLSHIT? Because I really meant to. Vis-a-vis Halloween.
Also, I should point out that I may be an unholy hybrid of an
old man and Scrooge McDuck. Damn you, Science!
Damn you for meddling in God's domain!"

Anyway, here's the deal.

For most of the 18+ years I've been in New Jersey, I've lived mainly in a series of rather grim apartment complexes. Sadly, trick-or-treaters could never even find most of those buildings, let alone my actual door. So having any turn up at all was a pretty rare phenomenon.

But once we finally moved to an actual house on an actual street in an actual neighborhood we were excited by the prospect of taking part in an actual Halloween.

But, the first couple of Halloweens at the house ended up falling on weekdays. And with our work schedules and commutes, we didn't manage to get home until most of the fun was over. We'd catch a few stragglers, but never really got to hand out many snacks.

It wasn't until Halloween 2010 that the holiday finally landed on a weekend. And I would at long last get my chance to live the pageantry and splendor that is The Suburban New Jersey Halloween Experience.

It was going to be glorious!

Nothing but eight-year-olds in Snooki costumes as far as the eye could see! And I would fill their bags with all things fun-sized! And their little orange faces would light up with glee! Or early-onset diabetes. Tomayto/tomahto.

"Fuggedaboutit! Badda-BING! Amirite!? Jersey Strong! I'm Snooki! Sure I am! Popular and/or current catch phrase!"

It was a Sunday. A spectacular fall morning. Sun beaming. Warm breeze fluttering. Birds singing. If you could bottle a morning like that you'd be a millionaire.

(Also, you'd be terrifying. Because only an evil, weather-controlling, cosmic wizard could dare trap time and space in a bottle, only to then sell it to the highest bidder for his own amusement.)

I digress.

As a suburbanite, for me, nice weather on a Sunday almost always means some manner of yard work. It is Suburb Law. And on this fine October morning, with hours and hours to go before all the Halloween fun got started, I decided that it was a splendid opportunity to wash my car.

Or more accurately, my minivan.

(No, it's NOT creepy for a childless person to own a minivan! Darned if it isn't convenient for all sorts of-- DON'T YOU JUDGE ME!!)

So I gathered my bucket and hose and headed for the driveway. There was a filthy, rust-crusted van that needed my attention, and by GOD I was going to give it.

It was 11 A.M. on the dot and all was right with the world.

That is, until our first trick-or-treaters toddled up.

Did I mention that it was 11 A.M.

Yes, that's right. I said "A.M.".

Which I believe, in scientific parlance, stands for ... IN THE COCK-FUCKING MORNING.

Now to be absolutely clear ... I don't blame these kids. They couldn't have been much older than five or six and surely couldn't tie their own shoes yet, let alone strategize and plot when to wriggle into their Barney costumes and waddle out the door to do some systematic pan-handling.

Hell, they weren't even all that clear on what they were supposed to be doing, half-heartedly mumbling a few slurred syllables that sounded something like: "... (mumble mumble) ... chicken feet ... (mumble) ...".

Or words to that effect.

Nope. My beef was with their mothers, who were watching from the sidewalk a few yards away, beaming like fools.

Helicopter mode set to: HOVER.

Did I mention where I was and what I was doing when these toddlers were sent shambling up to me by their mothers at 11 A.M. with their candy sacks open?

To reiterate ... I was in the driveway.

With a hose.

And a bucket.


Purely from a candy acquisition standpoint, it's a terrible plan. When you approach a man on all fours, elbow-deep in soap suds, vigorously scrubbing what appears to be decades of filth from a rusty minivan ...

... and you then ask for candy ...

I'm just saying that ... realistically ... you should probably not expect to actually receive any candy.

The closest thing to candy you're likely to get is a clot of pennies from the bottom of the cup-holder, spot-welded together with five years of congealed soda syrup.

But candy?

Probably not so much.


Needless to say, I was caught a bit ... let's call it ... under-prepared.

It should also be pointed out that I was in NO way nasty to them. Those little guys were adorable. But the truth was, I hadn't actually bought any candy yet. BECAUSE IT WAS 11 O'CLOCK IN THE FUCK-SHITTING MORNING.

All I could do was smile and shrug and explain: "Sorry guys. I don't have any candy right now. It's too early."

Had these little guys been older, more seasoned veterans of the holiday, they would have just taken this in stride and shambled on to the next house in search of a sugar teat that was producing. All while filing away my address for use later that night when they might return with some eggs and toilet paper.

"Gonna burn your shit DOWN, old man. Burn your shit down to the GROUND."

But they looked to be on their very first Halloween sortie. They must have been. Because my answer was not one they were expecting or prepared for.

They stood there, blinking and confused for a long moment. And then they just started over. Like I was a glitchy PC. They just rebooted. They took half a step closer, held their bags out again and repeated: "... (mumble mumble) ... flicker meat ... (mumble) ...".

Or words to that effect.

"Make with the Skittles, motherfucker. 'No' is not an option."

So, I tried to explain my position again, this time loudly enough for their moms to hear.

And at that exact moment, it would seem there occurred some kind of temporal rift or atmospheric anomaly or cosmic flux or somesuch. Because the words that left my mouth clearly weren't the same ones that made it to their ears.

What I said was: "I'm sorry guys, it's too early. I haven't bought any candy yet."


Or words to that effect.

Clearly they must have heard something like that, because they were instantly enraged. In an eye-blink they went from grinning like a flock of cooing, squinch-eyed Renee Zellweger impersonators ... to huffing and sneering at me like a trio of rodeo bulls eyeing a cornered clown.

They just couldn't FATHOM that the strange, pony-tailed man washing a van on a Sunday morning didn't readily have fistfuls of Snickers to give their beautiful, beautiful babies! The nerve! The goddamn NERVE!

In a whoosh of huffy, track-suited dudgeon, they snatched confused little Trench and Chaynce and Jaydien (or whatever the hell suburban white women are naming their kids these days) and dragged them away like they'd just been booed off stage of the Apollo. All the while their baleful, withering, reproachful glares searing deep into my soul.

Somehow I was at fault. Somehow I'd betrayed them.

It was as though I had broken some solemn pact we'd made. Like we'd all gotten together the night before and pinky swore to hold Halloween about ten hours too early.

Now, granted I'm not a parent, so I don't know how this whole "having kids thing" works. But it seems to me, if you encourage your toddlers to approach strange men in vans and ask for candy ... well, frankly, you should probably count yourself lucky to get those kids back.

Also: Free duct tape!

Now I understand how parents might want their kids to do their trick-or-treating during the "safety" of daylight hours. I get it.

I just don't agree.

Thing is, I don't actually remember there being any safety issues with Halloween when I was a kid.

Sure, that was approximately two hundred thousand years ago, but I certainly don't recall ever having all this paranoia about it being "dangerous" to go out trick-or-treating.

And I grew up in the '70s when shit actually was dangerous. Slides at the playground were twenty feet high, pocked with skin-shredding rust, and angled 70 degrees straight down into concrete. And when you were being treated for your inevitable tetanus and stress fractures, the doctor would light up a Lucky Strike in the goddamn exam room.

And yet we survived.

"And I don't wanna hear any of this bike helmet bullshit either.
In my day, massive head trauma was considered roguishly charming.

When you stop twitching, walk that shit off. You know, if your legs still work."

Nothing spooky or Halloweeny has ever happened at 11 A.M.

Didn't Halloween used to be an evening activity? Not so anymore, I guess. Last year, the last of our trick-or-treaters rang our doorbell before the dinner hour. The whole thing was over before it ever started.

When I was a kid, we didn't even put our costumes on until the sun went down. And once we left the house, we were completely unsupervised; marauding in packs through the neighborhood in the middle of the night.

We didn't get driven from door to door by our parents.

I mean, sure, we'd all heard the urban legend of the crazy old lady who put razor blades or needles into apples, but A) that never happened. Anywhere. Ever. To anyone. And B) if some asshole actually did give you an apple, that shit got chucked at the back of your brother's head before you got back to the curb.

In fact, if you're talking about "safety," it would seem like that "worry vector" should probably have been pointing the other way. Hordes of sugar-gacked, feral kids roaming the streets in the dark ... well, we tended to get up to a fair amount of mischief. (Or, as fancy-pants legal scholars like to call it: "minor vandalism.")

Think "Lord of the Flies" with fun-sized Butterfingers.

And yet ... somehow ... we all survived.

I say it's time we were all honest with ourselves, each other and the kids when it comes to Halloween.

Is it measurably safer to trick-or-treat at 11 A.M. than it is at 6 P.M.? Or 9 P.M. for that matter? Nope.

Admit it, parents of America ... chauffeuring your toddlers about for a round of pre-lunch trick-or-treating has absolutely NOTHING to do with their safety, and absolutely EVERYTHING to do with your convenience.

Do your kids a favor this year. Just wait a couple more hours.

Because the quickest way to totally ruin what used to be an awesome night, is to hold it at 11 in the morning.

I guess what I'm really trying to say is ... I should've just blasted them all with the goddamn hose.

Till next we meet ...

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

The Bystanders! They Continue To Do Nothing! (Stick Figures in Peril!)

Stick Figure society. We all know how famously and brutally cold-hearted it can be. So terrible. But so true.

It's been exhaustively proven: There's narry a drop of genuine kindness or compassion in the heart of your average Stick Figure for the well-being of others.

(This is likely the case, at least in part, because Stick Figures do not actually contain "hearts." Or drops of anything, for that matter. Their locomotion is achieved largely through a rudimentary system of interconnected air bladders. Science.)

I digress.

The point is, this utter lack of empathy is particularly tragic when the "others" in question happen to be fellow Stick Figures.

And more particularly tragic when those fellow Stick Figures are in the process of commuting.

And most particularly tragic when those fellow Stick Figures in the process of commuting are also currently in Peril.

"A little help?"

Nope. Sorry, pal. You'll get no help here.

You'll be met with nothing but blank stares as you meet your grisly and easily preventable demise.

There's no getting around it. You're getting scissored into chum.

And nobody will bat an eye.

Even if they had eyes.

Which they do not.

It's Sticktown, Jake.

Till next we meet ...

Friday, April 27, 2012

DO NOT BLOCK FIRE EXIT!! (Stick Figure in Peril!)


Till next we meet ...

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Tonight, on CBS ... CSI: New Snore-leans

Nap? Or crime scene?

It's hard to know for sure.

We'll have to call that smug, chubby guy from the crime lab with the smug, chubby beard so he and his beard can come over and be smug and chubby together.

So far, preliminary ballistics, GSR, ninhydrin and DNA testing all point to "sleepy".

Till next we meet ...

Friday, March 16, 2012

Here At Lady Macbeth Railways ...

"X" marks the damn'ed spot!

Till next we meet ...

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

"No, Mr. Bond! I Expect You To Dine!"

While not all blessed with "Bond girl" good looks, some members of the family were forced to work to earn an honest living.

I suspect the same must have been true for Mono- through Septopussy.

Till next we meet ...

Saturday, March 10, 2012

"R2-D2! Have You Seen My Upper Thigh?"

I'm not entirely sure what's going on here ...

... but I think C3P-O may have finally gotten that operation he's always wanted.

Till next we meet ...

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

I'll Be Honest, The Internet ...

You know ...

... to tell you the truth ...

... seriously ...

I don't have the first goddamn clue what you want from me anymore.

Till next we meet ...