Mr. Jack Happy Presents A Not For You Studios Presentation of the Happy Comic Comedy Act: “No Means Whatever”
And the haze lifts, her bare hip
Shifts, watch it go: so far, far;
Away with him. Send for snacks,
Open the mini-bar—tiny happy gifts,
Hey! Watch out! Attack!
Sex is a weapon, a loaded gun,
All too much, too much fun;
Games in secret—don’t let on,
That you know, you know?
When the dawn breaks, her wet
Hair shakes, all over you, it’s all—
All set! Are you awake? Can you
Get up. Let’s fall—fall apart;
Sex is a weapon, a sharpened blade,
So little escape, so little to gain;
Let’s just hope—mark the grave,
Make the grade, here lies our Son:
What’s that? A meaning? Oh,
No, it’s just the maid, please turn—
Turn it down, honey. Quick! To the
Shower, we can cram in another…
Love is made, watch out! It burns.
Sex is an extension of our selves,
Okay, kiddies, we're gonna call it here for this evening. This thing's still goin' strong, no doubt, but I know you kids can't sit still that long without needing a snack or going potty or twittering or someshit, so you know what? Tune next week for the exciting conclusion!
Hi there...sorry I haven't been around...Been busy with well...nothing, lately. Cept getting achievements and phat lewts on my troll.
Got a new tablet pen and graphics software today. Still trying to figure it out since I accidentally skipped the tutorial. Got some of it down. It's like a more intuitive photoshop really, cept I don't know if I can make like, comic boxes and stuff in it yet.
Also, felt like drawing an anime chick, just to reaffirm that I have other nerdy interests besides WoW.
Not For You Studios Presents Mr. Jack Happy Presenting The Happy Comic Comedy Act: “No Means Whatever”
- 2 shots Skye Vodka
- 2 shots Kilbeggan's Irish Whiskey
- 1 shot Bacardi Gold rum
- 5 drops of orange bitters
- 3-3 cups of Diet Dr. Pepper
all so-called subcultures; for thou
art defined by thine ignorance and
absence of substance, for shame.
Thy patron saint Foxworthy may
claim “A glorious lack of sophistication”—
Alas! 'Tis no redeeming stupidity,
will thoust argue from atop thy dung-hill?
Hark! Who doth approach?
—“Wha'tchu sayin', faggot?”
The stench of Budweiser and American cheeses!
Most foul beast, what sayeth thou?
—“Ah dun' like yer tone, boy,
Ah'll break you in hahf, c'mon”—FLEE!—
“Ya'll come back 'ere, y'hear?”
[Editor's Note: I must confess, the comic was pretty much the money-shot, everything else was just filler. A three minute doodle? An old sketch from a six- or seven-year-old sketchbook? A poem out my ass? Seriously, self?]
Now, settle down, cuz this treat is special, see. You gotta hear a little this and that to appreciate it, alright? Now, me and Mr. Happy've been workin' our little hands to the bone! This all started with a simple little story, and then good ol' Mr. Happy said, "Why don't I make some pictures?" And I said, that's fine. And he said, "Gosh, why don't you make more stories, so I can make more pictures for all the boys and girls out there?" And I said, "Why sure, they've been good lately, why not?"
And all of the sudden, we had five stories on our hands, two written by Mr. happy himself! Now, it wouldn't be fair to make him write AND draw everything, so I lent a hand and started drawing too.
"But Mr. Johnny—"
That's Mr. Johnny Despair, Esq., kid.
"But Mr. Johnny Despair, Esq., you don't draw!"
Awww, ain't that cute, thinkin' he knows things. No, boys and girls, I don't draw much. But I can make a little magic happen from time to time, should the moon be in just the right position.
Oh, there's just one more thing: I mentioned we had five stories, right? Well, one story ate all of his veggies and did all his chores the first time he was asked, so you know what, kiddies? He grew up real big and strong and fine-lookin', too. And he was so mush bigger than the other kids, it made them feel all wimpy just standin' next to him. So we're going to let him out to play next week.
Now, settle down, children. Who here likes fairy tales?
Do not wander in the woods, for wolves shall devour you. Thou shalt not trust the stranger, for it may be a villain in disguise. Do you wish to bring ruin upon your family? I hope not!
As a service to your good-for-nothing failures for parents, the illustrious Jonathan Despair and myself offer unto you, you writhing sacks of foolish innocence, these stories.
Sit still, backs straight, shoulders square, and listen carefully, for it is story-time…
I do so hope God is in your heart, for you will need Him.
…And thus concludes the time for stories, boys and girls. What have you learnt? Much, I hope, to carry home to your cozy little houses, in your tranquil little neighbourhoods, outside your vile little cities full of Godlessness.
Those of you who talked amongst yourselves while I read are required to stay after for disciplinary prayer sessions, unfortunately.
Fear not, though. There is a reason we are both tardy. We have been collaborating on a single update. It is coming along quite nicely, but there have been some issues. Nothing that can't be sorted out with a bit of time in the box though. Isn't that right, Johnathan? Hmm?
Sorry, it looks like Johnathan will take a bit longer. It seems he has not yet learned the value of being a good boy, or of turning in his work on time. when the teacher says "Pencils down," you'd better believe that she means pencils down OR ELSE. IT WAS NOT A SUGGESTION, JOHNATHAN. IT WAS AN INSTRUCTION. YOU CAN FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS, CAN'T YOU, JOHNATHAN? OR IS THERE MAYBE SOMETHING IN YOUR EARS? HMM? HMMMMMMMMMM?????
So, please check back with us soon. Thank you for your patience, and God bless.
Dr. Overwrought fell off Thursday two weeks ago and landed on Monday, today. This is one of the tales he has brought.
“Hi, welcome to McDonald's, what will you be having today?”
“Oh, I'm not here to order, I'm just here for the atmosphere.”
“The... uh... what?
“Well, I was walking down main street clothed with nothing except for my thoughts, and it occurred to me what was missing from my life was a sense of authenticity. Here I was, a man, on the cusp of adulthood, in so many ways innocent and in so many ways guilty. It is a mysterious dichotomy, isn't it? Mankind, angel and beast. Fearless and fearful. Creation and destruction. Anyways, with so great a burden of regret, I beg for reprieve... a little leave to just think, penniless and unsheltered that I am.”
“There's an employment agency, sir, down the street. Wouldn't work help you with your problems?”
“No, shame on me, for I have lost my trust.”
“There's a church, sir, down the street. Wouldn't spirituality help you with your problems?”
“No, shame on me, for I have lost my faith.”
“There's a homeless shelter, sir, down the street. Wouldn't a second chance help you with your problems?”
“No, shame on me, they have no heating.”
“Then please sir, clad yourself in our garments and warm yourself by our hearth! You are welcome here at McDonald's.”
“Had you asked me a week ago, sir, then I would have out of pride rejected your charity. But desperation is death's mistress, and so I'll accept your comfort.”
“I would be honored. We are simple, good folk here.”
“You seem to have made this place your home. Has it been in your family long?
“Oh yes sir. This place has passed down from my father from his father and from his father since last September.”
“Ah, that's a beautiful story. That's why I came in off the street, because this place just radiated warmth....”
“Unfortunately, this place is closing. We are losing the business.”
“No... that's impossible.... how can that happen?”
“It all started when a Trader Joes opened up across the street, and since then... well, since then, we've been offering fruit salads and hummus, but no even tries them. They all ask if we've got real tahini, and I don't know what that is. One man did try some, but he hated it so much he threw his pink shirt at me!”
“What am I saying? This place is worthless. I'll hang up the clown wig for good.”
“Don't say that, look at what you've done!”
“What have I done, sir, what have I done? Everything in my life is McDonald's, McDonald's, and now I'm tortured because I know now I'll lose everything! You're lucky! You never had it all! It was in my grasp and now I've squandered my life!”
“Look out there! Look at all the people that have copied you and your ideas! Monolithic capital and marketing was brilliant, and now, those who you've inspired now rule the world. It's not that you were not ready for the world... the world wasn't ready for you! I mean... are you crying?”
“Oh... yes, I'm sorry... no one has ever thought this place authentic. I always knew what this place meant to in my heart... there's where the cousins put their hand prints into the mortar, and there's where we buried Uncle Carlos. I just want everyone else to see my passion. But no one ever says what authentic manufactured cuisine we have... everyone just complains about the estrogen we put into our drinks.”
“Ssh, don't cry. Everything will be fine.”
“I... I have a request...”
“What it is it?”
“I'm... I'm too ashamed to say it.”
“Just tell me.”
“No, no, it's too embarrassing.”
“Whisper it into my ear.”
“Ok.... it's just a little thing... ooooh... I can't say, but I have to.... could you... could you butt-fuck me?”
My whole body felt as if it were on fire. It was probably because I was too close to the sun. At least that's how it felt. I had been lying in the frost laden grass for about an hour and a half now and could feel the UV rays seeping past my clothes to the dermis: that's the top layer of skin. The whole thing is called the epidermis, from out to in, and back around again.
That almost sounds like a child's rhyme.
Opening my eyes was like waking up after sleeping for 12 plus hours, the light streams in through a crack in the curtain and it goes right into your eyes. You can feel the sheer whiteness of the light sear into your eyes and bore into the back of your head. It's something about the winter sun that makes it whiter and brighter.
I stood unsteady on shaky limbs that had settled into a sleep-like position and felt the pins and needles of numbness prickling my feet and trail up to the tops of my thighs. I swallowed the cobwebs from my mouth and stretched to the sky. Today was different than all the others. Today I was going to do something more, something better, something bigger and different and unique and it would make an impact and erase all the bad.
Dusting the dirt and grass from my skirt, I tromped through the cold dead leaves, pulling my woolen shawl tighter around my bodice, trying to forget that my organs were rearranged in a different pattern than nature intended. I could see the white cloud of my breath to remind me that it was late January, and that I should have been inside hours ago. Bending over with what seemed like great difficulty I wrapped my hand around the nettles and yanked them out feeling the prickly texture of the perimeter of the leaves. A bright emerald against the rouge of my fingerless woolen gloves. My fingertips were almost the same color. It was a wonder I hadn't frozen to death while taking my afternoon respite.
Cold penetrates with unrelenting tenacity, until it takes over, spreads to the bone and travels to all parts until it freezes and captures and takes takes takes...It reminds me of him. I can hear his voice, feel his touch and my lip curls, my eyes narrow. Hate is the only thing I can think of when I think of him. And then I hear my name on his lips.
"Rosalie! Ge' ova 'ere righ' na' an' make ma' dinna'!"
Ill-bred. Can't even speak properly. Just his bastardization of low land inbreeding. But this is my lot in life. I was the first daughter of 4, the 'lucky' one as my mother put it. Oh, we were simple low merchant class, but this man would make my name rise above the rest. The executioner was in his own class, he got paid more than any merchant, sometimes more than a lord, depending on the execution.
He was rough with me, more than expected...more than I was warned. Every time he bedded me he made sure I was in pain before he finished. It was my duty, my job, my position to give him what he desired when he returned from executing this or that peasant for whatever reason. I never know why, and now after a year of it, I don't care. Trudging down to the village, smoke trailing from our chimney I knew that my constitution would not last if I didn't muster courage quickly.
"Coming..." I breathed and opened the door with my left hand, the nettles clutched tightly in my right. "I'll be right there."
From the smoking ruins of a smoldering building arose a hunched figure silhouetted by the huge moon hanging low in the night sky. The figure rummaged around in the ash and debris—searching. Upon closer inspection, it would be revealed as a soot-covered man with wild, singed blue hair and barely any clothes clinging to his wispy, sweat-soaked body.
His eyes rose to the moon and stared for one long minute. In that minute, the moon reflected in his blue irises, and the dying fires of an awful disaster could be glimpsed. He finally blinked, and resumed his scavenging. In the distance, the sirens of approaching emergency vehicles began to trickle into the periphery of his hearing.
Cursing loudly, the blue-haired man quit looking around the wreckage and hopped over what seemed to be charred remnants of a leather couch. He ducked down behind it and laughter suddenly erupted into the quiet night. The man rose back to his feet, holding a blackened human skill in both of his hands. He grinned maniacally at the chipped and broken teeth of the victim's skull, and poked a finger into one empty socket curiously, exploring.
"Jack be nimble, Jack be nimble," the man recited in a high-pitched falsetto like that a child's voice. "Jack found himself a candle stick." He bellowed with mad guffaws at his own joke, and hurled the skull against the still-standing husk of one of the building's walls.
"THEY CAN'T KNOW!"
Jack's Recipes for Happiness: The "Orange-Up-Your-Cherry":
- 1 shot Skye Vodka
- 1/2 shot Contreau orange liquer
- 2 shots Kilbggan's Irish Whiskey
- 6 drops orange bitters
- 1 cup Cherry 7UP
ENJOY AT YOUR OWN RISK!
[Editor's Note: Attached images not meant to be relevant to contents of body.]
[Note: Sorry, kiddos, for not tunin' in at the same Despair-Time, same Despair-Channel last week. I was at Small Press Expo, kickin' it anachronistic-school, takin' names and creepin' out Meredith Gran. Sorry I was wierd. You're a real nice lady. Anyway, more con details later, maybe. And now: As the title says.]James Joyce is undoubtedly one of the most famous authors of the 20th century, with a collection of works as dense with meaning and allusions as they are influential. Perhaps best known for his Ulysses, his unquestioned masterpiece, but his neither is his earlier work unforgotten. His infamous collection of short stories, Dubliners, was composed between the ages of 22 and 25, yet is just as complex and rewarding as anything he's written. Recently, yet another classic Joycian composition has been unearthed: a previously unknown collection of stories that compliment and build on the rich themes of Dubliners: Americaners. Here, we are pleased to present some excerpts from this recovered marvel, which we are sure is not long off from being elevated to most celebrated positions in the literary canon, as well as some brief introductory analysis.
A dark red truck races along a tired back road. The driver's heart races along with, faster, setting the pace as the lead car. His name is short and crude, either Frank or Earl or perhaps even Bob. It is irrelevant, much like his suspended license and his pending court date. He is tense, willing the Earth to somehow compress so his destination might be closer. He will make it, he tells himself, he has to.
Sunday mornings, Father Randy stood before the crowd and told them God's inalterable, immutable will. Sunday afternoons, he followed them to the local sportsbar and indulged. He was a good man, a pious man, and after all, beer was not so different from wine. Father Randy often joked about his Buds being sacramental booze. People rarely laughed at his jokes.
Thunder split a dull gunmetal sky, but the men gathered in the bar couldn't hear it over their cheers. The television was broadcasting images of brightly colored cars speeding around and around a track, and they all marveled at their speed and their circling ability. Their drinks are staggeringly cheap and plentiful and do nothing to soften the incessant pain of their pedestrian lives. But the cars drove on, and that was such a clever thing for them to do.
Gentlemen Prefer Blonds
It was Friday, and for Hank Johns, this meant two things. The first was that it was payday. The second was that he could afford to buy some pussy. The women he purchased often referred to it as “attention” or “company” or “a date,” but in this act, Hank did not harbor any illusions. He knew he was buying nothing more or less than a few hours of their time and a big, messy farewell.
A fat, blotchy redneck drinks awful booze. His face is horrible and his mind unbelievably dumb. He loves only awful things and is just a stupid jerk. He hits his wife and his kids and minorities sometimes when no one is looking and what a miserable piece of crap you're thinking well you know what surprise he's the perfect metaphor in every way for this stupid goddamn country.