tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2408378992312157662023-11-16T09:49:18.095-05:00Not For You StudiosThese studios? They are just not for you.Red Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08450957256568560972noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-79498904088053845312011-04-25T00:01:00.005-04:002011-04-25T00:01:03.198-04:00Happy Fucking Earth Day, Man<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0sOCeq1yy5ZGdaZEpMdOvl06vt1KJ04g7g-ZBqzuvv41YYP2m-wu5jE7KcP2DvKKz92lQsmk7ESRql3roKa8XjeV6Hrm-eMwzausRocL30Nt72DnQjvXK0wHX0CP607JpLN6hBU3Ebs8H/s1600/Turtle+Comic.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="DCKD: Turtles" border="3" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0sOCeq1yy5ZGdaZEpMdOvl06vt1KJ04g7g-ZBqzuvv41YYP2m-wu5jE7KcP2DvKKz92lQsmk7ESRql3roKa8XjeV6Hrm-eMwzausRocL30Nt72DnQjvXK0wHX0CP607JpLN6hBU3Ebs8H/s400/Turtle+Comic.png" title="Is this where the witty comment goes? I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do here. Is this where I validate you for hovering your mouse cursor over this image? Or, what? You just viewed the Properties by right-clicking, didn't you, you lazy fuck, you?" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This comic is a needless parody of <a href="http://xkcd.com/889/" target="_new">last Friday's xkcd</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Mr. Jack Happyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09566819087306613304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-8648363206851862352010-03-03T13:41:00.008-05:002013-09-22T13:30:58.055-04:00So Try Harder<div>
"Re' on white makes fer a lovely bride, don' ya think darlin'?" my voice was thick with malice while hot tears trickled down my pale face. It was something he had said to me when he took me our 'wedding' night, when he was pretending to be a husband.</div>
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<em>Murder, death, the very end of existence. Is it some black hole or a white light? Do we go peacefully and know everything is going to be fine, just fine; or is it going to be not fine...not fine at all darling? The end or the beginning...either way, it's not my problem anymore. You're not my problem anymore 'darling'. Not at all.</em></div>
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I mulled these thoughts over his body, my hand smeared pink with the pricks of the herb.</div>
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Standing there long enough to have the clouds pass over the sun slowly, several times; each time dimming the shack we used to share and then setting the inside vividly aflame with light, I realized it was time to finally move. Suddenly, an urge came over my insides and I briefly considered soiling his body as further insult to his person, but reconsidered that this might be an act of ownership, like an animal marking territory, and discarded the idea entirely. I wanted no connection to this...person, this waste of life and breath, any longer. </div>
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I had been fifteen when my mother arranged it. He was "above" my class, but when you're at the bottom of the caste system there's only one way to move up and that is to marry up. Jeb was up alright, always eyeing me at the pub I worked at to make ends meat. He would come in from the Fields of Discard, he was a warden around there, organized the Rabble and kept out the Riffraff that would steal ( "But who cared if you stole someone elses' garbage?" I would ask "Order!" he barked, foaming at the mouth at my insolence "ORDER. An' if ye can' ge' tha' ye might as well kill ye'self, bettern' dyin' at the hands of anarchy!" )</div>
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I used the sleeve of my dirty brown woolen tunic to wipe away the remaining emotion I had left in me and then set to figuring out how to drag his lifeless, mammoth frame out and throw it into the Fields of Discard. A refuse train would be along town any moment...I could throw him on that...it would take him and burn him and I would never look back. </div>
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Just then, a thundering noise shook the house and I fell, the huge massive vibration that was familiar and unnatural. "O God!" I gasped and put out the fire to stand in the still heated coals, quivering with fear I had not felt since childhood. They were coming again, again to rape the ground, possibly the villagers and definitely to raid their homes.</div>
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The Steel Goliaths with their razor-sharp maws and their steely necks were controlled by the government of our "kind and benevolent" leader to weed out any and all plastics, steels and any other "threat to the kingdom". Our leader...a man in the castle to the north, so far away and barely-but-still-yet-visible in the distance. A god on Mount Olympus that no one could dream of touching or even seeing. One only heard of him, they did not see him, and they only heard tales of his "kindness and benevolence". However what we experienced was far different than the tales told to us by the guards of his, the kings army, steel monsters with plastic casings and sharp needles filled with red, blue and green liquids that we were forced to be injected with ( "Or you will die!" the crooked town apothecary sputtered while ogling my breasts ).</div>
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Dust from the rafters above rained down and soot feel warmly on the back of my neck. No matter, I would not be caught and my house would not be razed (or so I kept whispering to myself). Even if it were, I was in the only thing that would remain and would not be killed. Safest place in the house right?<br />
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...Right?</div>
Captain Cutthroathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04297109631968981689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-87389391757236578442009-12-25T18:53:00.001-05:002009-12-25T18:54:34.948-05:00A Christmas Tale with Mr. Jack Happy<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: blue;">December 25th, 2008: </span></span></b><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><i>0413</i></span><br />
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<div style="text-indent: 1em;">Things were cold, then. Cold for <span style="color: blue;">Jack</span>, and cold for the earth, the wind was bitter like an old man with no family and no friends. It turned his face a shade of festive blue, his lips cracking a wide smile.<br />
</div><br />
<div style="text-indent: 1em;"><span style="color: blue;">Jack </span>knew there was no room in this world for yet another poem about snow. It covered the surroundings and turned all things virgin white, pristine and so on, so forth. <i>How many ways can one say that <span style="color: blue;">Winter </span>is a time of death, hibernation, and purificiation</i>, he pondered?<br />
<blockquote><i><span style="float: left; font-size: 25px; line-height: 25px; margin-right: 1px;">O</span><span style="color: blue;"> Lord</span>, thou art a four-faced phantom!</i><br />
<i>This face: white and flaky like canned <span style="color: blue;">biscuits</span>!</i><br />
</blockquote></div><div style="text-indent: 1em;">Still, he felt compelled to mull over the icy landscape, the unshovelled sidewalls frozen with millions of shoe- and boot-prints. Dirty mountains of grimy snow were plowed onto the curb and left to melt on the sides of the streets. It was certainly a magnificent and beautiful <span style="color: blue;">Time of the Year!</span><br />
<blockquote><i><span style="float: left; font-size: 25px; line-height: 25px; margin-right: 1px;">O</span><span style="color: blue;"> Mother</span>, thoust nature is four-sided!</i><br />
<i>This side: chill like the store-bought Christmas <span style="color: blue;">ham</span>!</i><br />
</blockquote></div><div style="text-indent: 1em;">Drops of ice-water fell on his head and sent shivers down his spine, as he stood outside the train station. Icicles had formed on all of the doorways and tops of windows, arcing their tendrils downward above him, menacing him. The puffy snow-filled clouds hovered overhead like bombers ready to strike. <span style="color: blue;">Jack </span>needed ear-muffs.<br />
<blockquote><i><span style="float: left; font-size: 25px; line-height: 25px; margin-right: 1px;">O</span><span style="color: blue;"> Father</span>, yourst face has four hands!</i><br />
<i>This hand: turns the <span style="color: blue;">slowliest </span>of all!</i><br />
</blockquote></div><div style="text-indent: 1em;">Short days and long nights drove Jack insane. The sun came too short, didn’t deliver on its promise of rejuvenation, and hid away from the cold dark. Doctors would just say he suffered from seasonal depression, but <span style="color: blue;">Jack </span>knew better. <span style="color: blue;">Jack </span>knew <b style="color: red;">God </b>hated the <span style="color: blue;">Cold</span>, too—why else freeze the <span style="color: red;">Earth</span>, but to spare it the suffering?<br />
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</div><div style="text-indent: 1em;"><span style="color: blue;">Jack </span>huddled for warmth, waiting for the train, and felt alone in a shared isolation, shared between him and the <b>City</b>. The <b>City</b>: she had fallen flat on her face, slipped on a patch of black ice, and didn’t want to get up only to inch forward, barely lifting her feet, in fear of falling, again. Things were cold, cold for <span style="color: blue;">Jack</span>, and cold for her, too.<br />
<blockquote><i><span style="float: left; font-size: 25px; line-height: 25px; margin-right: 1px;">O</span><span style="color: blue;"> Christ</span>, mas o menos buenavista!</i><br />
<i>What ho? Ho, ho, ho, frozen <span style="color: blue;">peas</span>!</i><br />
<i>(They’re even <span style="color: blue;">better </span>when you’re <b>dead</b>!)</i><br />
</blockquote></div>Mr. Jack Happyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09566819087306613304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-91038698990741951122009-12-25T11:33:00.004-05:002009-12-25T12:09:42.901-05:00Well Merry Christmas Boys and Girls!Well gosh, children, it's so nice to get a chance to see you all on this most special day! Oh, but I should introduce myself. You can call me...oh, I know, how about Mommy Despair? That's so cute! I'm quite proud of myself! You see, little Johnny has come back home for the holidays, bless him, and while he's busy checking his stocking, he seems to have left his laptop logged into his little website! What a silly child. I'm sure I raised him better.<div><br /></div><div>Now, let's see here...oh, my, judging by this site, I think Santa must have made a mix up with all those gifts. I mean, making fun of religion, and all the profanity and allusions to deviant sexuality! Goodness me, it's a good thing I found this! I'm sure Johnny would have written some other horrible little story, and just gone and soured everyone's holiday spirit! Good thing Mommy Despair is here to keep the season bright.</div><div><br /></div><div>Why, that reminds me. Did he ever tell you all why they call him Johnny Despair? I bet you thought he just picked it out himself, because it sounded all "punk." Oh goodness me no. He didn't pick the name at all, you see. It was... gosh, how many years ago was it? Hm. Oh, Johnny, would you get in here and help your mother out with something?</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, my, maybe I shouldn't have called him in. He looks livid! Oh, but he's <i>soo cute</i> when he's all pouty and stompy. Isn't my handsome little man just the cutest! "Ma, stop it," he says. Well maybe you should have kept your computer more secure, mister, and we wouldn't be in this boat. You know I worry about your computer, and the identity thieves and all. But anyway, do you remember how long ago it was you first got your little nickname?</div><div><br /></div><div>Ohhh, he doesn't look mad anymore, internet peoples! "Ma, don't go there, please," he says to me. But it's such a sweet little story, and even appropriate for Christmas! Well, fine, if you won't help I'll tell it on my own. Oh no you don't, mister, hands off! On Christmas Day, you can't even give your mother, who worked and sacrificed and <i>slaved</i> to bring you up, put you through college, and get you the damn laptop you're trying to snatch away, you can't even give her the simple gift of being involved in her son's life? Hmmmm?</div><div><br /></div><div>That's what I though, mister.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, it was a number of years ago, a bit before Christmas break. Little Johnny was still in grade school, and he was so excited for Christmas, as all children are. But Johnny was not exactly a popular child, I hate to admit. He would get teased and picked on. He had, well, there's not a nice way to say it, is there....he had emotional issues, you see. Took everything oh so seriously. And not just the way a child does; he'd be murderously angry over a lunchtime insult, or be shamed into silence for days over a little mistake. There's nothing wrong with being an...<i>emotional </i>child, of course, but it made him such an easy target for the other boys and girls. I always told him: if you stop reacting, they'll stop doing it, but did he listen to his mother? Noooooo....</div><div><br /></div><div>Well like I said, it was a little before Christmas, and Johnny was excited. He carried his list to Santa all around with him, to remind him to be good, he told me, although I knew it was really so he could add more things as it came to him. Well, one of the other children saw him working on his list and snatched it away. The boy said something like, "Aww, little baby is working on his list for Santa. Aww, little baby don't even know that Santa ain't real!" (I'm just guessing, here, based on what Johnny told me later, of course.) And then he laughed and tore up the letter. I think he might have made it into spitballs, or made Johnny eat it, or something. I don't really recall that part. Something else mean happened, I think.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well little Johnny was so upset, he just started bawling. I mean he would not stop! He just kept crying and crying and crying and class couldn't go on like that so they sent him to the principal's office and called me to get him. And when I got there, well, I told you he's so cute when he's pouty! I couldn't take the poor boy seriously. He was so upset, but all I could do was pinch his little cheeks and say, "Aww, what's wong wif Mommy's widdle Mistah Sadness? What's makin' her little Johnny a little Johnny Despair?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, and let me tell you, that dried those tears right up! He was so embarrassed! "Nothing!" he said, and put on his bravest little face. And that was so cute too! So I imagine I don't really need to tell you, that from then on, every time he made a little pouty face, I'd tease him, say, "Excuse me, widdle Mr. Despair, have you seen my Johnny? I swear he was just here," or something like that. Ohh, but he hated it! And, of course, eventually other mothers heard about it, and then their children did, and pretty soon everyone in the neighborhood knew all about my little Johnny Despair.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, I hear the neighbors at the door. We always do a little Christmas exchange, you see. They were like a second family to my little Johnny, I had to be away so often. Now, Johnny, you better not delete this. I'll be checking your little site, even if it makes me uncomfortable, and making sure this is still here. I'm your mother, goddamnit, and I won't be ignored. You know how a lot of moms say "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of it?" Remember, Johnny: you may have grown up big and strong, but I have cop friends. And guns. And a whole lot of quiet woodland where you could hide almost anything.</div><div><br /></div><div>Don't mess with me, Johnny. I am your fucking mother. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Merry Christmas all you strange little people who read my son's nasty little website!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Call your mothers. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm serious.</div>Johnny Despair, Esq.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10398154802690610918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-37039178196845340532009-12-13T21:36:00.005-05:002009-12-15T22:11:57.199-05:00What I've been doing recentlyThings I've been working on.<br />
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<a href="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/SpaceportCanthus.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/SpaceportCanthus.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 640px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/Experiment.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/Experiment.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 321px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/FemaleVerdanian.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/FemaleVerdanian.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 371px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 242px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/Portrait1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/Portrait1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 245px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/Portrait2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/Portrait2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 243px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 156px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/FortressofVigilance.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/FortressofVigilance.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 640px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/RobotPortrait.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/RobotPortrait.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 232px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 222px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/DarkRepublicModel.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/DarkRepublicModel.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 432px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 1022px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/FoundationColony.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/FoundationColony.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 640px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/VerdaniaInvaded.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/VerdaniaInvaded.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 640px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/DarkRepublicConcept2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/DarkRepublicConcept2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 347px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 379px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/Face.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/Face.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 640px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/Tank.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/Tank.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 640px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/NewBloodstain.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i860.photobucket.com/albums/ab168/Magicwillnz/NewBloodstain.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 640px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://forums.elementalgame.com/369550" target="_new">http://forums.elementalgame.com/369550</a>Dr. Seignor Overwrought XXIII Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17398248395713391410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-39709975221304206562009-12-06T17:27:00.002-05:002009-12-06T17:46:37.125-05:00Still Basically SickOkay kids, you all saw the title, but don't go freaking out now. Yeah, I'm ill, and yeah, I gotta nasty cough that maybe makes a little of the green stuff fly out when I'm tryin' to talk. It ain't no thang; your boy Johnny Despair, Esq. here ain't been contagious for weeks, and if he wasn't so under the gun trying to get his got-damned degree, he'd probably be fit as a fuckin' fiddle. But alas and alack, my speedy recovery was not meant to be. Boo hoo, for shame. Woe and fie on those foul machinations of fate what rob us all etc. etc.<div><br /></div><div>Anyway, in case ya'll couldn't tell by now (and in which case, you have definitely not been paying attention. I am fairly sure I mentioned at some point you would have to try harder. Of course, I also said something about regular content, so maybe I ought to just shut my self-aggrandizing sickhole), this here is one of them filler-posts. A little somthin-somthin to let ya'll know I am (basically) alive and there will be things here as soon as I can make that be.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the meanwhile, here's a neat little link, just so's you can't say I never gave you nothin': I been clued into this show called <a href="http:/en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ginga:_Nagareboshi_Gin">Ginga Nagareboshi Gin.</a> Yes, it is an animu. The title translates roughly to "Gin the HOLY SHIT YOU GUYS DOG WHO FUCKING FIGHTS BEARS." It is old, and the translation sucks, but that honestly is helping to sell it for me. Another fun fact: no one seems to own the rights to distribute in the US, so if you felt the need to illegally obtain it, perhaps through some sort of <a href="http://thepiratebay.org">known harbor for pirates</a>, you wouldn't even technically be committing a crime. You know, if that sort of thing bothers you. Dunno why it would, but as a hypothetical.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I got papers to write and mucus to forcibly expel, so I'ma cut this short. Until next time, kiddies, make sure to pour a mug of hot cider on the curb for your lost homeboy,</div><div><br /></div><div>A certain Mr. Johnny Despair, Esq.</div>Johnny Despair, Esq.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10398154802690610918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-13936142794729091422009-11-23T21:49:00.002-05:002010-10-10T09:55:09.916-04:00Why Do They Call Me Mr. Happy? "Read Between the Lines" (Filler Comic)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhujRxaAOgzmff7o5uJyDo9leLQoc-YLeVVFlPk_NhWxboqSPlx0CeWUbUXjd3l-ywgeCG_rdab8gprCQNJx-Q65eqbq8TVYC-RkDyoD-bkJtYTSfQnY0VXYg2qCZVlkNPXC2iAJ-KhJ-U/s1600/Happy-BetweenFiller-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhujRxaAOgzmff7o5uJyDo9leLQoc-YLeVVFlPk_NhWxboqSPlx0CeWUbUXjd3l-ywgeCG_rdab8gprCQNJx-Q65eqbq8TVYC-RkDyoD-bkJtYTSfQnY0VXYg2qCZVlkNPXC2iAJ-KhJ-U/s200/Happy-BetweenFiller-1.JPG" style="border: 5px solid yellow;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf2D0T3ayhBQB6TLYhyGEGAV74CdsFbCJNxZjnWCrjE1ej3fg7EC5sedO_Q890YUWQ-R24Vs4yQV4V1yh7F4c7i1e2IlKBEmty1o5F7e2ahfR5qFg7hehBWBkNVe3-kG6Uf7ye0Cg7VS0/s1600/Happy-BetweenFiller-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf2D0T3ayhBQB6TLYhyGEGAV74CdsFbCJNxZjnWCrjE1ej3fg7EC5sedO_Q890YUWQ-R24Vs4yQV4V1yh7F4c7i1e2IlKBEmty1o5F7e2ahfR5qFg7hehBWBkNVe3-kG6Uf7ye0Cg7VS0/s200/Happy-BetweenFiller-2.JPG" style="border: 5px solid blue;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlyEvObIZYdzmHNnd7_3vH0gtIsDCRA6uYyIgmjLB29wNOUarQZ3skGSXHLBTnmqDCCK2DP7m-VB5aFjNyrknVSnaHSagEOgUINkAw91-DuwFixLxZhQS9LgCDyt2b1gh3lMejNl9YR4w/s1600/Happy-BetweenFiller-3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlyEvObIZYdzmHNnd7_3vH0gtIsDCRA6uYyIgmjLB29wNOUarQZ3skGSXHLBTnmqDCCK2DP7m-VB5aFjNyrknVSnaHSagEOgUINkAw91-DuwFixLxZhQS9LgCDyt2b1gh3lMejNl9YR4w/s200/Happy-BetweenFiller-3.JPG" style="border: 5px solid yellow;" /></a></div><div style="border: 2px dotted blue; margin: 1em; padding: 2px;">What's sad is that I could've probably finished "No Means Whatever" Scene 4 in the time it took me to draw these. And, yes, they're cut off. I… am not concerned. Sorry.</div>Mr. Jack Happyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09566819087306613304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-1660353944226674992009-11-20T11:04:00.005-05:002009-11-20T12:20:54.816-05:00Man, Swine Flu Is For PosersStand back, boys and girls, don't get too close, and hurry up and put on the supplied face masks and sanitary gloves. It's your boy Johnny Despair, Esq. here, and he's sick, baby, <i>sick. </i>But not with that flash-in-the-pan swine-flu business. Hell no. That ain't no respectable kind of sickness. Nuh-uh. Your boy's got some old-school fukken' disease right here. Got some pneumonia all up in his lungs, wreckin' the place, all coughin' up gobs of boogers 'n blood and sounding like a big old pile of dyin' grandpas. Pneumonia is a <i>real</i> friggin' sickness. That shit killed <i>presidents</i>, man, at least one of 'em. I think. I may currently be hallucinating under fever. Whatever. Pneumonia is bad shit, no doubt. So, you know, not been a productive week, unless you count massive sweats and disorientation as being productive. <div><br /></div><div>So, as a little gift to you (but mostly myself), I'ma link ya'll to some righteous entertainment while I'm out of commission. Now, for reasons that have nothing at all to do with a contest that he's runnin', now seems like a hell of a time to spread my deep love of <a href="http://www.wondermark.com/">Wondermark</a>. Wondermark is a great comic. It is consistently really, really funny. David Malki! is a guy who knows how to write comics. He has put essays up on his site about this very subject, and they are also very friggin' funny. Malki! is really a guy who ought to be a much bigger force in webcomics, in my estimation: he's clever; he's handsome (raaawr); he's nice; he's productive (despite only updating the comic proper twice a week, he does regular sketches, and various essays and blogs posts means there is content basically every day); his aesthetic sense is poised to pounce upon the exposed jugular vein of the steampunk/anachro-fashion movement like a beautiful, misunderstood vampire eager to drink it dry and not even give a shit and not even be beautiful but a disfigured old monster with horrible claws and barely human anatomy because <i>that</i> is how my vampires role and jesus FUCK can I stop seeing <i>Twilight </i>ads in my fucking convalescence pretty pretty <i>fucking </i>please I know bitching about <i>Twilight</i> is now about as cool as bitching about Fox News but honestly I am sick and I do not need this shit all up in my eyes; he's all about these "beards" that the kids seem excited about these days; and he produces one of the most listenable podcasts I've ever heard, <a href="http://http://tweetmeharder.tumblr.com/">Tweet Me Harder</a> along with <a href="http://http://www.krisstraub.com/">Kris Straub</a>, who is, last time I checked, a friggin' institution or something. True story about Tweet Me Harder: I once listened to it <i>so harder</i>, that I was unintentionally talking like a weird Kris Straub/David Malki! slash-fic lovebaby for days. It took three hours of listening to the Sex Pistols to cure it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, another item for the list: David Malki! designs some of the net's best shirts. Don't believe me? Consider the <a href="http://http://www.topatoco.com/merchant.mvc?Screen=CTGY&Store_Code=TO&Category_Code=WON-SHIRTS">evidence.</a> If I was a cartoon character and could only wear one shirt forever, it would be hard not to pick "Steam Powered Heart."</div><div><br /></div><div>Okay, going back to forcibly losing fluids from various holes. Drink your orange juice and don't lick strange objects, kids, and you may just avoid the terrible fate of the sad, the pitiable, the ever-on-the-verge-of-covering-himself-in-sick,</div><div><br /></div><div>Johnny Despair, Esq.</div>Johnny Despair, Esq.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10398154802690610918noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-54539053471695838082009-11-16T21:29:00.002-05:002009-11-16T21:31:23.290-05:00A Not Very Special Presentation by Mr. Jack Happy (Do Not Be Alarmed)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP2hF5PCu2NeFixnOARxUU_xuVolXV00oqQBhfsPblRwVZTQdFTfGUegMCkWRp7fbD8F8ikm0rYL4PQIDRQx6aWuhmSlH6Cw70tkXFKK3N_kciyXy-kgmiKgke6yAaoFW_t6ddpvbmy1_3/s1600/Happy4-Preview.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP2hF5PCu2NeFixnOARxUU_xuVolXV00oqQBhfsPblRwVZTQdFTfGUegMCkWRp7fbD8F8ikm0rYL4PQIDRQx6aWuhmSlH6Cw70tkXFKK3N_kciyXy-kgmiKgke6yAaoFW_t6ddpvbmy1_3/s400/Happy4-Preview.JPG" style="border: 3px dotted brown; padding: 2px;" /><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">[ Why late, Scene 4? ] </span><br />
</div><blockquote>1. Jack went away over the weekend on a lovely vacation.<br />
2. Adult Swim dares to premiere both new episodes of <i>Venture Brothers</i> and <i>Metalocalpyse</i> online on Mondays.<br />
3. See Jack work. Work, Jack, work. Hard. Harder. <i>HARDER!</i> O-o-oh, baby, that's the <i>spot…</i><br />
</blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">[COMING TOMORROW]</span><br />
<span style="border: 1px dotted; font-size: xx-small;">(Double Entendre'd)</span><br />
</div>Mr. Jack Happyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09566819087306613304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-90281562467677407902009-11-09T23:51:00.004-05:002009-11-11T10:59:12.956-05:00Live from Not For You Studios, The Happy Comic Comedy Act with Mr. Jack Happy: "No Means Whatever"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8P43Hf9-Ivcvv1F3yzIAcctWYiIR-hhLpWvNJnjJzWPj3Vn_98psdkBfSSSPkYGXTwhRRitztETK8gjJ0sb2C5c89oGa_4c0hrw4RKlrpVYUqTf2cQzBJ3i28zpvqTcU8EVWxxUygfAk/s1600-h/HappyComic%233.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8P43Hf9-Ivcvv1F3yzIAcctWYiIR-hhLpWvNJnjJzWPj3Vn_98psdkBfSSSPkYGXTwhRRitztETK8gjJ0sb2C5c89oGa_4c0hrw4RKlrpVYUqTf2cQzBJ3i28zpvqTcU8EVWxxUygfAk/s640/HappyComic%233.JPG" style="border: 3px double blue;" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="border: 1px dashed blue; font-size: large;"><b>[Act One: Scene Three]</b></span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: 1px double blue; clear: both; text-align: right;"><i> </i><i>First: </i>[<a href="http://nfys.blogspot.com/2009/10/not-for-you-studios-presents-mr-jack.html">Act One: Scene One</a>]<i> </i><i>Previous: </i>[<a href="http://nfys.blogspot.com/2009/11/very-special-presentation-of-mr-jack.html">Act One: Intermission</a>] <i>Next: </i>[…]<br />
</div><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>June 18th, 2008:</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwnomW49Pd-JQNfDbK4p_5RwjHjAD4l-jKGQrOirRP8GfsJoj9cVrLO9bpZjKHCV3Z5Q1mtvBpq31lq-Dowly01zH8CE6xTyHr4eJW96z16nkpiMS25OZAwxhZHefndlIJb8YZLT80xpU/s1600-h/BelieveinHappy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwnomW49Pd-JQNfDbK4p_5RwjHjAD4l-jKGQrOirRP8GfsJoj9cVrLO9bpZjKHCV3Z5Q1mtvBpq31lq-Dowly01zH8CE6xTyHr4eJW96z16nkpiMS25OZAwxhZHefndlIJb8YZLT80xpU/s320/BelieveinHappy.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><span style="background-color: blue; border: 1px dashed orange; color: red; float: left; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 60px; line-height: 50px; margin-right: 2px; padding: 2px;">J</span>ack knew he would never know who he was. Identity was clay—an unfired lump of mud on his work-table. It was a grade school ashtray, a middle school miniature penis, a high school Futurist knock-off, a college equestrian figurine waving a saber… A young adult’s hobby locked in the closet, shoved behind the shoes, taped in a box, mislabeled, forgotten.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-indent: 3em;">There’s productivity to be had! Work to be done! Money to be made! What need is there of an identity in our capitalist society driven by consumerism, in our popular culture driven by fads? Hark, you can be What You Do! It’s <i>simple</i>, it’s <i>easy</i>, it’s <i>profitable</i>…<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">…It’s predictably boring. So Jack cleaned out the skeletons from his closet and found his old identity. It was markedly different than what he remembered, though: he remembered noble delusions of intellectual pursuit and Renaissance knowledgeability. He remembered words like “knowledgeability.”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">What was Jack to do? His identity was dusty and unrecognizable, some maligned form of a lost truth in darkened memories. Jack was once an Artist, but now what did he have—nothing more than a lot of words he learned in school for describing what he didn’t have. He wold be a Writer.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg30_oQXpd93zldUaaJ7mbgJXsPh9PsSSHm1BIOGCzWEbvVayHMkcDZpvqXcs9qLQM5x6fO0hJIII8QIbaFzKhv0wjJerARBs-NMvbTrXyifu_PKPZPzXqfeBflWdI8yavoGx9jShQFAGY/s1600-h/Sketch-Afterlife.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg30_oQXpd93zldUaaJ7mbgJXsPh9PsSSHm1BIOGCzWEbvVayHMkcDZpvqXcs9qLQM5x6fO0hJIII8QIbaFzKhv0wjJerARBs-NMvbTrXyifu_PKPZPzXqfeBflWdI8yavoGx9jShQFAGY/s320/Sketch-Afterlife.JPG" /></a><br />
</div>But, ‘tis the Modern Age, young pioneer! So, being a Writer quickly becomes being a Blogger, and Jack did have himself a Blog for awhile. Until it, too, bored him, and lost its purpose, and gave him no sense of identity; so, instead, he fell in love with a beautiful maiden.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">Jack did not live Happily Ever After. Quite the opposite, in fact, for awhile… It was lucky for Jack that he had good friends.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">And it was there that Jack knew he had found his purpose. He saw Art in friendship, and he saw an entire generation with that empty reflection in their eyes, that lost identity. Who are any of us, anyway?<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">Therefore, Jack knew he would never know who he truly was, but he knew he could draw, and write, and talk, and laugh, and cry, and live, and die.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">But never love again.<br />
</div>Mr. Jack Happyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09566819087306613304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-26177336045306588012009-11-06T18:57:00.015-05:002009-11-06T21:31:27.673-05:00Stuff I Found Lying Around My Place<div style="text-align: center;">Well hey there, boys and ghouls... wait, shit, Halloween was last week.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, it's your boy Johnny Despair, Esq. back again. Now, before I get started, I wanted to just throw out an announcement or two.</div><div><br /></div><div>First: For those of you who've been paying attention, waiting with (master)bated breath (haw!), "Hail To The King" will be concluded shortly. My uncannily talented and eerily incomprehensible co-worker, Mr. Jack Happy, has been really frikken' outdoing himself on the art, and wants to makes sure it looks <b>just right.</b> Seriously, don't even ask about it, if he's working on something. Dude is <i>crazy</i> territorial. Next thing you know, he'll be peein' on shit just to "ward off interlopers" or whatever. </div><div><br /></div><div>I kid, I kid.</div><div><br /></div><div>Everything at his place is already covered in piss.</div><div><br /></div><div>Second: fuck, did I have another announcement? Well, I guess it's that I got stuff coming up, so my updates may be even less regular than they have been. But whatever, ya'll already figured out I don't exactly got the trains running on time or whatever.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, let me tell you a little about ME. Because, lawd knows, I don't talk about me <i>nearly enough</i>. See, I'm a guy with stuff going on. Not a job or anything, no, but I take classes sometimes. Also, I kinda got some looming debts and whatever, and it can kind of be a <i>thing</i>, when you get real dedicated to dodging some creditors. On a related note, I'ma be kicked outta this place I'm livin' in pretty soon. It's kind of a long, boring story, but I'll tell you this much: when you live above a lawyer, you don't respond to noise complaints by lowering yourself onto his balcony with a grappling hook and taking a monster shit. Allegedly.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, I been doin' some packing lately, and bein' as I'm about the most interesting sumbitch who ever lived, I been unearthin' some crazy junk just lying around. So I though I might let ya'll get a glimpse into the world of the latest and undoubtedly the greatest Internet Somebody who ever lived. </div><div><br /></div><div>Alright, let's see... got handfulls of paper with various scribblin's and whatnots on 'em. Lotta these 'r terrible, which makes 'em mine, but some of these ain't half bad. Like:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJMMCTUQmT3UcanQY4s8tW8sT3GDafoVqyJFDCXg3PXQtZVJTC8Gup8ZvmdpTbgIVO0FgtqF-vFb3GH6CdqTuH_767Glo4Kn3gn-4-voImZyXkoayLUDvuRKrbvtSFZ4Ly_QlJUXXfSLg/s400/reginald+ponswalloh006resize.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401157947773328130" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 386px; " /></span></div><div>My old roommie Red did that 'un. It's a character called Reginald Ponswalloh, from a series of stories that I'm still brewin'. I can't remember for the life of me why the hell he's in a dress, or what's up with the bird. I'ma...I'ma chalk that up to a metaphor, or somethin'</div><div><br /></div><div>Here's some weird ass old note, seems to be something about starting an, I don't know, gossip or news site, I guess? There's a couple of article ideas written here:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Many people know the story of <i>Angel</i> and <i>Bones</i> star David Boreanaz's rise to fame: while walking some dogs one day, he was 'discovered' and the rest was history! But did you know that he's never owned a dog in his life, and is legally forbidden to touch one? Or that he's secretly one of the 'wee folk', a magical race of diminutive tricksters adept at illusion? Who'd have thought walking imaginary dogs could make you rich?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">So Colplay's new album is pretty popular. Fun Fact: The preceding sentence was the only note I left before trying to blow my brains out! My ex always did say I have a thick skull! Ah-ha-ha!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The internet "bluzz" about <i>The Dark Knight</i> has been huge, and to whet fans' insatiable "blopetite," they're released <i>Gotham Knight</i>, which many are describing as 'The <i>Batmanimatirx</i>.' Which would make <i>Batman Begins</i> 'The <i>Batman Bematrix</i>,' and the pending <i>Dark Knight </i>'Utter Goddamn Bullshit!' "</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have no clue what that was all about. Let's see here... there's<i> </i>a fairly lengthy set of notes for the concept to a game which, according to the scribbled-in margins, "Would sell more than a fuck-machine made out of anti-aging medicine and those horrible fucking Dan Brown novels." It seems to be based on the two largest-growing exploitable internet trends of the time: Steampunk aesthetics and... <i>sigh</i>... "dickgirl" pornography. Here's a good example page: </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiok4R42zOMudeFNra5nsv7GvhgMwtzAfDP7SSEtX0GLXQm3-vW2RqPJ9-owqM3sdJOZwnVlrTy54c4bxFFep7KqAWLRsThMoyD39LIFYQZd40eJN3lxJ_CXiB97FOokP1C1Xr-KXEPNn8/s1600-h/auchtrhazo001resize.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiok4R42zOMudeFNra5nsv7GvhgMwtzAfDP7SSEtX0GLXQm3-vW2RqPJ9-owqM3sdJOZwnVlrTy54c4bxFFep7KqAWLRsThMoyD39LIFYQZd40eJN3lxJ_CXiB97FOokP1C1Xr-KXEPNn8/s320/auchtrhazo001resize.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401179866439855058" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 259px; height: 320px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">A few things to note: (don't worry, nothing explicit on that page other than some naughty words) a) I began this section with the header "Filthy Disgusting Masterpiece"; b) I apparantly cracked myself up a lot, judging by all the underlined "Ha!"s; c) holy shit I totally need to copyright the name "Cockraiser," that shit is genius. If you're curious about the "story," it seems to revolve around an incubus trapped in a succubus' body, and wanting to break into the "boy's club" of the upper ranks of demonhood, who sets about fucking with the Earth to erode notions of gender roles/identity. She gives steam technology to women pioneers, and uses some psuedo-science hormones or someshit to make all the men docile and feminine. She then goes about seducing/boning the most influential dudes remaining in the world to make them bow down to the supremacy of womankind. Meanwhile, the Church sends out a... "Dominatronix" (dominatrix matron... ugh) to whip these men back into shape and restore the power of the patriarchy. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This is probably the single most insane idea I have ever had. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Except for maybe whatever prompted this: </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH8Irjri_4J5kSuC1e2zoiwkX84MF4H_oZzBHxOFwnJUDGoHrsg78cULNf_M7HVjWFHbYIl-UoxXC6wsEQQx2LS72IfRL4ZQpLiWhK7St6vajoMyivZQaVxzzvKraAkoChPO4FHAaa5Ik/s1600-h/notebook009.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH8Irjri_4J5kSuC1e2zoiwkX84MF4H_oZzBHxOFwnJUDGoHrsg78cULNf_M7HVjWFHbYIl-UoxXC6wsEQQx2LS72IfRL4ZQpLiWhK7St6vajoMyivZQaVxzzvKraAkoChPO4FHAaa5Ik/s320/notebook009.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401171232695384610" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 182px; height: 320px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">This notebook, dated 2007, filled with names culled from a local paper's obituaries. This may have something to do with why I didn't last at that newspaper gig.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">No, seriously. That's all there is.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjddnYKsr0AEN05ydhA4hnsMlfHbN3NBT8_5jyjKZL6nqxcDXDqGSmRKCuNdhlUyRG7oPL1rhpQWBiMyFe5X-5K8hJHI-Xg57yD0hyphenhyphenOhIjIvfhrPjFd-9gCFq96U93axYbOZTlfizTaXBQ/s1600-h/notebook010.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjddnYKsr0AEN05ydhA4hnsMlfHbN3NBT8_5jyjKZL6nqxcDXDqGSmRKCuNdhlUyRG7oPL1rhpQWBiMyFe5X-5K8hJHI-Xg57yD0hyphenhyphenOhIjIvfhrPjFd-9gCFq96U93axYbOZTlfizTaXBQ/s400/notebook010.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401172018751122194" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 282px; height: 400px; " /></a>I don't even know. I apologize to everyone who died in 2007 if I did some sort of bizarro-ritual or something and then blacked out and forgot about it. Uh... my bad?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH8Irjri_4J5kSuC1e2zoiwkX84MF4H_oZzBHxOFwnJUDGoHrsg78cULNf_M7HVjWFHbYIl-UoxXC6wsEQQx2LS72IfRL4ZQpLiWhK7St6vajoMyivZQaVxzzvKraAkoChPO4FHAaa5Ik/s1600-h/notebook009.jpg"></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Speaking of bad, as in content and organizational strategies, remember those doodles I mentioned earlier, and about how there were some good ones that clearly weren't mine? Well, here's some "control" images.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFGehpg4H79IeA48deBudeEpxOXqKnXrRqAt-U0BPPaXpmau3Yowdp2HjzeDtaIQmH62aRXCr3hiFgIuw8M1bgRcrShpq0AM1JjG_v8SikFhBbMDkoDrB7VtL432gpC8bTlONHnOlsxsg/s1600-h/bc001resize.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFGehpg4H79IeA48deBudeEpxOXqKnXrRqAt-U0BPPaXpmau3Yowdp2HjzeDtaIQmH62aRXCr3hiFgIuw8M1bgRcrShpq0AM1JjG_v8SikFhBbMDkoDrB7VtL432gpC8bTlONHnOlsxsg/s320/bc001resize.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401180487500605730" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 264px; " /></a></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLf5rD2xlcpY6CTwpFDpezZyUdjQel3vM83xSaLXLHiSDw1d__v7d2LGoLXYuK6jCxUlLskx0Zg31flQFE3suQJfBn628-EV73he0nBClqjzboepP2PzW9tbI9YgMiBDS46qo6SX2qPPc/s320/bc002resize.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401183142602689682" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 248px; " /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLeFxBPoHwUMU6pAcLFcVLL0zCUCtEjL-TpE-cXUxokDjxPMPTvt-CQS47xwccxiRiz2SUqfapkbfN1uSqkM3j7xdigFCP2a7LTKUl4WvkiDKfdyPC52T-fxLEY89dHuy5wKzRdh-bTCM/s320/bc003resize.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401182863531356802" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 250px; " /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhCHx4nxo535Dxy81mm9VI9pbmt32zsetaw84Ofj2W705z2Z1v-OuJfnNtXxG8EsByQmn4gFcC6LOFqS5ZYTTYMKcXMpA4nJ3XbaF4sMXL80s70iMT1jZXoCIXohR7-uFTLCRPse6PmEc/s1600-h/bc004resize.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhCHx4nxo535Dxy81mm9VI9pbmt32zsetaw84Ofj2W705z2Z1v-OuJfnNtXxG8EsByQmn4gFcC6LOFqS5ZYTTYMKcXMpA4nJ3XbaF4sMXL80s70iMT1jZXoCIXohR7-uFTLCRPse6PmEc/s320/bc004resize.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401172975010560546" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 106px; " /></a></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">Let me give this abomination some context: Back when I started these, dream-maker and internet SUPAHSTAH <a href="http://rumblo.com/">KC Green</a> had started up on what was to be known as the "Bad Comics Challenge," an epic quest to see if he could, in fact, make bad comics. And not just a few, either. No, he had to, by his own hand, forge 200 bad comics. It was incredible. And, seeing an excuse for my sinfully lame illustrations, I thought I'd try it, too.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I made it nowhere near 200. That shit is hard, you guys, especially if you ain't in the habit of comic-making. I made a few batches, though, and I guess I'm in a mood to make you look at 'em. Whatever; after that steampunk/femdom thing earlier, there's no possible way I could make anyone think <i>even less</i> of me.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO5Md1U6ZWK29TQJ4J9sLuHqReFm-G90PxYkDUWkeQYeILIpffLiYSVieoN_rQWYGXzActnzOwEoxZIhuQvpH_MB2wS541mKB6ASM3Aa4YkdyOO4gejuuD9pk3S15xrYRT0-3dT8ye3vY/s1600-h/bad+comics+set+2005resize.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO5Md1U6ZWK29TQJ4J9sLuHqReFm-G90PxYkDUWkeQYeILIpffLiYSVieoN_rQWYGXzActnzOwEoxZIhuQvpH_MB2wS541mKB6ASM3Aa4YkdyOO4gejuuD9pk3S15xrYRT0-3dT8ye3vY/s320/bad+comics+set+2005resize.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401175406461801314" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 234px; " /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhCHx4nxo535Dxy81mm9VI9pbmt32zsetaw84Ofj2W705z2Z1v-OuJfnNtXxG8EsByQmn4gFcC6LOFqS5ZYTTYMKcXMpA4nJ3XbaF4sMXL80s70iMT1jZXoCIXohR7-uFTLCRPse6PmEc/s1600-h/bc004resize.jpg"></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhocsY8oPk0l4GWGE6PhlC_ooUTuK1dWX17P7zrnKvx0t4YWUePeLVSjqvE-xhUi1ZHHyMcrKYgXYfud7C8eI1-AfK7rQiGtw0Vi9xZ_O0CDdZ4EvRzpmX66K7osj9NaB0Ujf_O-BJIqyM/s1600-h/bad+comics+set+2007resize.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhocsY8oPk0l4GWGE6PhlC_ooUTuK1dWX17P7zrnKvx0t4YWUePeLVSjqvE-xhUi1ZHHyMcrKYgXYfud7C8eI1-AfK7rQiGtw0Vi9xZ_O0CDdZ4EvRzpmX66K7osj9NaB0Ujf_O-BJIqyM/s320/bad+comics+set+2007resize.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401175412591541106" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 221px; " /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO5Md1U6ZWK29TQJ4J9sLuHqReFm-G90PxYkDUWkeQYeILIpffLiYSVieoN_rQWYGXzActnzOwEoxZIhuQvpH_MB2wS541mKB6ASM3Aa4YkdyOO4gejuuD9pk3S15xrYRT0-3dT8ye3vY/s1600-h/bad+comics+set+2005resize.jpg"></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho_y5HYPVSJZmt0puOl5xRyWPSZft7MXcfn6MZ5GZ42h7kuY4280o3DreYi_XuDvxINdj1bcL43a7wdV6cTyEqBsrgYUw7iNdswcip6e6k9f3hAbzxoyVVodlaKkO0K6SjgAVlLHuJJT4/s1600-h/bad+comics+set+2008resize.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho_y5HYPVSJZmt0puOl5xRyWPSZft7MXcfn6MZ5GZ42h7kuY4280o3DreYi_XuDvxINdj1bcL43a7wdV6cTyEqBsrgYUw7iNdswcip6e6k9f3hAbzxoyVVodlaKkO0K6SjgAVlLHuJJT4/s320/bad+comics+set+2008resize.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401175416132403842" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px; " /></a>So, you may have noticed, if you weren't either put to sleep by the "jokes" or permanently blinded by the "art," that I was working with "themes" in the various batches of ten. The first set's them is "Movie reference and then S&M joke," and the second set here's theme is "People's reactions to the first set." <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhocsY8oPk0l4GWGE6PhlC_ooUTuK1dWX17P7zrnKvx0t4YWUePeLVSjqvE-xhUi1ZHHyMcrKYgXYfud7C8eI1-AfK7rQiGtw0Vi9xZ_O0CDdZ4EvRzpmX66K7osj9NaB0Ujf_O-BJIqyM/s1600-h/bad+comics+set+2007resize.jpg"></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Why did I show you this? Because it was easier than coming up with new content? No, not really. I had to scan shit and try to come to grips with how fucking horrifying my life is. No, I showed you all this to make a point. If I ever threaten ya'll that I might show you my "older work," you fuckers settle the hell down and behave. Because I will do it. This crap barely scratches the iceberg. This isn't even the Cliff's Notes on the horrors lying scattered across my apartment. I could unleash an endless stream of pain on your asses, should the mood take me. So whenever you see something that <i>ain't</i> two motherfuckers in a shaky-ass panel standing dead still, looking straight ahead, delivering pathetically structured jokes, you better be goddamned <i>thankful</i>, is all I'm sayin'. I work hard so that you don't see this kind of shit, ok?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Unless of course this turns out to be the most popular thing I've ever done. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Shit.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">~ A missive from the gaping maw of the abyss, and your old pal,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Johnny Despair, Esq.</div>Johnny Despair, Esq.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10398154802690610918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-82047571039695608132009-11-02T23:52:00.004-05:002009-11-11T10:57:00.097-05:00A Very Special Presentation of Mr. Jack Happy's Happy Comic Comedy Act from Not For You Studios: "No Means Whatever"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHOAh4T_8LZWK2QNKeFNfYqsQu8Wx-cCE3A7_WWOmAv5_G-hayvHzN_K293O-THIeCGGxdcM5dNwviaalGEoMzHHioZOFCeghQbTeCIC-2rziD54r3z4CMgY8EAo96X00y8oPzBTOIguw/s1600-h/Happy%233-Intermission.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHOAh4T_8LZWK2QNKeFNfYqsQu8Wx-cCE3A7_WWOmAv5_G-hayvHzN_K293O-THIeCGGxdcM5dNwviaalGEoMzHHioZOFCeghQbTeCIC-2rziD54r3z4CMgY8EAo96X00y8oPzBTOIguw/s400/Happy%233-Intermission.JPG" style="border: 5px ridge grey;" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">[Act One: Intermission]</span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>First: </i>[<a href="http://nfys.blogspot.com/2009/10/not-for-you-studios-presents-mr-jack.html">Act One: Scene One</a>]</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> Previous: </i>[<a href="http://nfys.blogspot.com/2009/10/mr-jack-happy-presents-not-for-you.html">Act One: Scene Two</a>]<i> Next: </i>[<a href="http://nfys.blogspot.com/2009/11/live-from-not-for-you-studios-happy.html">Act One: Scene Three</a>]</span><br />
</span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-top: 1px dashed grey; clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>December 31st, 2008:</b></span><br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0I6BbF8q2zvV7M7jD3aCMTXo_vKQl8gIdGsziYhZdOy1cJJ8x4LbL3CgBmRyTM4jxndfAQ2C4KnZwLcBPLcc0aIPi4Hh95cPhTmBbpGiEYrehh6Gb4XNcQnzaotPwG9e0oFDDeTZVti8/s1600-h/Sketch-Pg6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0I6BbF8q2zvV7M7jD3aCMTXo_vKQl8gIdGsziYhZdOy1cJJ8x4LbL3CgBmRyTM4jxndfAQ2C4KnZwLcBPLcc0aIPi4Hh95cPhTmBbpGiEYrehh6Gb4XNcQnzaotPwG9e0oFDDeTZVti8/s320/Sketch-Pg6.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><span style="color: #999999; float: left; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 55px; line-height: 60px; margin-right: 2px; padding: 2px;">T</span>he city was dark and all lit up; he stood in an alley and frowned prolifically. <i>Jack is a good boy</i>, he knew. An empty pack of cigarettes fell from his right hand, and in his other he held the last, unlit butt—his arms limply dangled at his sides. The alley smelled like the whole city: desperate, lonely, filthy.<br />
<br />
Darkness hid his face, shadowed all but his downturnt lips and stubbly chin. <i>Jack is a happy boy</i>, he believed. His surroundings were mostly the refuse of the city: an overfilled dumpster, ripped trashbags, discarded condoms and their wrappers, handy symbolic props for a Film Noir establishing shot and an inner monologue. The noise of movement came from his rear; he turned quickly to see.<br />
<br />
He had fluctuated. <i>Jack is a naughty devil.</i><br />
<br />
<div style="border-left: 1px dashed grey;"><blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Zt6keNwPMADFSeX0jyUxt_esJGSU5VjYwJYEUn0PbFw1ORlrv53V4ePT1vhJcT9LbNrrPm4Xn6hhbTjlLjnyXKXU4FGRppsLARXcgvRyxfpruOXIxeynANOtTOz0INHyQaEiOv6AdfU/s1600-h/Sketch-Pg1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Zt6keNwPMADFSeX0jyUxt_esJGSU5VjYwJYEUn0PbFw1ORlrv53V4ePT1vhJcT9LbNrrPm4Xn6hhbTjlLjnyXKXU4FGRppsLARXcgvRyxfpruOXIxeynANOtTOz0INHyQaEiOv6AdfU/s320/Sketch-Pg1.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: red;">Jack </span>is a <span style="color: yellow;">good </span>boy,<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">He does his chores;<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: red;">Jack </span>is a <span style="color: yellow;">happy </span>boy,<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">He smiles more <span style="color: blue;">and more</span>.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: red;">Jack </span>is a <span style="color: yellow;">happy </span>boy,<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">He sings all day long;<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: red;">Jack </span>is a <span style="color: yellow;">good </span>boy,<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">He cannot be <span style="color: blue;">wrong</span>.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: red;">Jack </span>will never <span style="color: blue;">crack</span>,<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">He brings us all the <span style="color: yellow;">cure</span>;<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: red;">Jack </span>will bring us back,<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">He rows the boat to <span style="color: yellow;">shore</span>.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: red;">Jack </span>sang ‘O <span style="color: red;">Lord</span>, <span style="color: yellow;">Hallelujah</span>,’<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">And angels did appear unto him;<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">They <span style="color: blue;">brang </span><span style="color: red;">Jack </span>the <span style="color: yellow;">Word</span>,<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: red;">Jack </span>is a <span style="color: yellow;">good </span>boy—<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right; text-indent: 3em;">A <span style="color: yellow;">happy </span>boy.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">When the <span style="color: yellow;">Day </span>doth come,<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: red;">Jack </span>will raise<span style="color: blue;"> us all </span>up to <span style="color: red;">Him</span>.<br />
</div></blockquote></div>Mr. Jack Happyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09566819087306613304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-73428816689355165762009-11-02T20:09:00.002-05:002009-11-02T20:17:29.493-05:00Marscast ProjectAs many of you know, I'm fairly passionate about Mars and it's colonization. For a while now I've been considering making a video log about Mars. I'll call it Marscast if there's nothing else called that... excuse me as I Google that...<br /><br />OK Marscast as it looks like it isn't taken. Excellent. Anyway, I need to feel passionate about something... so I'll start researching and making videos about Mars and such, and why it has to be colonized. Eventually, I might even make a podcast or something if I find people similarly passionate about Mars.<br /><br />Now, I've just got to work on diction and what I'm going to say. If anything happens, it'll be posted here.Dr. Seignor Overwrought XXIII Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17398248395713391410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-57581845688000716982009-10-30T11:00:00.004-04:002009-11-01T16:56:44.593-05:00Unfunny PostAlright, kiddies, it's your boy Johnny Despair, Esq. here, and I ain't got time for foolin' around today. There's some serious business to attend to.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Now, I know we ain't been on the block long. I know that our readership is slightly below any given Final Fantasy II/ Big Bad Beetleborgs crossover slash fic. I am well aware, okay? So I know that what I'm about to do might not mean much. But I really got to do it. Seriously, Warren Ellis is in on it, and I'm pretty sure he can make websites crash with his hate. <br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>So, I read this thing on <a href="http://grinding.be/">Grinding.Be</a> (which is an awesome site) about how some chucklefuck out there saw <a href="http://http//www.johntunger.com/legal-defense-fund.html#3">this artisit's work</a> and thought, "Man, I could steal those designs and make a mint!" So he fucking did. Now, this is a crying fucking shame, of course, but you're sitting there thinking, "So goddamn what?"<br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>Well, here's where shit gets fucked for real. The original artist artist asked the guy to stop it, and provided the proof of his copyright claim. So the manufacturer told him to go get fucked, and sued him to try and overturn the copyright.<br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>Now, I don't know if any of ya'll out there have been sued. It sucks, big time, and it's crazy expensive, to boot. This guy has already forked over $50,000 freaking bucks off his own out-of-pocket money to this bullshit lawsuit. The stealing prick who's brining the lawsuit forward knows he's got no leg to stand on if it reaches court, so he's trying to make the artist run out of money so the default ruling goes to the dude who filed it. In this case, the guy who's stealing someone else's shit. <br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>So, seriously, ya'll should do what you can to <a href="http://www.johntunger.com/legal-defense-fund.html#3">help this dude out</a>. Guy is getting a raw fucking deal. Besides, if he drops out, it'll be another bullshit victory for The Man. That's right, The fucking Man. Maybe you thought he was gone. But shut the hell up, idiot. The Man is still around. And he hates the poor, independent creative type. Even if you can't contribute cash, if you can do anything to help this man out, raise awareness, hell, write your congressman and complain about the erosion of the fucking Constitution that everyone is going on about, (Article I, Section 8, says copyright laws were created to “To promote the progress of science and useful arts, by securing for limited times to authors and inventors the exclusive right to their respective writings and discoveries.”), it couldn't hurt. Tell The Man that he can't just bully people around as he likes and take whatever shinies capture his eye. Tell that motherfucker that we have rights too.<br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>Go forth, my children, and seek out not the pure land, but rather, the site for its construction. And build.<br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>So sayeth the prophet of this hill,<br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>Johnny Despair, Esq.<br />
</div>Johnny Despair, Esq.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10398154802690610918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-76246000678119620862009-10-26T23:53:00.006-04:002009-11-10T21:07:06.523-05:00Mr. Jack Happy Presents A Not For You Studios Presentation of the Happy Comic Comedy Act: “No Means Whatever”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtTm8QHuwru9p1i-9_F1Yre2XrmWXHpIywY6ym-tniUkCI0yiBYSSXNPQeWt6gN6hUEdMBbpL8pNcdhztF3nd39y3VIX-fXd3QSm6LQpHxvotW39lK8bOV8kSEqZsljnJdEXzJ5g2m0RU/s1600-h/HappyComic%232.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtTm8QHuwru9p1i-9_F1Yre2XrmWXHpIywY6ym-tniUkCI0yiBYSSXNPQeWt6gN6hUEdMBbpL8pNcdhztF3nd39y3VIX-fXd3QSm6LQpHxvotW39lK8bOV8kSEqZsljnJdEXzJ5g2m0RU/s640/HappyComic%232.JPG" style="border: 5px outset grey;" /> </a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-top: 2px dashed grey; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>[Act One: Scene Two]</i></span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: 2px dashed grey; clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Previous: </span></i><span style="font-size: small;">[</span><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://nfys.blogspot.com/2009/10/not-for-you-studios-presents-mr-jack.html">Act One: Scene One</a>] <i>Next: </i>[<a href="http://nfys.blogspot.com/2009/11/very-special-presentation-of-mr-jack.html">Act One: Intermission</a>]</span><i><br />
</i></span><br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAc2juBjgsbTC6AcXRulXqoPu1VxNxhH0eDQYwp7en_QE80rtWhSuRu1lj1fMVotY_P6c-X6wkVuaMJskt4yhmk39t74wAKwoV2N8oC4p1UFfUS36zCMDPtDTEewKtFgiFGkb3n1iIW4E/s1600-h/NoGood.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAc2juBjgsbTC6AcXRulXqoPu1VxNxhH0eDQYwp7en_QE80rtWhSuRu1lj1fMVotY_P6c-X6wkVuaMJskt4yhmk39t74wAKwoV2N8oC4p1UFfUS36zCMDPtDTEewKtFgiFGkb3n1iIW4E/s320/NoGood.JPG" style="border: 2px dotted grey;" /></a><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: 1px dotted grey;"><b>“Hotel Fuck,” </b>a cheap little poem by Mr. J. Happy<br />
</div><br />
<span style="float: left; font-size: 60px; line-height: 50px; margin-right: 2px; padding: 2px;">A</span>nd the haze lifts, her bare hip<br />
Shifts, watch it go: so far, far;<br />
Away with him. Send for snacks,<br />
Open the mini-bar—tiny happy gifts,<br />
Hey! Watch out! Attack!<br />
<br />
Sex is a weapon, a loaded gun,<br />
All too much, too much fun;<br />
Games in secret—don’t let on,<br />
That you know, you know?<br />
<br />
When the dawn breaks, her wet<br />
Hair shakes, all over you, it’s all—<br />
All set! Are you awake? Can you<br />
Get up. Let’s fall—fall apart;<br />
<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbo_RKcXb9Wxis8dysXbUs3z7AUh9d7LgWVkaD3-TMKlWauBoDO92_RSe6hwUfrxmXh2O4HefLbedgCktB-2VbZ3Bo2lLQjco-UJOWT2JbGckYAfrCrNmKX7saOsA_l1dTGnVR7vBe7Ho/s1600-h/SketchBook03-Cover.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbo_RKcXb9Wxis8dysXbUs3z7AUh9d7LgWVkaD3-TMKlWauBoDO92_RSe6hwUfrxmXh2O4HefLbedgCktB-2VbZ3Bo2lLQjco-UJOWT2JbGckYAfrCrNmKX7saOsA_l1dTGnVR7vBe7Ho/s320/SketchBook03-Cover.JPG" style="border: 2px dotted grey;" /></a><i>Three blind judges, one Eye between.</i><br />
</div><br />
Sex is a weapon, a sharpened blade,<br />
So little escape, so little to gain;<br />
Let’s just hope—mark the grave,<br />
Make the grade, here lies our Son:<br />
<div style="text-indent: 3em;">Alone, he left us. So much pain.<br />
</div><br />
What’s that? A meaning? Oh,<br />
No, it’s just the maid, please turn—<br />
Turn it down, honey. Quick! To the<br />
Shower, we can cram in another…<br />
Love is made, watch out! It burns.<br />
<br />
Sex is an extension of our selves,<br />
<div style="text-indent: 3em;">How do you rate?<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 6em;">Bill paid: one-oh-one-six-eight.<br />
</div>Mr. Jack Happyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09566819087306613304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-30927787744309025432009-10-23T22:48:00.007-04:002009-10-24T18:43:52.865-04:00Fairy Tale Endings: Hail to the King, part 1All right then, boys and girls, it looks like it's that time again. Your boy Johnny Despair, Esq.'s back with another story for you. Ya'll remember last week, when Mr. Happy and I rounded you lot up and crammed a big ol' mess a fairytale what-have-ya-s down yer throats, and I mentioned we had one extra-strength fantasy queued up fer ya. Well, put down yer Gameboys and yer smartphones and settle in. Cuz it's here, baby, and it is not taking your crap. I'd do what it says. <i>It's crazy.</i><br />
<div><br />
</div><div><i></i><br />
</div><div style="border: 5px outset gold;"><div style="border: 3px dotted purple; margin: 1px; padding: 1em;"><span id="goog_1256347710292"></span><span id="goog_1256347710293"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF98cztFS55GZwR8tnKQjJpncnjFQTzAV7wx3wfiDojaHaWwhbBrhaF59ZmfRjy4Q3ZTWf5lO-xu_RjAg0TeTmbil0xWdlWkzLghCFXWyui2BKL4OUYzMldR-I9koVRJJ_bHNyJPcoNVc/s1600-h/King-LetterT.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF98cztFS55GZwR8tnKQjJpncnjFQTzAV7wx3wfiDojaHaWwhbBrhaF59ZmfRjy4Q3ZTWf5lO-xu_RjAg0TeTmbil0xWdlWkzLghCFXWyui2BKL4OUYzMldR-I9koVRJJ_bHNyJPcoNVc/s200/King-LetterT.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div style="color: red; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Hail To The King</b></span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">—written by: Johnny Despair, Esq., with illustrations by Mr. Jack Happy</span></i><br />
</div><br />
hey say that, the day our Queen died, it was the saddest of days our land had seen for a generation; however, I myself was, I'm ashamed to say, quite pleased. I was a carpenter, and royal caskets were quick and profitable work, if you could get it. Besides, what did I care? Carpenters rarely rubbed elbows with royalty. We were supposed to love the monarchy, for taking care of us, but I was never the type to look up to a man who was simply standing on my back. Still, I knew my place, and I could endear myself to my “betters” when need be. So I built a fine casket, and I delivered it on time. They asked if I would not also bear the casket to the grave. My curiosity got the better of me, and I consented.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-indent: 3em;">My role in the ceremony was much smaller than I had expected; I suppose that was why it was deemed suitable for a “mere commoner.” Several of the King's servants assisted me, and then they hurried me back the servants' quarters. The others gossiped among themselves while I reflected on my brief glimpse into the funeral. Our King sat at the front of the gathering, near his two sons and the Bishop. They all looked solemn, but the King...it was curious. It was the first time I had ever actually seen him, so his ways were unfamiliar to me, but his did not seem to be the face of a grieving man. He seemed, I suppose, at peace somehow. Where most bowed their heads in respect, he sat up boldly and fixed his attention on the casket. Though as we sat the casket by the grave, I thought that the King's eyes had actually been resting on me. I wondered why it was that the king seemed so...<br />
<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntH94cHEfUCGTbibO9xhd95UIQsNd2V6UwkWbNltBwjvkmfWs75En5ev9yH9QiwoIC7jHsetE8TLN_jiTihKxy6_eyC7FFegp-I1PysDela1X_VvZ15pSskoDk9wyXgYVDnkUWTLWH3Y/s1600-h/King-Eyes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntH94cHEfUCGTbibO9xhd95UIQsNd2V6UwkWbNltBwjvkmfWs75En5ev9yH9QiwoIC7jHsetE8TLN_jiTihKxy6_eyC7FFegp-I1PysDela1X_VvZ15pSskoDk9wyXgYVDnkUWTLWH3Y/s320/King-Eyes.JPG" style="border: 1px outset red;" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">The servants persuaded me to linger in their quarters. The King might have need for me, should there be some issue with the casket, or even better, perhaps in his grief, he would feel compelled to reward me for the work I'd done setting his poor wife to rest. I remembered his face, the hard-set lines standing out remarkably next to fresh faces of his sons. It was not age alone that left such marks. I doubted very much that I should want anything to do with our King, but I was also sure that if I left now, after being asked to wait, I would be all the worse for it when the King did summon me next.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">Hours passed and the funeral went on. I wondered if perhaps it would be made into a whole week of mourning. The sun was nearly setting when the funeral ended and the feast began. As the servants had said, the King did summon for me. I was brought before him as he sat in his customary position of honor before the gathered revelers. Once more I felt that hardened old face fall watching me. It seemed as though there was something distasteful on his tongue. Finally he spoke.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“Though this is a day of somber remembrance, it is also a day, much like any other. Worthy men and dutiful service are valued especially on these difficult days. Sir carpenter, approach me.” I did as I was told. “Kneel.” I obeyed my lord. I felt his sword upon my shoulders. “Now rise, a knight in your King's personal service.” Applause filled the massive chamber. I was confused. Only noblemen could be knights, and not before years of service. Then I realized that I would also be expected, as a knight, to maintain my own tools of warfare. This was meant to be quick and profitable. But of course the King had to show gratitude. The favors of the nobility.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih80Ihvdwdb_WAqWqcfKXW0O67Ti_HCL6Uwuj58HoRV7gUte2b6LQmtVPBkh7ZCVBfCLfjF2FtjVJwBe-aKYAIroAkAfVb3CscsrARicsvySBFyXE0w6iSfEA7fCu4ggrsijloKTMC91k/s1600-h/King-Bed.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih80Ihvdwdb_WAqWqcfKXW0O67Ti_HCL6Uwuj58HoRV7gUte2b6LQmtVPBkh7ZCVBfCLfjF2FtjVJwBe-aKYAIroAkAfVb3CscsrARicsvySBFyXE0w6iSfEA7fCu4ggrsijloKTMC91k/s320/King-Bed.JPG" style="border: 1px outset purple;" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I was allowed to sit at the feast, and afterwards, lead to some chambers that I might stay for the evening. Fine chambers they were, with a large, comfortable bed, and expertly-wrought silver candlesticks, and a beautifully carved wardrobe. I wondered why they needed a casket from a man such as me when they could get the man behind such lovely work. I let out a sigh, wondering what damned luck the morrow would bring. I'd never even made such a large bed before, let alone rested in one, but now I suppose I would have to accustom myself to silk sheets and purple robes. Despite the many luxuries, it was a fitful sleep.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">In the morning, I found that I was summoned before his highness once more. “I hope you rested well, sir knight. For you shall be escorting me on a hunting expedition. I need...time, alone with my grief. After breakfast, we shall leave.”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“Would you highness not prefer to be escorted by his veteran retainers on his trip?”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“It is not your place to question my orders nor motives.” His expression hadn't changed, but he grew slightly flush. “And no, I would not prefer more veteran retainers. For the record, I am not that old that I need my most valuable knights just to take in a leisurely hunt! My sons need the aid of trusted men-at-arms far more than I do. Now away with you. Make ready to leave.”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">He did not speak to me again until we had stopped for our mid-day meal. I spread out a thick blanket and set to unpacking one of our baskets of provisions. The King unceremoniously began snatching up whatever food caught his fancy as soon as I'd set it down. “Hungry,” he growled around a mouth full of chicken. I was unsurprised to find that he was apparently unaccustomed to not immediately getting whatever he desired. How like a child this father of the kingdom could be. I could not contain my amusement, and let out a brief laugh as I finished setting out the meal. “Whaff funny?” he demanded. I shook my head, saying nothing. “What's funny?” he asked again, struggling to enunciate clearly around his checks bulging with food.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLkln5bD1pZE2g_2FwA2tEwLxSL3x6H5-ODfrNEVkmebuzsaQQZw8stc0TNZozdXaXtPHDig5KKBJwYy-66ofsDKwqeqJWEV9ELQGd3u2m8xQ8sCy6yDj_iEzDiy_hlNZABlC7S9sFXjo/s1600-h/King-Picnic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLkln5bD1pZE2g_2FwA2tEwLxSL3x6H5-ODfrNEVkmebuzsaQQZw8stc0TNZozdXaXtPHDig5KKBJwYy-66ofsDKwqeqJWEV9ELQGd3u2m8xQ8sCy6yDj_iEzDiy_hlNZABlC7S9sFXjo/s320/King-Picnic.JPG" style="border: 1px outset green;" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“Nothing,” I assured him. He looked me in the eye. I silently cursed myself for my indiscretion. Just make it through all this, I thought, and then he'll forget about you and let you get back to your life. Anger him every time you speak, and who knows how long...<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“Laugh,” he told me.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“I beg your pardon sir?”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“Laugh. Again. Like you did a moment ago.” His face was turned towards the picnic. I wasn't sure what it was he wanted, but I managed a laugh. He turned back towards me, devouring a slice of pie that was smeared into his graying beard. I laughed harder.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“What a dashing figure you cut, Lord!” I was sure that it would anger him, but I simply could not hold back.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">He stiffened. “Of course! It this natural poise of one selected by God to rule! The inborn grace of royalty!” He was being completely serious! He had no idea...I laughed even harder, now. Finally, it dawned on him that my joy was at his expense. His harsh face further darkened. “You over estimate your boyish charm, sir.”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">In a moment his sword was drawn and held to my throat. “You also underestimate the capacities of your King!” He slashed at my chest, slicing with such speed and ferocity I could hardly register if I was being taught a lesson or simply murdered on the spot. I was frozen, not even daring to breathe lest that slight motion somehow tear open a dozen expertly-placed wounds and ruin me. After a few terrifying moments, he let his sword return to his side. The King stepped towards me and tore away the tattered strips of fabric that just moments ago had been a fine shirt. He stared at my chest, then began examining it with his hands. I still could not move.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKkx11QawzBsoVgsn13KdIFAOU9CRWY4_4XSenCNepvecR-MZWzowVus91KV2Y_N88270e3O4iLm96VS3J9gLk_bE5_H_PsADNV18VDoytoJuGd4mmPiRUdQdr_WbZVt5PiS2CjtTH4D4/s1600-h/King-Sword.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKkx11QawzBsoVgsn13KdIFAOU9CRWY4_4XSenCNepvecR-MZWzowVus91KV2Y_N88270e3O4iLm96VS3J9gLk_bE5_H_PsADNV18VDoytoJuGd4mmPiRUdQdr_WbZVt5PiS2CjtTH4D4/s320/King-Sword.JPG" style="border: 1px outset red;" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">After a few moments, he stepped back and once more looked me in the eyes. “It appears that I have not wounded you.” He moved his face closer to mine. “This time. In the future, you would do well to remember your place. Now pack up this mess.” I had not yet had a chance to eat. I did as I was told.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">The sun was just beginning to set as we came upon a small house. It was nothing much, no stately manor, but it seemed handsome and sturdy enough. A surprisingly practical choice for a hunting lodge, actually.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“Who built you this lodging, Highness?” I asked, curious as to the modest abode's origins.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“I could not say. It is irrelevant.”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“Do you commission many homes in this fashion, Lord?” I continued, unsatisfied.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“Commission? Do I look so common as to commission homes of this caliber?” he answered, in one of his colder tones. “Now cease your ignorant questions and stable the horses while I go make myself at home.” I did not understand what exactly was going on, but I took the horses to the stable. I found there was already one horse in the small barn. Was there a servant already here? I returned to the house and passed a middle-aged couple carrying burlap sacks. I asked the King who they were.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“Oh, the people who built this place.”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“Where are they going?”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“I never thought to ask,” he said, clearly bored. “When shall dinner be prepared?”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">Had he not already convinced me that he was capable of slaying a man for the slightest offense, I would have found his current conduct completely unbelievable. “I...as soon as I change my shirt,” I said, suddenly feeling quite exposed.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“Oh? So you think your own comfort comes before that of your King?” I couldn't stand to look at him.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“No, your lordship. I shall see to the victuals.”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">He stretched himself out in what appeared to be the nicest chair of the household. “Good.” It was the first time I had seen him smile.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">Dinner was tense. After our picnic, I was afraid to say or do anything that might set him off. We ate in silence until the King , tearing into a turkey leg, finally deigned to speak. “Do you know,” he mumbled, “why we have come here?”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“To hunt, lord?” I answered with what I hoped was simply “timidity” and not “fear.”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“Yes, but do you know what we seek?” I wondered if I was supposed to know. I decided it would be better not to answer. “No, I suppose you wouldn't, would you?” He took a deep swallow of wine. “They say that the beastman of the woods stalks through these parts.” Of course, everyone had heard rumors of the beastman, but people never spoke of him as something to be hunted. He was like an animal, ferocious and wild, but with the cunning and posture of a man. Who would want to match themselves against such fearsome prey?<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“And my liege hopes to slay him?” I ventured.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“Hmm. Perhaps. Perhaps not. I am curious to see if the rumors are true. You know that they also say that he is foreign royalty, afflicted with a ghastly curse. I wonder...” His gaze seemed distant; I did not care to guess what he might be contemplating.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrxuYbufdkZPLT5oBhXopXOE8XzN2TFg6ISUXRxR9Myi2oy1-7XoNrVOkY8s3la4LDgv1m-_0La0Lk8MSvV-nLe-gWtToak1a2efVHSBnhXmVeRuebwFqec3vbU1V2gDdfwyfCO1IPlcY/s1600-h/King-Sceptre.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrxuYbufdkZPLT5oBhXopXOE8XzN2TFg6ISUXRxR9Myi2oy1-7XoNrVOkY8s3la4LDgv1m-_0La0Lk8MSvV-nLe-gWtToak1a2efVHSBnhXmVeRuebwFqec3vbU1V2gDdfwyfCO1IPlcY/s320/King-Sceptre.JPG" style="border: 1px outset gold;" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I finished my meal with haste, lest his mood suddenly change and once more dash my chance for sustenance. My desperation was not lost on the King. “Or perhaps,” he said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, “I have already found my beastman, and foolishly invited him to dinner.” I could not tell if he was amused or disgusted. “Yes, it looks like a man, but it is clear from the bared, primitive chest, from the wild, unintelligent eyes, and the complete lack of grace or restraint that this cannot be considered a man. No, it is but a beast, a low creature fit only to serve,” he said, rising. “Its crude imitation of a man is quite insulting to me, in fact. Beast!” he boomed. “Cease this ignoble facade!”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I was dumbstruck. What did he want? He took a step forward, hand on his sword. “Drop your pretensions of civility, beast! Strip yourself of those stolen, ruined garments!” I sat frozen. He couldn't be serious. “Do as I command, beast! The only use for a disobedient beast is meat!” I knew that he was not one for idle threats. I stood, and somehow my numb, trembling hands managed to work my clothing off. I could tell that my humiliation was only beginning.<br />
<br />
</div></div></div><br />
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!<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Till then, kiddies, stay away from strange monarchs, and the even stranger<br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>Johnny Despair, Esq.<br />
</div>Johnny Despair, Esq.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10398154802690610918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-65560546508529264802009-10-21T23:00:00.005-04:002009-10-22T00:03:28.655-04:00Peanut Butter Jelly TIme<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEj7I4zYRUL7pi5CnGtirzx98ziAUAq9davVluTEjN6kKUWS9l1g0IVydGARxLHX-CrpvfILRaJQIyLcuNBB4VyMFnhP7YZWjrWYz6TXEOjpMzoG8jgFfNDHUDJpwy3uYtgiERxFqWySqr/s1600-h/topless2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEj7I4zYRUL7pi5CnGtirzx98ziAUAq9davVluTEjN6kKUWS9l1g0IVydGARxLHX-CrpvfILRaJQIyLcuNBB4VyMFnhP7YZWjrWYz6TXEOjpMzoG8jgFfNDHUDJpwy3uYtgiERxFqWySqr/s320/topless2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395269974468874546" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie5_NQl1ZyPpJIBRDLNULoJbH4_Wb2SxT9EIXmhBFwyxFpqrWsQ_u4k-0E1shE4UesEAOFBLmRBGkMUKLs0cIoChvWvsDVJ-W8-LPS3XiA2pDofIKvk36esFWR8fHYLMKxPqVB3W68QtBT/s1600-h/redxlose2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie5_NQl1ZyPpJIBRDLNULoJbH4_Wb2SxT9EIXmhBFwyxFpqrWsQ_u4k-0E1shE4UesEAOFBLmRBGkMUKLs0cIoChvWvsDVJ-W8-LPS3XiA2pDofIKvk36esFWR8fHYLMKxPqVB3W68QtBT/s320/redxlose2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395269971975491138" border="0" /></a><br />Hi there...sorry I haven't been around...Been busy with well...nothing, lately. Cept getting achievements and phat lewts on my troll.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Also, felt like drawing an anime chick, just to reaffirm that I have other nerdy interests besides WoW.Red Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08450957256568560972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-576730154339639602009-10-19T23:54:00.007-04:002009-10-29T17:54:09.816-04:00Not For You Studios Presents Mr. Jack Happy Presenting The Happy Comic Comedy Act: “No Means Whatever”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvDs64zytg2CvRUylya2JOBI5JHgflVekCjZIgz7Nostl0dkQxFYe3X4hLOtoXA7NvvyVmSW8NCZXypbtwNASWme_59X4JwO-pq0bt8R2mxSJCiR8cOQHtT6PK_K4DIz4QbCfb6FNqsYo/s1600-h/HappyComic%231.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvDs64zytg2CvRUylya2JOBI5JHgflVekCjZIgz7Nostl0dkQxFYe3X4hLOtoXA7NvvyVmSW8NCZXypbtwNASWme_59X4JwO-pq0bt8R2mxSJCiR8cOQHtT6PK_K4DIz4QbCfb6FNqsYo/s640/HappyComic%231.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>[Act One: Scene One]</i></span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Next: </i>[<a href="http://nfys.blogspot.com/2009/10/mr-jack-happy-presents-not-for-you.html">Act One: Scene Two</a>]</span><i> <br />
</i></span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-top: 1px dotted; clear: both; margin: 1em; padding: 5px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwJk_V0yShA27wFJxxR1IrEbC4gyHCEKRupSx1cvgqbLhInWf-ZJR_iuJzys-7Acu22yBam46UfK_TRbn0gWkd5Jnfbsrj_mVSMTNIftveiI0SD6VeeCXNUp60hUBMVk6bQ7vDr7W7VkI/s1600-h/DrFeelNotSoGood.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwJk_V0yShA27wFJxxR1IrEbC4gyHCEKRupSx1cvgqbLhInWf-ZJR_iuJzys-7Acu22yBam46UfK_TRbn0gWkd5Jnfbsrj_mVSMTNIftveiI0SD6VeeCXNUp60hUBMVk6bQ7vDr7W7VkI/s200/DrFeelNotSoGood.JPG" /></a> <b>Jack's Recipes for Happiness: The “Dr. Feel-Not-So-Good”</b><br />
</div><ul><li>2 shots Skye Vodka</li>
<li>2 shots Kilbeggan's Irish Whiskey</li>
<li>1 shot Bacardi Gold rum</li>
<li>5 drops of orange bitters</li>
<li>3-3 cups of Diet Dr. Pepper</li>
</ul><div style="text-align: center;"><b>PUT IN DRINKING CONTAINER WITH THE MIGHT OF YOUR WILL AND CONSUME, MORTAL!</b><br />
</div><div style="border-top: 1px dotted; margin: 1em; padding: 5px; text-align: center;"><b>“An Ode to Hicks”</b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">—a poem by Mr. Jack Happy, with illustration from a sketch diary (circa summer o' 2003)</span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgstm50TWZbQA7nV24qj5Cj-A5dEjNDgrDZqo9_4ec8WLEyDjNVCb-bgn_URO_rHkGdw4vS4f6yqpDT6yH0-OHAFUDDk7_AcSon9kigOggN4tbCatV9CMdju4zab11GHZVP0MrzcP6kdZw/s1600-h/Backyard.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgstm50TWZbQA7nV24qj5Cj-A5dEjNDgrDZqo9_4ec8WLEyDjNVCb-bgn_URO_rHkGdw4vS4f6yqpDT6yH0-OHAFUDDk7_AcSon9kigOggN4tbCatV9CMdju4zab11GHZVP0MrzcP6kdZw/s320/Backyard.JPG" /></a><span style="float: left; font-size: 60px; line-height: 50px; margin-right: 2px; padding: 2px;">O</span> Hicks, thou art the foulest of<br />
all so-called subcultures; for thou<br />
art defined by thine ignorance and<br />
absence of substance, for shame.<br />
<br />
Thy patron saint Foxworthy may<br />
claim “A glorious lack of sophistication”—<br />
Alas! 'Tis no redeeming stupidity,<br />
will thoust argue from atop thy dung-hill?<br />
<br />
Hark! Who doth approach?<br />
—“Wha'tchu sayin', faggot?”<br />
The stench of Budweiser and American cheeses!<br />
Most foul beast, what sayeth thou?<br />
<br />
—“Ah dun' like yer tone, boy,<br />
Ah'll break you in hahf, c'mon”—<i>FLEE!—</i><br />
“Ya'll come back 'ere, y'hear?”<br />
<blockquote style="border: 1px dotted; margin: 1em; padding: 2px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>[<b>Editor's Note</b>: 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?]</i></span><br />
</blockquote>Mr. Jack Happyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09566819087306613304noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-36064836827222144052009-10-17T22:16:00.012-04:002009-10-17T23:15:40.268-04:00Fairytale Endings: No PrincessAlright, boys and grrls, gather 'round. It's your boy Johnny Despair, Esq., back from his big ol' business trip, and don't you worry, he remembered to bring gifts. He ain't forgotten 'bout his little ragamuffins.<br />
<br />
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?"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"But Mr. Johnny—"<br />
<br />
That's Mr. Johnny Despair, Esq., kid.<br />
<br />
"But Mr. Johnny Despair, Esq., you don't draw!"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Now, settle down, children. Who here likes fairy tales?<br />
<br />
<div style="border: 1px dotted green;"><div style="border: 2px solid green; margin: 1px; padding: 1em;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1LnYhVmgw86M1oOwILy7g8NhgcGk2KQox4t8UN0AptAPAfIQPAbrFlqx2yeQYvw7Y6Xa4yoGxn-MZet1UWVsY6Obkr2nM71PdENuB4Gi6B27VI5bNXwzefzWybEOoVuxiCXYIomyLrqw/s1600-h/LetterG.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1LnYhVmgw86M1oOwILy7g8NhgcGk2KQox4t8UN0AptAPAfIQPAbrFlqx2yeQYvw7Y6Xa4yoGxn-MZet1UWVsY6Obkr2nM71PdENuB4Gi6B27VI5bNXwzefzWybEOoVuxiCXYIomyLrqw/s200/LetterG.JPG" /></a></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">Sour Apple</span><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: 1px dotted green; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>—written by Johnny Despair, Esq, with illustrations by: Mr. Jack Happy</i></span><br />
</div><br />
oddamn, fucking peons,” she said.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-indent: 3em;">I turned to her. I was seated next to her at the bar, but she wasn't talking to me. She seemed to be cursing her empty glass. She didn't even look up as she called for another drink, some signature mixture that she called “Love Gone Sour.” I ordered one too, having never heard of the concoction, and willing to try anything once. The drink smelled of apples and ethanol, and fought all the way down. She laughed as I grimaced and coughed.<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">She was a beautiful, absurd image, sitting there. In this dingy little “tavern,” with that intricate shawl hiding her face, making her look like a truly refined, modest woman. But she'd drank any hint of modesty away by now. She was beginning to sway like a cartoon snake before a charmer. Her auburn eyes darted about the room and her head followed lazily after like a person who was walking an over-eager dog.<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“What 'cha looking for?” I asked.<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">She turned to me. She looked me in the eye and held my gaze. Neither of us looked away. Then she nodded to herself, satisfied, and turned back to her drink. She had a poor profile; it made her nose look sharp and predatory.<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“What's anyone looking for?” she finally answered.<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“True love?” I ventured. She laughed again.<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“That's…that's what I figured, you know?” Her head tilted back; the dim lights made her olive complexion glow, and I couldn't take my eyes off of her. “Shows what I know, though.”<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“How so?” She snaped her head back forward.<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“I tried to help her. I knew this girl. Pretty thing. A little thick, but very pretty. Not too lucky with love. She came to me one night, crying her eyes out. 'Why can't I just find the man for me?' So I said: well, I can help you find him. Make it so he comes to you, you know? I mean…I was doing her a favor, for chrissakes. She asked me to!” For just a moment, there was something sad in her eyes. She shrugged it off.<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“So what…what exactly happened?” I was holding my chin in one hand, my drink in the other, trying to convey my interest and hide my drunkenness at the same time.<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9Gd0StG5wsBm_KAUMwSEB_tNDS97CZyDB5fnTYmni-gJqZoSjbzzZhhVe93S5Y7LlYdRxuF2Ac_DS0Q8HHFcHYXy4VfLf02CSG5kssNYqusPCap7SxCmn69rEp-OvxwBNTlfQsO__QM/s1600-h/SourApple.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em;"><img border="5px dotted pink" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9Gd0StG5wsBm_KAUMwSEB_tNDS97CZyDB5fnTYmni-gJqZoSjbzzZhhVe93S5Y7LlYdRxuF2Ac_DS0Q8HHFcHYXy4VfLf02CSG5kssNYqusPCap7SxCmn69rEp-OvxwBNTlfQsO__QM/s320/SourApple.JPG" /></a><br />
“They—those peons—they called me a witch. Called me hateful, said I was jealous. Like it was some spiteful thing, you know?” Her head swung from her drink back to me. “Tell me, if you got to sleep, peacefully, and dream pleasant little dreams, with no worries or uncertainties or cares, in complete bliss, totally unharmed, until the day you met your true love: would you call that cruel? Evil? Wicked?” She took a swig of her drink. “I'd call it a damn blessing.”<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“Well…what about if you never met your true love?”<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">She looked into my eyes again. “Then you'd just sleep. Dream. Forever. About your true love. Never knowing the disappointment that life held. Never knowing loneliness, rejection, misery.” She let out a fierce little cackle. “If I had really hated her, I wouldn't have done anything!”<br />
</div><br />
<div style="text-indent: 3em;">And then, to her drink again: “Why can't anyone see that?”<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I waved down the bartender, ordered us another round. I raised my drink to her. “To romantics.”<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">She raised her drink to mine. “To happily ever afters.”<br />
</div></div></div><br />
<div style="border: 1px dotted pink;"><div style="border: 2px solid pink; margin: 1px; padding: 1em;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">What Fools</span><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: 1px dotted purple; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">—<i>written by: Johnny Despair Esq., with illustrations by Mr. Jack Happy</i></span><br />
</div><br />
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</div>'d been visiting the center for the past few weeks. A community service thing. It was creepy and it smelled awful but it beat picking trash on the highway. And the people really were nice, for the most part. Just sad and lonely and strange, leftovers from a forgotten age. I wondered if I wasn't doing more harm than good, invading their territory, flaunting my youth, my ability to just get up and leave if I wanted to. I was, of course, just making excuses for not wanting to do it. Still…<br />
<br />
<div style="text-indent: 3em;">They really were nice folks, though. Always interested in what I was doing with myself. “Do you have a girlfriend?” they asked me, and “What do you do for a living?” Did I have any pets, did my family live nearby. I didn't tell them about the court-order, but everything else was fair game. One lady never asked me questions, never said anything at all, that I could tell. Miss Merryweather, they called her, and I never heard her correct them. I would read them the paper or lead a talent show or bring in my cat to visit, and they'd all gather round, eager for the stimulation, but Miss Merryweather would have nothing to do with it. She just drifted around the room, pausing to touch someone's shoulder, or to stare out a window.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">The staff told me it was psycho-somatic. Nothing really wrong with her, they said. Dropped off by her daughter. Pretty young thing. “Right, Miss Merryweather? Isn't your daughter pretty?” Miss Merryweather nodded carefully. “I bet you can't wait to see her again, huh, Miss Merryweather?” She never visited.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I made it a point from then on to spend at least a little time with Miss Merryweather whenever I came by. The other folks didn't seem to understand. “She's fine, she just wants attention,” they said. “Don't you go and try to be a doctor.” She made me think of my own mother, slowly eaten away by madness. I felt less guilty when I sat with Miss Merryweather. I talked to her about whatever came to mind, and when that ran out, I told her stories. Ones my mother used to tell me. Sometimes I caught her smiling at something, when I sat with her. This was uncommon.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">Once, I ran out of stories, so I brought in one of those huge tomes of fables that rests on every child's bookshelf. It seemed to me like she was trying to read it over my shoulder, so I left it for her. “Tell me which one's your favorite; I'll read it for you next time.” I smiled at her as her gaze held some empty middle space.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">My next visit, I did my normal thing, a few hours entertaining the gang with a trivia contest. Afterwards I found Miss Merryweather, asked her how she liked the book. I didn't expect her to suddenly speak, to whisper out a sad, rasping “Thank you,” but I was thinking she might acknowledge me. But no such luck. I asked her if I could read her some more stories; nothing. I tried to find the book, inquired with her caregivers, but no one had seen it. They searched her room to no avail. They shrugged. Crazy old people, who knows?<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I kept visiting with Miss Merryweather whenever I went by the center. Sometimes I even snuck her little gifts, candy and tea and the like. I had no clue if she could actually make herself any tea, but it seemed right, somehow. Once, I was sure I could smell the pumpkin-spice blend on her. But I never seemed to make any progress with her. She was as sad and distant as ever.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">Eventually, I served my time, but by then, I'd made the center such a hobby, I kept going anyway. It made me glad I never told them about the court-order; they'd have thought I'd done something awful, to keep coming for that long. One day, Miss Merryweather was nowhere to be seen. This didn't seem that unusual, as she wandered so much; still, I hadn't skipped out on her yet. I asked around about her. “She's gone,” they told me. “Oh, not like that. Well, sort of? She's…just gone.” She had disappeared a few nights ago. The police were looking for her. They tried to contact her family, but her daughter had changed her number at some point, and no one knew how to reach her.<br />
<br />
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</div></div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I stood dumbfounded. How could they just lose her? Why didn't anyone care? Before I could say anything, the staffer's eyes lit up. “Oh! Right!” She hustled off, returning moments later with a box. “We found this the other night while looking for some clue to where she went. It was just sitting there, under her bed. I swear we'd already…”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">The box was stuffed with half-empty tea tins and candy bags. I smiled. It occurred the me that I never gave her enough stuff to fill this whole box, though. Not unless…<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I rooted through the wrappers. There it was: the book I'd given her. I thanked the orderly and went home. For some reason, I felt like I couldn't open it right away. I made a cup of coffee and moved out onto the balcony. Thumbing through the book, I wondered what I expected to find. Some terrible secret? Documented abuse? Evidence of dementia? An illustration caught my eye. It was a scene of some unfortunate young girl meeting her fairy godmother. The godmother's wings had been crossed out with a black crayon.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I read through the accompanying story, hoping for some further mark. I found it on the last page, beneath the “They all lived happily ever after” bit. She'd scrawled an imitation of the fairy godmother's face, and next to that, added, “What about her?”<br />
</div></div></div><br />
<br />
<div>Okay, children, that's enough for right now. Ya'll get up and stretch your legs, grab a snack, do tinkles. Mr. Happy'll be in in five minutes to give you kids your next story.<br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>Hope you like our second half, kiddies. Till then, I'm just the lovable, huggable,<br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>Johnny Despair, Esq. <br />
</div>Johnny Despair, Esq.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10398154802690610918noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-17270678071612198402009-10-17T22:15:00.006-04:002009-11-03T22:52:39.988-05:00Fairytale Endings: Good Night to Angels and Devils AlikeChildren, fairy tales were once a very grim thing. Indeed, they were meant to frighten, to terrify. To drive through your thick little skulls the lessons of life that you need learn to survive.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Sit still, backs straight, shoulders square, and listen carefully, for it is story-time…<br />
<br />
I do so hope God is in your heart, for you will need Him.<br />
<br />
<div style="border: 1px dashed blue;"><div style="border: 2px solid blue; margin: 1px; padding: 1em;"><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Two AM Revelations</span><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: 1px dashed blue; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>—written by: Mr. Jack Happy, with illustrations by Johnny Despair, Esq.</i></span><br />
</div><br />
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</div> sank into my usual seat at my usual bar, ordered my usual drink and struck up the usual conversation with the bartender. He smiled like he always did, and I talked about the weather, about how things were just fine. Work is work; Same Old Shit, Different Day.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-indent: 3em;">The red-haired waitress with the hips I loved to watch so much came over and greeted me. Said what is required of a waitress to say, gestured and offered and laughed at my awful jokes, my stupid puns. She was the best friend I ever did know, I think—friend because I never could get her number out of her, no matter how drunk and pitiful I got.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I liked this place, despite it being a total dive. Smokey, dusty, probably hadn’t seen a health regulation since before Reagan could first recall. The waitress, Lucy or Laura (I forget), she mentioned something about an act on tonight. There was a tiny raised stage in one corner, for what I thought was decoration since they hadn’t put any performer on it in the years I’d been frequenting. The owner started rumours of karaoke to attract the Asian demographic, so some half-Japanaese yokels came around long enough to get impatient and leave.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">The bartender—he was Hispanic, something like Coata Rican, and real friendly—talked some about how this Bluesman came rolling in one night and played for him and the two other guys in at the time, and the owner heard it and absolutely begged him to come back and perform. His name was Tommy and something you’d expect of Blues musicians—Tommy-something-about-his-stature, Tommy-his-demeanor, maybe some kind of foodstuff-Tommy. Can’t remember anything, now, since I sobered up the next morning.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I awoke in my bed without knowing how I got there. Laura or Leslie wasn’t there. Dissapointment. My clothes were gone. Not the ones I was wearing. All of them. Like, my entire closet had been emptied. And my furniture was gone. The entire fucking apartment was absolutely bare, except for a matchbook from the bar, Wolsey’s.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">The night before, the Bluesman came in, Tommy-something or Tommy-another. He was short, came up to my shoulders sitting down, but he stood tall. His clothes were all frayed and tattered like I’d expect from some hobo-musicman riding the rails from gig to gig. It was all quite novel, in this day and age. His hair was white, and he had a scraggly moustache and big ol’ muttonchops. Real caricature, with his pointy hat with its shiny blue band, his Blue suede jacket and matching kerchief in the front pocket.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">When he came in, the owner—Lil’ Wolsey, we called him—opened the door to his office and waved to him. They exchanged pleasantries, and I noticed the man had a shrill voice, like a child’s. How he was going to sing the Blues with that tenor was beyond me, at that point, and I remember vaguely asking Carlos the bartender something about that. I recall laughing, but it’s faint. I’m not much amused about it no more.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">Tommy-troubador or whatever waddled his tiny-way over to my table—I guess because I was the only guy there, on this hustlin’ Monday night. He pulled up a stool, took out an unfiltered cigarette and said something in that kid-tone of his. I responded:<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“Fine. You?”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">“Need a nap real fierce,” he said, and tapped his ash off into the ceramic plate on the table. The musicman was old, I noticed, at this point: the lines set on his face weren’t easily visible from a distance, somehow obsfucated by the baby-fat of his cheeks: a stark contradiction so contrary your mind refused the presence of both.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">His eyes were the colour of sky around last call, and they seemed dead behind the reflection on his cornea. The man moved like the living dead, like George Romero was directing his choreography and his diet was strictly no-carb grey matter. Something about seeing this guy made me think in poetry, I recollected.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">Wolsey stepped up and begged the little old guy to perform. He had produced a coronet from nowhere, when I wasn’t looking. I was busy trying to covertly ogle Leslie or Loulabell. She had this magnanimous ass somehow contained in shorts shorter than I could’ve asked God to make ‘em in my most fervent prayers.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I really wanted to go to bed, all of a sudden.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">Tommy-trumpeter was atop the stage, perched on a stool that seemed only slightly shorter than he was tall. He placed wrinkled, chapped lips on the instrument and out came noise like from Miles Davis’ love affair with Duke Ellington in the heated alleyways of New Orldeane one midsummer night’s eve.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">He played, and seemed to sleep, all at the same time. His eyes shut and never reopened, in my memory. The music was his dream, and we were but figments in his subconscious. I would have had the rest of my drink, but the rest of my drink had me, first.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">The owner danced, in the awkward way that white folk do when they can’t help themselves. Some byproduct of too many generations removed from soulful living, I suppose. The waitress joined him, and that’s when I couldn’t help but do so, too, followed by the bartender and I don’t even know when those kids came in off the street.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">When the bar was at capacity, the police came. To dance. Tommy played his coronet—shrill, halting notes almost off-key, but perfect in their melodious malady, the pain was the birthing of some unforeseen energy, unbeknownst to us.<br />
<br />
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</div></div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">And he sang:<br />
</div><blockquote><span style="color: blue; float: left; font-size: 40px; line-height: 20px; margin-right: 2px; padding: 2px;">“</span>When the cattle crawls,<br />
Through the cornstalks;<br />
The livestock we ain’t,<br />
Not the farmers a’night.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: red; float: left; font-size: 40px; line-height: 20px; margin-right: 2px; padding: 2px;">“</span>When the meadow grows,<br />
The fleece, oh, the fleece;<br />
Fleece the forty winks,<br />
Rob that ol’ Sandman blind.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: yellow; float: left; font-size: 40px; line-height: 20px; margin-right: 2px; padding: 2px;">“</span>Walk the tall grass, darlin’,<br />
Find the lamb, again, son a’none;<br />
He ain’t my shephard, I say,<br />
Can’t herd my dreams.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: green; float: left; font-size: 40px; line-height: 20px; margin-right: 2px; padding: 2px;">“</span>And await the Seventh Seal,<br />
When Gabriel doth blow, sweetheart;<br />
First came Cowboy Ron, yee-haw,<br />
The second was a grey September in One.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: orange; float: left; font-size: 40px; line-height: 20px; margin-right: 2px; padding: 2px;">“</span>Lil’ ol’ Kim’s stomach rumbles after three,<br />
Po’ boy fightin’ a po’ atomic wa-wa-war;<br />
Four flus, why you still askin’, son,<br />
Won’t be long, oh no, it won’t be long.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple; float: left; font-size: 40px; line-height: 20px; margin-right: 2px; padding: 2px;">“</span>Meanwhile, deep in the Heart a’Darkness,<br />
Six-hundred souls suffer number five;<br />
They sing—<br />
<blockquote>‘O, fall on us, hide us, face us,<br />
From the wrath of Mary’s little Lamb,<br />
For the great Day hath come,<br />
An’ who, who, who can stand?’<br />
</blockquote><span style="color: yellow; float: left; font-size: 40px; line-height: 20px; margin-right: 2px; padding: 2px;">“</span>An’ at six, the tropics have shaken,<br />
Boy, are you still not yet awaken;<br />
Where is he, who tends the flock,<br />
Will you wake ‘im, son?<br />
<br />
<span style="color: red; float: left; font-size: 40px; line-height: 20px; margin-right: 2px; padding: 2px;">“</span>O Lord, not me, not me, Lord,<br />
Surely he will not like it;<br />
And cry, and cry, and cry…<span style="color: blue; float: right; font-size: 40px; line-height: 40px; margin-right: 2px; padding: 2px;">”</span><br />
</blockquote><div style="text-indent: 3em;">The echoes of his coronet and thin, child-like voice bounce in my head, intensifying the hangover. My empty apartment is but a mere reflection of my empty self. My limbs feel heavy, moving them is like navigating a thick, mucky liquid. I move about the bedroom, find the bathroom, find no relief there and empty myself further than I already feel.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I find myself talking to myself, as I clutch the lid of my toilet, “Will I wake him?”<br />
</div></div></div><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Unwhole Story</span><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: 1px dashed grey; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>—written by: Mr. Jack Happy, with illustrations by Johnny Despair, Esq.</i></span><br />
</div><br />
hen they showed up at my doorstep, they had nothing. They had eaten hardly anything in a week, and looked the part. A sad sight, for certain; of course, we took them in.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-indent: 3em;">Here at Safehaven Behavioral, we have all sorts of in-patients: broken, destitute people with nowhere to go and clearly no one to care for them. Mostly, the senile and the poor ended up at our facilities, but we were the charitable sort. Opened in eighteen-eighty-one, the plaque on the foundation cement said, by Doctor Jay Grimstone, my great-great-great uncle.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">They put their names as Geal and Donn, a fashion of nomenclature for children with which I was wholly unfamiliar. One had lengthy brown hair with an oddly fresh sheen; the other had jet-black hair like the finest silks of the Orient. Too poor to eat, but not for professional-grade shampoo? I questioned their status as sisters, to which they only blinked and looked hungrier in response.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I wasn’t sure if they could speak until the second day, when Donn—the darker-haired sister—asked timidly to speak with me. Her eyes, of hue matching her head, danced with such fright and desperation that I had no choice but to comply.<br />
</div><blockquote>—“Yes, dear?”<br />
—“You can <i>never</i> let us out.”<br />
—“Oh… Why is that, Donn?”<br />
—“<i>He </i>will never marry us.”<br />
—“Well, you are welcome to stay as long as you wish.”<br />
</blockquote><div style="text-indent: 3em;">Poor thing, her psyche was shattered from some kind of traumatic experience, rendering it a pile of paranoid delusion; commonplace at Safehaven, unfortunately, but never not depressing to witness. One in-patient swore that cyborgs stole her organs, and I wish I was joking or making this up.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">Sometimes, at night, I consider my grasp on reality and say a little prayer of thanks.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">On the third day, while in the common room, Geal and Donn sat and stared at the floor, hours just gazing downward. Their complexions had improved slightly, after a good three square and a couple showers. New patients find the reintroduction to regular hygiene to be invigorating typically, and the routine gives their minds temporary respite.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">One patient brushes his teeth every seventy minutes on the dot, without exception or fail. He hasn’t had a cavity, yet.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">During day four, Donn put Geal’s long hair up in a complicated bun and weaved in some long white ribbons with which a nurse had provided them, then adorned it with a huge dirty plume produced from where I am unsure. I supposed they must’ve had it on their person at check-in and shrugged mentally.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">One of the other patients, a gentle rotund, elderly man named August who suffered from Alzheimer’s and halitosis, complimented Geal in passing, which caused the frail woman to start and shriek. Donn spent the next hour hugging Geal’s quivering form close to herself; August was pretty put-out, himself.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">When it came to chores assignment, there was an interesting altercation with the two sisters. They absolutely refused any chore whatsoever. We had found in the past that giving the patients responsibility helped make them feel more normal, more at home; however, they were having none of this tomfoolery.<br />
</div><blockquote>—“Scrub the floor! Wash the dishes! Scrub the floor! Wash the dishes!”<br />
</blockquote><div style="text-indent: 3em;">Geal quietly chanted to herself for the next half-hour, with an inexplicable menacing yet empty look on her face. Like she was only intimidating out of habit, intimidating an imaginary servant like how she was taught to do.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">On the fifth day, Donn had her own spat with August. The poor old man had spent all morning trying to find his slippers, and then found them in Donn’s cubby. He had confronted her about it, shaking the ratty old faded-red bedroom shoes at her. She came back with the most vile things I had heard since I was briefly in the Navy and attended a George Carlin performance while on leave.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">It was after this that I noticed that Geal only ever wore one shoe on her left foot, while the right was always bare, black with dirt and debris. Throughout that day, she would occasionally angrily glare at her bare foot, and kick it against the wall, eventually so hard that it bruised and swelled purple.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">We started her on sedatives after that, it took the remainder of her life away.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">On the sixth day, with Geal medicated, Donn became nastier and nastier to the other in-patients. She attempted to order every single one of them around, and became quite unruly when nobody complied—the reactions were a mixture of confused, indignant, and oblivious. We had to restrain her to her room for awhile, to calm her down, while Geal just rubbed her foot and stared at the floor.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">August’s large family visited that day, all six of his siblings.<br />
</div><blockquote>—“So, Doc, how’s old Gus doing?”<br />
—“Mert! Don’t act like he’s not right here.”<br />
—“Yeah, sure, Blossom, he’s <i>right here</i>.”<br />
—“Hasn’t been in ages, you know it.”<br />
—“Did you bring the cheese, Jaq?”<br />
—“Perla was bringing the cheese.”<br />
—“No, I brought the string.”<br />
—“Damn…”<br />
</blockquote><div style="text-indent: 3em;">They bantered for some time, me in the middle. August, for his part, scornfully glared at Geal. I think he liked her, but his foggy old mind couldn’t handle the emotions anymore. He gave her his dessert at supper, which she ate heartily without a word, giving him a shy smile in return.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">Donn came out of her room on the morning of the seventh day. She had cried out loudly sometime around daybreak, afterward one of the nurses had come to me.<br />
</div><blockquote>—“Doctor Jacob, I… Well, I don’t know where, but she, uh, found some toenail clippers.”<br />
—“And, Nurse Tremaine?”<br />
—“She took off all of her toenails, there’s blood everywhere…”<br />
—“Jesus! Really? All of them?”<br />
—“She seemed to be trying to actually cut off her toes with them, I think…”<br />
</blockquote><div style="text-indent: 3em;">Her feet were bandaged up, and she limped over to the couch where Geal was curled into a ball. The two of them sat together and stared at the floor all morning, not eating, speaking or moving. August kept hobbling by and glaring at the pair, muttering to himself about his missing slippers.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">After dinner all the patients were mostly gathered around the television—except for the young woman who thought the people inside the “Teevee Box” were going to use radio-waves to brainwash her into sending them all of her money, and the two sisters—I remember distinctly the sound of a startled yelp, followed by a gruff voice choking out a raspy scream.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">The staff all raced down the hall to where the sound came from and found August standing in front of one of the patient quarter’s open entrance, holding his hand to his throat in the universal sign of distress. The first nurse who made it to him turned and saw what he did:<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">Geal was hanging from the ceiling fan in her room, a bedsheet-noose around her swollen, blackened neck. Donn was on the floor, sitting cross-legged, clutching one of her feet; from which she had removed the bandages and was gnawing off her big toe, blood spurting out of the open wound and into her mouth and down her cheeks, dripping from her jaw onto her nightgown.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I helped one of the orderlies wrestle Donn to the ground, who kept gurgling, kicking and screaming, bits of the flesh of her toe in her mouth dribbling out. “<i>She</i> isn’t supposed to be at the ball! No! He was supposed to pick <i>us!</i> No! How can <i>she</i> have been there?!”<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">After restraining her and injecting her with a strong sedative through a needle in her neck, I have a vivid memory of looking up, while knelt on the floor by Donn’s sagging body, positioned nearly directly underneath the swinging pendulum of the dead Geal. I felt something cold brush against my scalp, and saw first the tattered, old shoe Geal had never removed from her left foot beside me on the carpet.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I looked up slowly and there hung Geal’s unclad left foot: half of it had been severed—only a stump remained, her flesh having grown over the apparently old wound and scabbed up in black lumps. It horrified me for some reason I could never find words to describe, as Donn murmured and drifted into a chemically-induced dreamstate.<br />
</div><blockquote>—“We were supposed to be at the ball, not that wretched filthy <i>cunt</i>…”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEPOu8_A2V47tzLMsoMC71nqkHBfsjR8rmQHCfoeE3JB04-roax6NdDoESwv6H_-oHdInl3qacGloGoCYtdhGy3AW61kf7xHU0dYZZDWaEdvFHWdtNytPvfUnVTAxtyai7VW78YH9O3dU/s1600-h/Unwhole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEPOu8_A2V47tzLMsoMC71nqkHBfsjR8rmQHCfoeE3JB04-roax6NdDoESwv6H_-oHdInl3qacGloGoCYtdhGy3AW61kf7xHU0dYZZDWaEdvFHWdtNytPvfUnVTAxtyai7VW78YH9O3dU/s400/Unwhole.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><span style="font-size: large;">* * * * *<br />
</span><br />
</div><br />
—“Doctor Jacob, what happened to my sister?”<br />
</blockquote><div style="text-indent: 3em;">The question belonged to a wisp of a woman, her blue hair done up in a ridiculously huge bee-hive style and her eyes sunken so far back into her skull that all I could see were shadows, beneath them a pair of pursed, thin blue lips.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">One of my least favorite duties as overseeing healthcare-provider at Safehaven was this: the next-of-kin was always distraught, appropriately in an amount of grief and mourning, but they all carried this… relief… I found so disheartening, as though a great burden had been lifted from their shoulders by this death.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">It was after days with those types of meetings that I drank at night.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-indent: 3em;">She was different. Geal and Donn’s other sister, allegedly. She introduced herself as “Cindy Sharmon,” and presented her hand in the out-dated fashion of royalty. I shook it, thinking of nothing better to do with the extended offering.<br />
</div><blockquote>—“Well, Miss Sharmon—“<br />
—“<i>Lady</i> Sharmaine…”<br />
—“Right. Well, her sister… your sister… Donn, she… She mutilated herself quite horrifically.”<br />
—“Hm. Dreadful. Just awful. But, you said on the phone this was in regards to Geal, did you not?”<br />
—“Oh. Yes. She… she has, well… taken her own life, I regret to inform you.” <i>(I was never good at this part.)</i><br />
</blockquote><div style="text-indent: 3em;">I nervously fidgeted in my seat, and I swear to this day I saw something in the shadows where her eyes should be gleam.<br />
</div><blockquote>—“<i>Good</i>.”<br />
</blockquote></div></div><br />
…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.<br />
<br />
Those of you who talked amongst yourselves while I read are required to stay after for disciplinary prayer sessions, unfortunately.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">—Godspeed,<br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">Mr. Happy<br />
</div>Mr. Jack Happyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09566819087306613304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-62004434553024747602009-10-16T23:44:00.001-04:002009-10-17T23:10:22.097-04:00Dilly-Dalliance<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; "><div class="kk" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; "><div class="kk" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; "><span id=":1g9">Well, chaps, it seems that no box can contain this radical force of nature! Yes, sir, the Despair is here and queer and you had better just get used to it; especially those of you of the dour and God-y types. Get it? Got it? Tip-top!</span></div><div id=":1g7" dir="ltr" class="kl" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left; ">Hmph, well, between the two of us, Mister Fuddy-Duddy and yours truly are still running just a tad behind—sorry, boys and girls, but it's just gonna hafta wait one more day for the dramatic reveal!</div><div id=":1g6" dir="ltr" class="kl" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left; ">But, believe you me, it will be a glorious one! Not like some… terrible tragic peepshow gloryhole in the alley… Gads, no! It will be more like that hot dollface at the <i>expensive</i> hotspot.</div></div><div class="kk" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; ">Until tomorrow, sweeties, I bid you adieu! Also, wave 'Cheerio' to Jack as he hangs from the cieling and hisses, on your way out, won't you?</div><div><br /></div></span>Johnny Despair, Esq.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10398154802690610918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-35634075123643943522009-10-13T00:52:00.000-04:002009-11-02T20:44:54.880-05:00Please HoldOh, woe be to thee, out there. The esteemed Mr. Johnathan Despair and I would both like to extend our apologies. Here it is, Tuesday morning, and we have both missed an update. Tut tut, whatever shall you do? And after young Johnathan went to all the trouble of mentioning how you must check in with us frequently, to abandon you...<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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?????<br />
<br />
So, please check back with us soon. Thank you for your patience, and God bless.Mr. Jack Happyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09566819087306613304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-38610816220460742772009-10-12T17:21:00.003-04:002009-10-12T17:42:16.156-04:00Life Changing Conversations Vol. I<style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } A:link { so-language: zxx } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Dr. Overwrought fell off Thursday two weeks ago and landed on Monday, today. This is one of the tales he has brought.<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Hi, welcome to McDonald's, what will you be having today?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Oh, I'm not here to order, I'm just here for the atmosphere.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “The... uh... what?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “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.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “There's an employment agency, sir, down the street. Wouldn't work help you with your problems?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “No, shame on me, for I have lost my trust.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “There's a church, sir, down the street. Wouldn't spirituality help you with your problems?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “No, shame on me, for I have lost my faith.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “There's a homeless shelter, sir, down the street. Wouldn't a second chance help you with your problems?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “No, shame on me, they have no heating.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Then please sir, clad yourself in our garments and warm yourself by our hearth! You are welcome here at McDonald's.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “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.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I would be honored. We are simple, good folk here.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “You seem to have made this place your home. Has it been in your family long?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Oh yes sir. This place has passed down from my father from his father and from his father since last September.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Ah, that's a beautiful story. That's why I came in off the street, because this place just radiated warmth....”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Unfortunately, this place is closing. We are losing the business.”<br /><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “No... that's impossible.... how can that happen?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “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!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “That's terrible!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “What am I saying? This place is worthless. I'll hang up the clown wig for good.”<br /><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Don't say that, look at what you've done!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “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!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “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?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “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.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Ssh, don't cry. Everything will be fine.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I... I have a request...”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “What it is it?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I'm... I'm too ashamed to say it.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Just tell me.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “No, no, it's too embarrassing.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Whisper it into my ear.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> “Ok.... it's just a little thing... ooooh... I can't say, but I have to.... could you... could you butt-fuck me?”</p>Dr. Seignor Overwrought XXIII Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17398248395713391410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-61637253342579345682009-10-07T09:22:00.004-04:002009-10-16T22:42:57.951-04:00Without a Trial<a href="http://fc06.deviantart.com/fs41/f/2009/017/6/8/Winter_morning_by_leenik.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://fc06.deviantart.com/fs41/f/2009/017/6/8/Winter_morning_by_leenik.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 680px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 680px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://leenik.deviantart.com/art/Winter-morning-109742269" target="_new">Winter Morning</a></span> by <a href="http://leenik.deviantart.com/" target="_new">leenik</a> on <a href="http://www.deviantart.com/" target="_new">DeviantArt</a></span><br />
<br />
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.<br />
That almost sounds like a child's rhyme.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Rosalie! Ge' ova 'ere righ' na' an' make ma' dinna'!"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Coming..." I breathed and opened the door with my left hand, the nettles clutched tightly in my right. "I'll be right there."Captain Cutthroathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04297109631968981689noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240837899231215766.post-80003892333752220752009-10-05T23:55:00.002-04:002009-10-06T23:26:27.687-04:00Continuing Tales of Mr. Jack Happy<span style="font-size: large;"><i>August 9th, 2009</i></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcNBMGsGLKKop2fYFP7HwN2lGxx6vXhhKTa_YSUGN4MvY3DbPDJXFBOTwnZcG51Uig2QwkczOIEh5pQAT_Mt9pb8iZZWdKL0Na9jL1fm_-dCLcB-gCnHK9Q0qEa2PXe9Uq5TPzCPo7suE/s1600-h/Post6-PageOne.GIF" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcNBMGsGLKKop2fYFP7HwN2lGxx6vXhhKTa_YSUGN4MvY3DbPDJXFBOTwnZcG51Uig2QwkczOIEh5pQAT_Mt9pb8iZZWdKL0Na9jL1fm_-dCLcB-gCnHK9Q0qEa2PXe9Uq5TPzCPo7suE/s320/Post6-PageOne.GIF" /></a><br />
</div><span style="background-color: blue; color: white; float: left; font-size: 70px; line-height: 55px; margin-right: 5px; padding-bottom: 2px; padding-left: 2px; padding-top: 2px;">F</span>rom 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx8JZdaKsNu-fkMrQUx_GVPC59TMWivlZZS0r6pS9VPiaAYwoM6gB192JZxV7HaoaOTsvSqTWM7A2TXzTD4i22NJc9e7nJc4as5QTTo_sLv2PanWgaXdIEryitwXMQidzbHfJ6KEnMsEU/s1600-h/Post6-PageTwo.GIF" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx8JZdaKsNu-fkMrQUx_GVPC59TMWivlZZS0r6pS9VPiaAYwoM6gB192JZxV7HaoaOTsvSqTWM7A2TXzTD4i22NJc9e7nJc4as5QTTo_sLv2PanWgaXdIEryitwXMQidzbHfJ6KEnMsEU/s320/Post6-PageTwo.GIF" width="203" /></a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Twisting his head toward the quickly escalating sounds of sirens, the man frowned and wiped the grime from around his eyes with his fists.<br />
<br />
"THEY CAN'T KNOW!"<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">* * *<br />
</div><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Jack's Recipes for Happiness: The "Orange-Up-Your-Cherry":</i></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzvUv-7XCtEP-D5RY9tlgt2h__NYPvgMnUjyEhW-aIyBRvmqtcDohKmXCliSJyh0K5cJI35Hbherk7ZgT5WtHd-iKPIsLkvi358zSJz8JclrXJFYjomnEelRDcxGhUWDr4drTtiqzkeek/s1600-h/Post6-PageThree.GIF" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzvUv-7XCtEP-D5RY9tlgt2h__NYPvgMnUjyEhW-aIyBRvmqtcDohKmXCliSJyh0K5cJI35Hbherk7ZgT5WtHd-iKPIsLkvi358zSJz8JclrXJFYjomnEelRDcxGhUWDr4drTtiqzkeek/s320/Post6-PageThree.GIF" /></a><br />
</div><ul><li><b>1</b> shot Skye Vodka</li>
<li><b>1/2</b> shot Contreau orange liquer<br />
</li>
<li><b>2</b> shots Kilbggan's Irish Whiskey</li>
<li><b>6</b> drops orange bitters</li>
<li><b>1</b> cup Cherry 7UP</li>
</ul>Pour vodka, liquer, and whiskey. Add bitters. Mix in 7UP. Stir, then drink. Or, drink then stir.<br />
<br />
<b>ENJOY AT YOUR OWN RISK!</b><br />
<br />
<blockquote><div style="text-align: right;">[<b>Editor's Note</b>:<b> </b><i>Attached images not meant to be relevant to contents of body.</i>]<br />
</div></blockquote>Mr. Jack Happyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09566819087306613304noreply@blogger.com2