NFYS Goes to SPX, or Bee Are Bee

Jack looked solemnly over the somber crowd and grimly wondered silently and darkly to his grave self how many sorrowfully knew of the abysmal terrible cruel and cold fate that hellishly would morosely befall them all—in a totally bad way. The bleak future yet to come: the Invasion, the War, the Bombs, the Famine, Death, Capitalized Nouns, Fire and Symbolic Crying Babies. They would know soon, he thought with his mighty brain full of mindpowers and brainmight.

There was a surprising amount of handlebar moustaches amongst the very youthful happy youth of the very young. Moustache wax must’ve been on sale, verily, or demons possessed them all. The three-quarter hat is the very height of indie fashion, as it turns out. We have all very much seen Newsies, as it also turns out. It was a brisk very Saturday on this very fateful very-berry-berry Crunchberries. Mmm. Shit, man, it, like, rained hard, dude.
The Place: Bethesda North Marriott Hotel Ampersand Conference Centre
The Time: Saturday, September 26th, 2009, 11:00 AM until QUESTION MAAAAA-AAAAARKKKK-K-KKKK??!?!?!?!?????!?!?!*
* (Answer: 7:00 PM)
The Thing: Small Press Expo
The How: Magic. And cocaine. And magic cocaine. Made of ground Unicorn. Magic MEXICAN Unicorns, hombre.
Not For You Studios was out in force at this gala extravaganza bathed in the spotlights and lime-coloured light. The crowds could not get enough of these seven up-and-comers, greeting them with the ultimate in Hipster praise: an absolute lack of any acknowledgement whatsoever. In the indie niche, nothing says “You’ve Made It!” more than when nobody gives a shit about you.

“Not for who?” one girl said, when asked about the creative crew of Art Visioneers. “Uh, I think I, like, read their mini-comic, once,” another raving fan exclaimed, barely able to contain his overwhelming apathy and indifference. Oh, yes, the independent art and literature scene was awash in Not For You Studios fever, straight-faced and cold-shouldered.

Inspired by the “Time-Constrained Comic” panel, Mr. Jack Happy produced his own ten-minute comic. SPOILER ALERT: This took sixty sexy minutes, which is like six times the ten-minute comic!

It was during the Critics’ Roundtable that Jack realized something very important. He had not worn a jacket. He had not brought a jacket. IT WAS RAINED. OH DEAR GOD, WHAT HATH SCIENCE WROUGHT?!

Mr. Happy was very happy, indeed, to meet the lovely and inspirational Spike, of Templar, Az fame. She told him a stirring tale, the story of The Ocean’s Saddest Whale—Jack dubbed him “Wailin’ Whale Jennings,” inside the void of noise between his ears (this was one of those ‘Fifteen Minutes Later’ Coulda-Been-Good jokes).

Apparently, according to the illustrious Spike, there is a whale with a unique song, observed by Folks-Who-Study-Whale-Song-All-Day-Long-and-Maybe-Cry-Into-Pillows-at-Night: it is unlike any other whales’ song, and it, in fact, terrifies the other whales and causes them to stay abreast of W.W. Jennings. The theory is that this whale is either a member of a soon-to-be extinct species or is deaf. That’s right, even whales can’t understand the deaf very well. Mr. Happy doesn’t feel so bad anymore, at least about that.

So inspired by this Homeric epic of whale-like (ha-ha-ah) proportion, Jack did the arduous task of Googling said Jennings the Lonesomest Whalefriend. Here it is: Death Cab for Whalie (I would steer clear, too, if given this comparison were true).

Spike also drew an adorable squid in Mr. Happy's newly-purchased copy of volume one of Templar, AZ, for which Jack will heart her forever. Good Christ, Jack Happy is stupid amounts of a fan-boy over Spike, let’s just say.

Not For You also attended the spotlight on Jeffrey Brown, during which Mr. Happy solidified his place in Hell with some sketching. It never hurts to go that extra mile to ensure Satan takes notes in the margins of his diary about how he’s going to jam terrible things inside your rectum when you burn in the eternal Pits. It was also discovered, as well, that Jack finds the moderator for this panel to be a dull, dull woman with dull, dull questions.
Dullasaurus Rex: “So, as an artist, how do you like art?”
Brown: “I, uh, you know, like it.”
D-Rexface: “So, as a comic artist, how do you like comics?”
Brown: “They’re coo’.”
Planet Dullplanet: “So, as an arist of comics, how do you like art in comics?”
Brown: “Hm, well, it’s—“
Dullforce Omega: “TIME!”
Finally, The Center for Cartoon Studies held a comicking workshop, which was attended by Not For You. We learnt much of the sacred art, such as “Westerners read left-to-right,” and “panels are those square things on the page.” (No, in all seriousness, it was fun and not-at-all-dumb-like-that).

[Bears exeunt, stage-left.]

Random Picture

Sir Aloysius apologizes for his lack of a post on Saturday. He spent most of Friday night on an opium bender and carousing with various women of ill-repute.
Here's my final project for my design class to keep you sated till next week. Hopefully, he will be ready to tell me the next part of his adventure.


Paramount Announces New Peter Piper Movie

In the latest of a sudden slew of movies based on classic tongue-twisters, Paramount announced the production of a "Peter Piper", based on the playground tongue twister "Peter Piper pick a peck of pickled peppers."

"Oh no, this isn't your grandfather's Peter Piper. In our edgy new adaptation, Peter Piper is a starry eyed young gangster (played by Christopher Lee) out to take the Miami crime scene by storm through street racing and smuggling of pickled peppers, America's favorite snack. There will be gunfights. There will be grade-A playmates in bikinis," says director Michael Bay.

"Really, the lack of sex in the Peter Piper tongue twister really disturbed me," continued Bay. "I asked my friends, 'where's the babes? Where's the car chases?' Fuck that shit. Back when I was in middle school I was writing edgy new updates to Peter Piper, including this one where Peter Piper does somebody's decapitated head. I'm really glad I can finally show my vision of the tongue twister."

Bay talked as we previewed one of the scenes. "This is my favorite lines in the movie," whispered Bay to us, bouncing up and down on his seat with a mouth full of popcorn. In the scene, Christopher Lee points a shotgun at Keanu Reeve's face. In the background, Keanu Reeve's car smolders after a frantic car chase. Christopher Lee quips, "If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, how many pickled peppers did Peter Piper KILL?!?" and finishes Keanu Reeves off.

"Yeah, take that Keanu, you fucking Jap!" screams Bay, spitting popcorn and froth out his mouth as he leaps on his seat.

I asked Bay who Keanu was supposed to acting as.

"Acting?" Bay wondered, forehead strained with thought.

We caught up to Christopher Lee, who is playing as Peter Piper, on why he chose to play Peter Piper in Bay's adaptation. "Playing a youthful, exuberant gangster puts me to the limit of my abilities. Really, it was a challenge."

After inquiring about how he could play such a youthful character, Lee responded, "Well, it's pretty miraculous what Hollywood makeup can do nowadays. I'm certainly not above makeup. There was a time when that was the only way to get close to the German officers..." Christopher Lee looks off into the distance. "But I don't talk about that."

Christopher Lee looking youthful as Peter Piper.

Michael Bay was asked what was coming next. "Next, I'm adapting 'she sells sea shells by the sea shore' into a romantic comedy starring Sandra Bullock and Christopher Lee. Sandra Bullock plays Sheila, plucky klutzy saleswoman who runs a quirky sea shell shop with a host of amusing employees. When developer Christopher Lee tries to turn the beach into a major development, Sandra Bullock confronts him and opens his heart. He was looking for riches but what he found was... love."


Slice of Life

I've posted this before on another webcomic, but It warrants re-posting, simply because I feel it's necessary to establish my feelings about webcomic genres.

Slice of my Own Life! I'm interesting....right?

Something that has been picking up speed in the webcomic world like a speeding locomotive that needs to crash into the proverbial brick wall are "slice of my own life" comics. These comics are based on the genre of comic known as "slice of life"
"slice of life" : A comic based on the life of a real person, most likely the creators of the comic.
"slice of my own life": A comic about the life of the creator, typically a "mary-sue" type of comic.
Those are the basic definitions of the two variants. The "slice of life" category of comics make the comics unique because the characters are only based on real people, which gives the creator(s) the freedom to alter reality as they see fit to make it more entertaining or special from other webcomics of the same genre. The "slice of my own life" comics are purely autobiographical. A "slice of life" comic usually starts out as a "slice of my own life" comic because it is "safe". The creator(s) already know the people they are putting into the comic which are usually them with different names (sometimes). What makes these comics different is that as they get the hang of things (i.e. making a webcomic), they make it more interesting by bending reality and it becomes a "slice of life" comic which in turn usually means it will be successful in some form or fashion.
Comics that start and stay "Slice of my own life" are boring. This is because the creators think that everyone will think they are interesting, and they won't have to do any creative work because people will just love love love the comic because it's on the internet and they can get famous for just being them.

Alas, some "slice of my own life" comics think they are "slice of life" comics. Example: No one is going to buy that there is a robot in the future who has serious girl problems and bad halitosis. Everyone will know it is you. You are boring and sad. Adding the bells and whistles of an altered reality doesn't make up for the fact that your character is based on a real person (can't relate + complicated = boring!) and therefore has character limitations. No one wants to read about you going through blah school with your blah friends doing blah blah blah and then waking up the next day and doing the same thing because it's boring and no one can relate to something so specific as your particular school with your particular friends doing something specific in specific places.


How to make a pure "slice of life" comic:

Make your characters believable, but not TOO believable.
Emphasize a characters physicality, personality and especially a grace or flaw.
Fiona is beautiful and slender (physical) frequently nice (personality), however SHE NEVER BATHES (flaw).
Brad is big and fat (physical) generally grumpy and irritable (personality), but has a secret love of unicorns (grace...or flaw, depending).

2. I don't like you very much, therefore I'm going to stop reading your comic *CLICKS ON X*.
Don't make characters "too real".
Characters that are "too real" probably "are real" and the readers know this. Don't treat your readers like they are idiots. No one is going to buy that a robot has girl problems and halitosis.
Generalizations of people (archetypes) are what allows the reader to relate to characters. It makes the characters interesting because they are general enough for readers to relate to rather than a person with "too many" qualities. The more specific you are about a person or character and the more complicated they seem, the less people relate because it becomes more apparent that the character is not, in fact a character, but a real person.

3. Soooo...there are sentient robots that look like people? How come we never see one? I don't like unexplained references very much, therefore I'm going to stop reading your comic *CLICKS ON X*.
Does your world have talking cars and flying chairs? Then please elaborate. Don't leave out the world! The world is something that is never ever "too" detailed. That is something you should be at liberty to be creative about. Is your world this world? Then explain or show where they live so that your readers have an idea of where to push the pin in in a map. Or if you want to be general about where they live so it's as if the characters could live down the street from the reader, don't forget to get them outside to show this. In short: Don't forget the environment!

4. It WAS about Tina and Skylar getting married and moving to Chicago, but now it's about Dave and Jason fighting crime. I don't like Dave or Jason very much, and I don't care about them fighting crime therefore I'm going to stop reading your comic *CLICKS ON X*.
What's it going to be about? Video games? Relationships? Art? Pick a general theme and stick to it! You can add more sub themes as you choose If you deviate from the original theme, you will lose your audience.

These are just basic rules to go by. Don't forget a varied group dynamic and good dialogue. Dialogue and character interactions are what a "Slice of life" comic is all about.

The bottom line of this post is this: Don't do a "slice of life" comic. You'll try to do it but it'll probably end up being "slice of my own life". There are too many out there trying to be Penny Arcade (video games) or XKCD (math/relationships) or Questionable Content (indie bands) ect. Do something original. Fill in a niche that hasn't been filled or that doesn't get a lot of attention. If you do happen to do a "slice of life" make it fresh, make it interesting, and above all, make it unique.


All Roads Lead To Jack

—I believe, first and foremost, in the creative spirit of the human soul: to express one's self is to imprint the universe with a piece of humanity.

—“So many fucking manifestos start out with this kind of bullshit—but, it's not untrue: it is how I feel. 'Can't create so they just destroy / C'mon, let's go set someone's dog on fire,' in the immortal words of the Dead Kennedys (Biafra, Jello; 'This Could be Anywhere / This Could Be Everywhere,' from Frankenchrist). What, and where, are we without creavitiy?”

—In the absence of creative expression, the human soul wanes and is depressed. The greatest crime is to live without feeling alive.

—“What the hell does that kind of shit even mean, to most? 'If we could see clearly / what we were beside / if there were no desperation / would we be alive?' asked the Residents ('Would We Be Alive?' from Intermission). How many times does 'I think, therefore I am,' have to be said?”


—The second greatest crime is that modern American society does not promote culture, instead it promotes distraction and mindless entertainment, passive viewing and consumerism.

—“Oh, now we're some kind of disestablishmentarian outfit, I guess. We can all stand around and chant: 'can't ask for more, so why unfulfilled / we take apart everything we build,' in the fashion of Fugazi (MacKay, Ian; 'Break,' from End Hits). It'll be fun.”


—In order to circumvent and overcome the failings of society, it is sometimes necessary to congregate as like-minded people to differentiate one's selves as distinct and apart.

—“Is this any different than the anthem of rebellious, intoxicated teenagers in overcrowded concert venues played at by punks and no-names? Didn't Mindless Self Indulgence say, 'You need a uniform / so you won't be ignored / you are affected / and so you're accepted' (Urine, Jimmy; title track from You'll Rebel To Anything (As Long As It's Not Challenging)? Jimmy Urine opened a song once, at a show I went to in Norfolk, Virginia, 'Come on! Dress like me, talk like me, act like me! We can all be different together!' Or something along those lines…”


—In so many cases, life has striven to extinguish the creative flame inside bright, young people; however, as a people, these flames can be rekindled and new life breathed into them.

—“Okay, seriously, the flame metaphor is both obnoxious and done—but, the point remains: I have known so many people with such talent that just don't feel they're good enough for… what, I've never been sure. Good enough to share their talent? Good enough to pursue an art? Good enough to just do what they want? It all sounds like how Tom Waits described: 'When I'm lyin' in my bed at night / I don't wanna grow up / Nothin' ever seems to turn out right / I don't wanna grow up / How do you move in a world of fog / That's always changing things?'”


—I believe the greatest service we can provide each other as a people is to promote individual expression and breed a culture of our own creation.

—“I guess that's the whole fucking point of this flowery prose, then—let's get together, and write, draw, sing, dance or whatever. Personally, I've faced numerous dilemmas based on self-doubt and lack of motivation, and I know others who have faced the exact same dilemmas. So, the obvious solution seems to be to create a vehicle by which these people, myself and others interested, can collaborate and encourage each others. Honestly, I don't know a single person who doesn't have something 'They've Always Meant To Do, But Haven't, Yet.' I think I know people with talents, and I think the world would be benefited from their artistic contributions. Period.”

“I want to break the things that seek
to control, I want to live my life with
no rules at all, I want to smash the
lips that smile down on me, I want
to rip and tear until I am free.

“Steady, keep it, steady
“I want to touch the places lost deep
inside, I want to see the ugly faces
that hide, I want to reach down to the
end of what's there, I went to strip
the surface 'till all is bare.

“Steady, keep it, steady

“I want to jump out of my skin and be
free, I want to kill the little thing that
is me, I want to laugh and giggle, I want
to scream, I want to wake up from this
life-crushing dream, I want to wash my
body bare in the stream, I want to
liberate this human machine, I want to spit
and grovel, I want to shit, I want to
make you wonder, what is it? What
is it?

“You know one thing that I think attracts people
to a steady beat, to a steady beat, is the certainty
of where it will be, of where it will be, in the next
moment, its inevitability with no variation, the
comfort and security of knowing what and who you
are, you hear that beat, you hear that beat, it's
beating on you, it's beating on me, you hear that beat,
you hear that beat, it's beating on you, it's
beating on you.”

—"Metronome," by NoMeansNo (Rob Wright, John Wright, Andy Kerr) from You Kill Me

Did you ever think you could fly?

I did.

Granted I was younger and my imagination had not yet been fettered by people who didn't. But I was pretty certain that if I really thought about it hard and really tried that I could become weightless. I could lift my toes from the earth, and be transported into a dream land of steam and robotics and hot air balloons that were really warships, and butterflies that if you caught them, you would realize they were clockwork and music boxes modeled after 27th century cathedrals.
As I grew older a more complete picture came to me. The world where I could fly was also one where people were lost. Humanity was no longer defined by the capacity to love or to feel or to dream; rather, in my flying world, humanity became defined by products. Individuals' creations were often beautiful, but none-the-less, their worth was defined by their capacity to build things. Too many times these things bring pain; they are war machines, or machines that replace the need for a human workforce. They are things that, in the beginning make life easier and more bearable, but in the end, turn people into unthinking, unfeeling, machines themselves. Often, in my flying world, I found expanses of territory decimated by unsustainable populations of out of work, bored, desperate humans.
I wouldn't change my flying world much though. I wouldn't remove any of the strange soot and grime for a few more clockwork butterflies. But I would change what people see.

I want people to see more of the lace.
Want them to see more of the beads of perfect moments spilt from the string of linear reality that slips itself so easily into a nose around each of our necks.
Want them to know that even in my flying world there are still gardens and still love and still people underground who remember before.

It wasn't by myself that I created my flying world. Six men were standing with me, backs bent under the same burden, hands stinging and soiled from the work. They are among my dearest friends: my father, Jules Verne, Ray Bradbury, George Orwell, Kurt Vonnegut, and H.G. Wells. Today is Wells’ birthday. He would be one hundred and forty three years old today.

“The weaving of mankind into one community does not imply the creation of a homogeneous community, but rather the reverse; the welcome and adequate utilization of distinctive quality in an atmosphere of understanding... Communities all to one pattern, like boxes of toy soldiers, are things of the past, rather than of the future.” The Outline of History 1920


Talk like a Pirate

It's Talk Like a Pirate Day, not Talk Like a Brain-dead Idiot Day
take heed from this picture.

So I guess ye've been wondering what th' big deal is 'bout "Talk Like a Pirate Day".

Well, for starters:


Ye can do this and say "It's Talk Like a Pirate Day! I'm allowed!" instead of "I'm certifiably insane! I need to bite a spoon just about every day! WHEEEEEEEYYYAAAARRR"

So go on , if ye haven't , talk like a scurvy, no-good, downright bawdy, un-bathed, lice-ridden, mercenary-like, rat of the seven seas!

I do.

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrsssssssssssssssssssssss Truly,

Captain Cutthroat


My Wilde Ride

“I say! This strikes me a terrible idea.”

Oscar Wilde ignores me as he smashes out the driver's side window with his elbow. He swiftly unlocks the door and climbs in, and I see his head duck quickly underneath the steering column. With a screwdriver in hand, he pries off the casing around the ignition and pulls out a couple of wires. He touches their stripped ends together several times in quick succession. The throaty roar of a V-8 engine turning over greets our ears. Sigmund Freud claps excitedly and gets in on the passenger side. I look around to see if our actions have attracted any attention. I then realize I can't see a damn thing through these fucking Kanye West sunglasses.

I ain't no broke nigga'

"If a pussy doesn't get in the car right now, then I'm going to have to cut him," Oscar Wilde says as he turns to look at me through the broken window, "Sigmund, would you kindly pass the hooch?" Sigmund Freud hands him the bottle of absinthe that we had been nursing for the past half-hour. Goddammit, this is really happening. I crawl into the backseat. I barely have enough time to buckle my seat belt before Oscar slams the car into gear and launches it out into the street. We pull up at a red light and Oscar whistles at a woman walking by.

"Do you see the ass on that one? I would dearly love to show her the Importance of Riding My 8 Inches of Earnest." Sigmund and I exchange a knowing look. Oscar knocks the bottle of absinthe back, and I see his Adams apple going up and down as he quaffs the last of it. As the light turns green, he throws it out of the window where it smashes against the asphalt, spreading thousands of glass fragments across the street.

"Ach, Oscar! Zat vas ze last of ze booze! " Sigmund cried out. "Mein studies have shown zat ze vaste of booze can be directly correlated to vanting to engage in carnal acts vit your mutter." I roll my eyes. Everything always comes down to having sex with mothers or latent homosexuality with Freud. Every time he starts in on this, I can see myself punching him in the throat. I feel his larynx crushing as my knuckles are driven into it. A smile slowly creeps across my face. Almost as if he could see what I was thinking, Oscar's arm darts out and his fist connects with the side of Sigmund's face. His glasses go flying. Sigmund collapses into tears and cowers against the side of the door, trying to put as much distance between Oscar and himself. The sound of Oscar's voice pulls me away from staring at the miserable, sobbing Austrian in the front seat. I look up and see Oscar looking at me in the rear view mirror.

"I think we need some music," he says calmly.

"Have you heard the newest gramophone recording from that Negro artist, Half-Dollar?" I say in a wavering voice. Oscar has reached his violent-drunk stage. I open my bag and dump the contents across the back seat. There are several plastic discs mixed with the lithographs of Bavarian erotica. I hand one of the discs to Oscar and he inserts it into a slot on the dashboard. The sounds of an angry, black man fill the car.

"He does so love those bitches and hoes," I say.

"Indeed." replies Oscar, "I think we need some more to drink." Oscar slows down and pulls the car into the parking lot of a convenience store. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out several woolen objects. He throws one over his shoulder into the back seat and another at Sigmund who is still cowering.

"Put these on, gents." He pulls one of the objects over his head and I see that it is a ski-mask.

"Aloysius, if you would kindly put on your mask. As should you, Sigmund." I reluctantly pull the mask over my head, and Sigmund does the same.

"Here is the plan, gentlemen. Aloysius, if you would be so kind as to get the drinks. Sigmund, I require you to get the snacks. I will deal with payment. Let's be about it, then." Oscar opens his door and as he heads towards the store he pulls a gun from his waistband. Sigmund follows and I bring up the rear. As we enter, Oscar breaks towards the right and covers the cashier. Sigmund heads into the first aisle and begins stuffing bags of Skittles and Hershey's bars into the pocket of his waistcoat. I continue to the back of the store where the floor-to-ceiling glass doors display the racks of drinks. Quickly scanning the rows of beverages, I see my target. I pull open the door and the inside of the glass door fogs over as ice crystals form. I hastily grab two 40-oz bottles and stick them in my pockets. I grab another two bottles. I hold them in my hands and turn for the door. Halfway to the front of the store, I see movement out of the corner of my eye. Before I can turn to see what it is, two loud cracks echo through the interior.

"Let's move!" Oscar calmly announces. As I dash out of the door, I see the cashier slumped on the floor, two red holes amidst a spreading field of crimson in the middle of his chest. I throw myself into the backseat. Oscar walks calmly out of the store and fires another two shots into the air.

Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta'

"What in the bloody hell happened in there!" I yell as Oscar as he gets behind the wheel. I see Sigmund running out of the door with several cans of Pringles in his arms.

"Please don't shout. It makes me dreadfully nervous. The cashier was reaching for an alarm."

"Was it necessary to shoot the poor bastard?" The passenger door slams as Sigmund gets in the car. He dumps his load of chips on the floor by his feet.

"SCHNELL! MACHT SCHNELL! Ve have to get oot of here!" Sigmund screams. Oscar puts the car into gear and sends the car careening out of the parking lot. Before I can get settled, the rear window shatters. Sigmund screams. I glance quickly back and see another car pulling onto the street. I see a man behind the wheel and another sticking a gun out of the passenger window. I duck as the man fires and buries a bullet into the trunk of our vehicle. Oscar looks into rear-view mirror and accelerates.

"Damn, it looks as if Baudelaire has found me," he says.

To be continued...

I Found A Funny Thing In My Inbox

Alright, so, you know how I mentioned the shit I'd been up to over the past year? And the part about the lawsuit, right? Well, I got a n email this week. Apparently, some crappy little, I dunno, I guess like a local news rag or something, picked up my story, right, and wants to run a piece on it, and they sent me a waiver to sign and whatever and a preview of the story.

I figured, what the hell, let people read it. Get some 'a the scuzzy little details about the whole sordid affair. And then I figured, well hell, if it's good enough for these assholes 'round here, that I don't even know, then it's good enough for all you out there, who I also don't friggin' know.

Bizarre Agenda of Local Survivalist-Cult Figure Revealed

Lawsuit, Self-Published Magazine Paint Disturbing Picture

By Franklin Wolfram, Staff Reporter

We've all noticed the blight of foreclosed properties in our troubled community, and we've also noticed the swelling number of homeless thriving on those abandoned lands. Being upstanding members of the community, we've had no real idea what was going on in those darkened lots. But a recent lawsuit has provided an unnerving insight into the madness going on in our very backyards.

In our own sleepy neighborhoods, there has been a clandestine, secretive group, stalking through the shadows, sifting through our trash, and forming war-bands. This group had no names, no central leader, no single base of operations. Even now, the police can't say for certain that they've got this bizarre fringe group rooted out. There could still be splinter cells lurking about. The police have taken to referring to this group as the “Followers of the Apocalypse.”

One local man, however, has taken credit for founding this organization. An eccentric man who has gone to some lengths to conceal his true identity, paperwork indicates that his legal name is Johnny Despair, though there is no verification of when this name change was enacted, or where. His reign over the Follower of the Apocalypse was brought to an end a few months ago. Not in a glorious police raid, or by rebellious factions within his own twisted commune, but by an anti-discrimination lawsuit. Shaun Kreuz, one of the men who filed the lawsuit, described his first meeting with Mr. Despair:

“Well, you see, me and a few of the other guys, we'd heard about it, and it seemed like, I guess, fun. But when we get there, he's just sitting there, you know, on this stack of DVD cases, smoking, and giving us this evil eye. And we told him we wanted to join. Then he started cursing, a lot, and asked what was wrong with us. And, so I said, “Well, I'm sure, good sir, that you couldn't possibly be referring to our religious convictions. As we all know, Hubology is a respected religion, and I won't tolerate any sort of statements against it.” And then, he started swearing more, and talking about killing us, and doing awful things to our bodies, and I think he may have peed himself. Well, we know better than to hang around where we're not wanted. We also no better than to let such a lucrative lawsuit simply pass by. I mean, seriously. He didn't have a leg to stand on. He was screwed. Big time.”

Mr. Despair's “legal team” filed a number of objections and counters to these claims. They attempted to claim temporary insanity and have their client declared unfit to stand trial. I have managed to obtain some of the documents associated with this plea, and to further gain insight into the mind of this sinister force, I would like to print some of them here.

Editor's note: Not all of the evaluation is presented. Some is basic information, such as the doctor making the interviewee aware that the interview will inform his decision if the interviewee is fit to stand trial. Some is not available to us, do to legal concerns. It is still being printed, however, due to our believe that there is enough we can disclose here to give the public a better understanding of the case in general. Both parties have endorsed the running of this excerpt, though the evaluating doctor has declined to have his name revealed.

Editor's note: from here, the rest of the interview is unavailable. The entirety of the evaluating doctor's notes on the interview are available, however, and presented here.

But there is more to the story of this madman, of this self-styled revolutionist and his plans for his deranged fellowship. Further research has dredged up a series of underground " 'zines " published by the infamous Mr. Despair. They are shoddily-crafted offerings which would be truly terrifying if not so pathetic. Preachy, meandering, paranoid rants and musings on no subjects in particular, signifying nothing, he nonetheless managed to get others to contribute to these incendiary leaflets. One issue, in particular, carries a sinister, apocalyptic tone, as Mr. Despair rambles on about why it is he's collected this terrible tome:

Clearly, it is quite disturbing to think that this fiend, this manipulator, this unrepentant reprobate is still lurking, still scheming, somewhere in our very own quiet community.Police say that there's nothing to worry about, but of course, they have all the guns. Dear readers, remain vigilant. There is a madmen running loose in our very own backyards!

And his name is Johnny Despair, Esq.


No time for introductions...

This is my rockband's first CD.

We're pretty hardcore. To get this picture, we actually flung a dude off of the cliffs of the famed town of Ronda while in a helicopter, and then took a photo of him. We're so hardcore, we named our band Osmoxylon Ellipsoideum. Are you wiki-ing that right now? Amateur.

We're a power metal band. Our first song was about eating chickens and spitting them at people. Then we did this song about robots. Not mecha or "I Robot" robots, but hardcore "lost in space" types with the fucking vacuum tubes and the grabby claws. Better to pinch your ass with, medear.

We growl like rabid kittens. We feed by grazing. We brought peace to the Middle-East. We've got 24 hour access to Obama's X-box.

Our third song is just the scream of that one guy falling off a cliff in an endless loop. Some guys bought it off I-Tunes and used it as a menu song for this one weird flick called "Anklebiters". That's why you've probably heard of us.

"That you live, if you do!" is our band's philosophy and motto. For this reason, we drip hydrochloric acid into our eyes to train ourselves to survive when the inevitable Wave of Metal destroys all other life on Earth.

When we went on tour in Japan, we slept with like a million Japanese girls. That's why you can find Japanese people with copious amounts of body hair nowadays.

Our mouths are so filthy we fucked your mother. We dress so bad we eat barbeque sauce. Yet, we have made mad men Buddhist. Encoded in our lyrics is the the path to enlightenment. Listening to us will make you an Agora mystic, for we are the Dreamlands.

Buy my fucking CD.



Click for full view.

Sorry about the low quality of comic. I don't have photoshop installed yet, so I had to do some quick crappy edits on photobucket.

I'm Red X. Prepare yourself for a lot of comics, mostly World of Warcraft inspired. CAUSE I'M A HUGE NERD WITH NO LIFE. Anyway, if you couldn't guess, the girl in the picture is me. The guy is Johnny Despair, cause he's the only person in real life I know that I've drawn. He would suggest something stupid like the first panel anyway.


Drowning in my pwn spit

That typo wasn't originally intentional but then I realized it's the first time I've ever made that typo so I'm keeping it you motherfuckers.

Don't try and stop me, I'm on a roll.

So since this blasted studio has finally started, I'm going to now post all my webcomic reviews and musing here, as well as stuff that I don't want my mother to read and at any rate, it's good that she doesn't read the internet anyway. I can sense that you don't care, and I don't care that you don't care, because I'm cutthroat and that's what bastards like us do. Mean things. Evil things. Cutthroat things.

A little bit about me :

I own the fastest ship in the world, the Drippy Pussy. I named the ship that because it sounds awful and not even the worst pirates want to say it, so they call it "The-ship-who-shall-not-be-named" which brings me to my next point: Voldemorts' real name should have been Leaky Pussy Wound and then people would REALLY understand why he should not be named. Ha- ha! Gross!

My crew :

I came up with a name for them which sounded awesome, like "Shit-stompers" or something but I ended up calling them "fuckers" instead. So it's Captain Cutthroat and the Fuckers.

What's up with the pirate thing anyway :

I will fucking cut you down with my hook foot.

Hook foot? Isn't that a bit...impractical :

That's not what your mom said when I fucked her with it and then because it's a hook grabbed on to her intestines and yanked them out of her still oozing cunt.

... :

Yeah, that's what I thought.

Ha-ha! Gross!

P.S. Picture has nothing to do with anything related to me as a captain, the boots are very unprofessional.


More Tales of Mr. Jack Happy: 2008 - 2009

The following were discovered at the site of a terrible fire on August 10th, 2009:


Tales of Mr. Jack Happy: 2008 - 2009


My name is Jack Happy, and I was born a slight lad years ago in an insignificant town. Instead of dwindling away in obscurity and my life's history having no meaning, I have decided to imprint myself upon this world... Upon this "Internet" about which I have heard so much.

It will be a glorious age, an age of enlightenment... Another one, I mean, not like the first one, but a newer, better one. This time, with computers! And shiny electronics, like PDA phones and shit. YOU BEST BE BELIEVIN' IT, YA'LL -- WORD IT UP! BRINGIN' IT NEW SCHOOL UP IN THIS PIECE.

I will conquer this planet with my pen... keyboard. Penboard. I will conquer your minds through the power of words and it will be the most horrific, magnificent thing you have ever known. Yes! What I will create can hardly be fathomed by the shallow wits of those imbeciles who have surrounded me my whole life.

I will show those cretins from my town. I will teach them who is the important one, and who will be forgotten by time. I will live on, whilst they fade into oblivion. I will surround myself with figures of great import, not like the fools of my past. This will be a new era in my life, a new chapter of Jack Happy.

And you will be forced to ask yourself, why do they call me Mr. Happy? Is it because that is my surname? Is that what you think? Then, perhaps, you have not thought hard enough!

This endeavor is not FOR YOU! It is not for anyone. It is for the good of all mankind, it is for the historians to look upon and weep, weep because of the overwhelming greatness of what we have done... Displayed the best and worst of all that mankind can accomplish when their consciousnesses are melded together into one form.


June 19th, 2008:

A single bird, perched upon a branch in a nameless forest somewhere far North, sings a mournful song. That song is a requiem for lost innocence.

“Now! Now!” The klaxons sounded throughout the base, sirens glaring red hues all along each and every wall. “Now! Move, move, move!” The shouting was raucous and noise ear-piercing as the soldiers rallied. They hefted great rifles of destructive powers unbeknownst to any man before, secret weapons of a shadow nation. “Go, go, go, go, go!”

“Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go! Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go! Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go! Go! Go! Go! Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go! Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go!”

One man lit a cigarette, silhouetted against the rising sun to the East, standing outside a hidden door carved into a great oak tree, and looked solemnly at its smoldering butt. “I… I don’t smoke,” he muttered, then threw it to the ground and put it out with his tremendous boot. He heard the sad song of that solitary bird in the trees and stared skyward, pondering the days to come.

“All non-essential personnel to their quarters, all troops muster in the Great Hall.” An electronic voice droned over the public announcement system and relayed orders from the anonymous leaders of the Black Operation. “All pilots prepare for take-off, all engineers ready for assembly.” Throngs of men and women pushed through the steel hallways of the underground base buried deep beneath the ice-capped mountains, all trained for this day for years. “All commanding officers please convene in the debriefing chambers, all seats in their upright and locked positions.”

Outside, another man exited the camouflaged door and put his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Jack, you doing alright?” The first man looked at the newcomer and shrugged. “Well, I was gonna write a Blog or something, but I guess I ought to save the world first and stuff.”

“I guess so, Jack… I guess so.”
August 30th, 2008:

“Jack! Watch out!”

The fish came flying from the crystal-clear waters of the bay and right past Jack’s head. It jerked on the fishing hook it had been snagged on and landed hard on the deck, flopping about like… a fish out of water… which is exactly what it was. Jack looked down at it and thought about its meaning.

So cold. So lost. So dying. Like this Earth. So Earthy.

The voice that called out warning to Jack belonged to an older man with an appearance of a salty sea captain. He was a salty sea captain, in fact, the very same sea caption of the ship they stood upon, the S. S. Shipshape. He squinted his one good eye at Jack and smiled, bearing his snaggly teeth.

“Jack, m’boy, ye almos’ got smacked wit’ that der trout.”

Jack gave the captain, his fast friend on the harsh seas of the past month, a long look. “Captain Snaggletooth, it would be not the first time, my friend.” They shared an uproarious laugh before cleaning the fish, a sizable trout full of fishy meats.

“Jus’ call me Anse, boyo,” the Captain said to Jack, stringing the fish up along with the rest of the day’s catch. “Yer likes the son I’s never had, ye know dat.”

“Yes, it is certainly a shame I had to brutally kill the son you did have, Cap… Anse,” Jack said with a sad smile. The Captain just slung a bucket of fish guts over the side of the boat and grunted.

“Dat basterd had it comin’, an’ ye knows I thanks ye fer doin’ its.” The Captain spoke with a gruff voice but a soft heart.

“Still…” Jack took out a cigarette and lit it, before blinking and throwing the lit butt over board. “Why do I even have cigarettes on me?”

October 9th, 2008:

“No!” Jack threw his body across the stage and in front of the Prime Minister, absorbing the bullet into the side of his Kevlar vest, before hitting the ground in front of the first row of seated reporters and miscellaneous press.

The whole room went into chaos, screams and shouts ringing out from the alarmed guests of the conference. Security personnel quickly moved to secure the entrances for the auditorium. The head of security, a bald-headed Native American, got on his radio and started barking orders.

Jack picked himself up and brushed off the dust, pulled himself onto the stage and helped the Prime Minister back to his feet. “Are you alright, sir?”

“Yes, son, thank… thank you,” the old grey-haired man gratefully smiled while straightening his silk tie. “The nation owes you a great debt.”

“Of course it does,” Jack said, “All in a day’s work, Mr. Prime Minister.” At that very moment, a legion of black-clad ninja fell from the ceiling and began massacring the crowd.

Reaching into his vest, Jack pulled out a cigarette and lit it, then flung it into the crowd, whereupon impact with one of the ninja it exploded and sent shuriken and gore flying…

December 31st, 2008:

Standing against the dingy shapes of a debauched city, Jack gazed downward at the throng of party-going people celebrating the end of a terrible and glorious calendar year. They went to and fro, red plastic cups of liquor and beer in hand, smiling and laughing, full of finger foods and bullshit. The corners of his mouth curled downward into a frown as he contemplated the horror of the year to come.

He wore a top hat upon his head of the most brazen red hue and a band of sparkling gold. It was tall and magnificent against the night sky. Donned upon his nose was a pair of glasses in the shape of four numbers: two, zero, zero, nine. They were made of plastic painted pink and adorned with fluorescent glitters. They shimmered against the city lights a rainbow of colours, reflected on his skin and in his deep, soulful eyes. Eyes full of soul and depth. So deep.

A gorgeous blonde woman in a red evening gown came walking up behind Jack and began to speak, but before she could do so, he grabbed her arm and threw her over the edge of the building, sending her plummeting twenty stories to her messy death. Her confused, blue eyes stared upward into Jack’s face as she fell, pleading for an answer for this random act of violence, pleading for retroactive mercy. The partying crowd parted momentarily for the woman to impact before resuming their jubilee.

“Dames.” Jack took a cigarette out from his clown suit and tossed it unlit off the roof, then tore deeper into his pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and threw it after.

March 17th, 2009:

An actual conversation, 2:01 AM, somewhere in the depths of cyberspizace:

—“Happy Birthday!”
—“What? No, they’re… they’re not. They’re the day you’re born.”
—“BULLSHIT! Was I born today?! NO! I was born FOUR HUNDRED AND EIGHTY THREE years ago! Huh!? Huh!?”
—“But... Not the exact day. The date. This date, twenty six years ago. You were born.”
—“Prove it! Were you there?!”
—“No, but your mother was. Pushing your fat fucking head out of her cooch.”

It was at that very moment that the space-faring robot armada broke atmosphere and began raining down fiery death upon the great cities of Earth-Gamma. The citizen scattered, but the casualties were enormous. The Battle Mech Suit Patrol Force Police Department Squad, or BMSPFPD, began surmising wildly with the foes, to little avail. They were both outnumbered and outgunned, surely fated for doom. DOOM!

—“And you believe her filthy lies?”
—“I don’t see how she’d gain in lying… Wait, what are you even saying? That she lied you were born on this date, or that you were born at all?”
—“What is wrong with you?!”

At 2:15 AM, the human race knew no greater atrocities than those brought about by the robot death squad known as the Harbingers of the Blackest Death in August amongst the Leaves of the Trail of Bodies by which We Are Known. They rendered our militaries twisted heaps of bloody metal and left our cities smoldering ruins. They raped our children and forced mothers to watch. They resurrected Bella Lagosi and punched him in the face in a very impolite manner.

They smoked all of our cigarettes.

June 18th, 2009:

Jack Happy reached into his pants and pulled out a… cell phone. He looked at it and then around the subway car he was riding. It was the early morning, so the typical crowd of commuters was onboard with him. Mostly professionals: men in dress shirts and ties, women in modest but trendy tops with unrevealing skirts.

An older Hispanic man snored behind Jack, his head leant against the train window, drooling on himself. On the other side of the aisle, an elderly man with white hair read the newspaper, legs crossed with shirt and pants both freshly ironed. One of the employees of the rail line walked up the aisle, the walkie-talkie on his belt buzzing with static and the back and forth of the dispatch.

Pushing a few buttons on the phone, Jack read his email and sent a few short replies. The train then dipped into a tunnel and his phone bleeped as service went down. Jack drank coffee from his Spelunkin’ Donuts mug and read the news articles he had already cached on his fruit-themed smartphone.

The conductor came on over the speaker, scrambled and barely audible, announcing whatever stop up to which they were pulling. A twenty-something Asian girl with long hair stepped off, and a disturbingly overweight woman in a floral dress boarded, waddling her way to one of the handicapped-reserved seats by the door.

Putting his phone away, Jack checked his hair in his reflection in the window and considered getting a haircut. He ran his hand over the stubble on his jaw and sighed faintly to himself. Somebody on the train smelt like cigarette smoke.

“Maybe I should write a Blog?”

P.S. Jack Happy watched as a walrus descended from the heavens and crushed c. Jay Wrong to death.

Oh, yeah, I knew I was forgetting something

All right, all right, listen up. This here site? Under new management. This is your boy Johnny Despair, Esq. lettin' you know that things gonna be different now. Not alla this complacent shit we had goin' on. Folks been sittin' around, munchin' on chips and whatnot. Hell na. We doin' work around here now. And you? Sittin' out there readin'? You gotta put in your part, too. That means: no puttin' us on follow, right, then only checkin' in every couple of months. That ain't cool. That's lazy, right. You gotta try harder'n that, okay?

All right all right all right, I forgot, okay. Introductions. Like I said, this is me, Johnny Despair, Esq.

"Who are you then?" I'm some friggin' alien lifeform sent to crush humanity, but won over by your plucky spirits and for the love of an Earthling, whadda ya think? All right, okay, no, I'm some guy, all right? I go to school, I (infrequently) work, I make a blog now, you know, I do stuff. Nothing special there. I mean, you know, I'm special as hell, don't get me wrong. I ain't just some yahoo sittin' here yellin', all "I GOTS OPINIONS GET YA'LL ASSES OVER HERE AND AGREE WITH 'EM DAMNIT". Nah. I got thoughts, and methods, and plans. Secret friggin' plans. I'm talking 'bout insidious designs, all right? Evil schemes and whatnot.

"Why are you doing this?" Well, cuz it seemed like a laugh, man. No, honestly though, this is something I really feel strongly about, you know? A lotta people out there, they say shit all the time, like, "Man, if I just had the time, I'd write such a book," or, you know, "Oh I'd draw stuff if anyone would look at it," or whatnot. And I'm all like, "Daaaaaaamn! We got the internet now! Anyone'll look at anything, make 'em look at your thing!" But not like, you know, your unit. Your art.

Plus, since I'm not allowed to, you know, perform my friggin' art in public anymore, I mean I'm seriously on like "shoot on sight" status at most art galleries and open-mic nights, I figured the Internets is better than nothin'.

So, all of youse out there must be lookin' at this thing here and sayin', "What's the deal? A friggin' year goes by without anybody posting anything?" Yeah, I know. Here's the thing: I been busy, OK? I had my own crap going on. And not like, "Oh, I was just busy at work" kind of busy. Hell no. I had things going on, understand? No, you don't, do you. Alright, well, I'm working on a book deal for the whole shebang, but I think I can give ya'll a little taste. If the publishers don't like it, screw 'em, somebody'll still buy it. Alright, here ya go:

"Election years are always turbulent, dramatic, and noisy. But this election year was different. 2008 had a nasty little surprise waiting for us: a big, fat recession. Now, this isn't really the sort of thing that should be a "surprise," exactly, but when everyone in charge is either lying through their teeth or putting their heads in the goddamn sand, what can you do, right?

Anyway, the economy got bad, fast. Much faster than anyone would have thought. All of the sudden, there were empty homes and abandoned shops not just in hidden away little neighborhoods, but lining up Main street. Everywhere I looked, I saw boarded up buildings and vacant, rundown lots. A lot of people take a look at all that unused real estate and see "the end of the world." I won't lie; I'm one of them. But I saw something else loitering in those foreclosed properties other than just vagrants. The future was hiding there, somewhere behind all those gummy, grimed-up windows, past some door hanging half of its hinges, among the rat turds and shattered dreams.

It started simply. Fliers hung up on corkboard; barely-legible marks scrawled on the walls at bus-stops and coffee shops and thrift stores and every other damn place I went around town. Not a lot of info: just a place, a time, and no instructions further than "as much as you can carry with you and keep from looters; no firearms." That first night, there was only a handful of them. All guys, college-age, with heaping full Hefty bags on their backs and khaki pants. They were nervous, looking around for someone in charge, talking about the TV they were watching and comparing the weights they managed. I watched them all wait for ten, twenty, thirty minutes. All but one of them stayed, set their bags down, began to go through them, re-packing, re-organizing, making sense of what they had in their hands, if nothing else. Finally, I made myself known to them. I didn't answer questions, or bother with introductions. I told them exactly how it was going to be.

"This building was not abandoned by over-eager young homebuyers with poor financial advice, but by desperate everyday nobodies running in fear of the inescapable. We sit in the dark not because of a delinquent utilities bill, but because service has been interrupted due to inconceivable catastrophic breakdown of society. Global warming; World War III; pandemic; dirty bombs. It doesn't matter what did this, all that matters is that it's done. The world is over. There is nothing else to go back to, just this sprawling tribute to a world that never saw it coming. You may follow me if you wish, but understand that I will tolerate no questioning of my laws." With those words, we began to work, in earnest, as Post-Apocalyptic Pre-Enactors.

More came in time, which was fortunate. Our initial group were, to the last, useless from a practical, "how do we live now" angle. Eventually, there was a guy who could fix most simple, consumer-grade machinery; he went by "Oz" for some reason he would never disclose. Linda showed up a few weeks in with knowledge of how to grow a discreet, yet surprisingly bountiful garden. As Leader, I lead scavenging parties. We stole most of what we had from dumpsters and kitchens, but did trade goods from time to time with local shops. People grew intensely curious about us, our filthy clothes yet clear sense of purpose that set us apart from the community's homeless population. We never spoke of where we came from, for fear of compromising our security.

We continued to grow, and before the midsummer's end, we had grown from a handful of bored white guys with nothing better to do to a community of hundreds. It was far larger than I could manage by then. Their were other Leaders, now, elected for their charisma, or their knowledge, or their strength, or whatever other reason people fall in line behind some brighter burning star. Some of these Leaders worked along side me; human nature being what it is, however, most of them were at war with my ever-dwindling tribe. I did not wish to lead my people to war with their brothers. While bloodshed is undoubtedly a reality of the post-civilized world, it had no place in my vision. We were meant to be united, to be as one, to somehow find some other way, some other truth, not just to scrabble in the dirt and shank each other. But I realized, even back on that first night, that it was all doomed from the very beginning. If mankind was wired to truly work together, there would be no apocalypse to pre-enact.

It was falling apart around me then, sure. I'm sure that I wouldn't have been able to stay for much longer. But it wasn't the self-styled warlords that kicked me out; it wasn't the police that shut us down. There'd still be bozos eating out of cans and jerry-rigging radios out in those empty townhomes if it wasn't for those bastards. Those fucking interlopers. Makes me sick, even to this day, just to think of it.

I don't know where those pricks heard of us. They just showed up one day, like any new meat, except for that look in their eyes. Said they wanted to join, where could they put their things, who did they report to, all of that jazz. I told them they could put their shit right back where they came from unless they told me why it was they were creeping out my people. They just looked at each other all confused, then one managed to spit out, "Well...we're Hubologists, if that's what you mean."

Now, from this point, my lawyer advises me to stress that I allegedly told those rat-bastards that they were going to be the first ones up against the wall, and that there was no way in hell I was letting them sign on. I think that if my lawyer's legal advice counted for shit, I wouldn't have lost that defamation and discrimination lawsuit those dirty Hubologists saddled me with. But they do have them a damn mean team of lawyers, I'll say that for them. Blew me right out of the water. Got the whole "commune" shut down. Bought up all of those houses with the damages, just to spite us."

...And all of that ain't even one full chapter! So ya see, boys and girls, I wasn't just bullshittin' ya when I said I'd been busy. But all of that nonsense is behind me, now, so I'm looking to give this site the attention it deserves. Keep an eye on this space, kiddos, because stuff's gonna be going on all over the damn place.

At least, that's the word on the street,
from one Mr. Johnny Despair, Esq.