Not For You Studios

Happy Fucking Earth Day, Man

2011-04-25T00:01:00.005-04:00

This comic is a needless parody of last Friday's xkcd.

So Try Harder

2010-03-03T13:41:00.008-05:00

"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.

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. Your not my problem anymore 'darling'. Not at all.

I mulled these thoughts over his body, my hand smeared pink with the pricks of the herb.

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, the pangs stabbed at 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.

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!" )

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 6'5" 280lb frame out and throw it into the Fields of Discard. A train would be along any moment...I could throw him on that...it would take him and burn him and I would never look back.

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.

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 ).

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?

...Right?

A Christmas Tale with Mr. Jack Happy

2009-12-25T18:53:00.001-05:00

December 25th, 2008: 0413

Things were cold, then. Cold for Jack, 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.

Jack 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. How many ways can one say that Winter is a time of death, hibernation, and purificiation, he pondered?

O Lord, thou art a four-faced phantom!
This face: white and flaky like canned biscuits!

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 Time of the Year!

O Mother, thoust nature is four-sided!
This side: chill like the store-bought Christmas ham!

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. Jack needed ear-muffs.

O Father, yourst face has four hands!
This hand: turns the slowliest of all!

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 Jack knew better. Jack knew God hated the Cold, too—why else freeze the Earth, but to spare it the suffering?

Jack huddled for warmth, waiting for the train, and felt alone in a shared isolation, shared between him and the City. The City: 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 Jack, and cold for her, too.

O Christ, mas o menos buenavista!
What ho? Ho, ho, ho, frozen peas!
(They’re even better when you’re dead!)

Well Merry Christmas Boys and Girls!

2009-12-25T11:33:00.004-05:00

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.

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.

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?

Oh, my, maybe I shouldn't have called him in. He looks livid! Oh, but he's soo cute 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?

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 slaved 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?

That's what I though, mister.

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...emotional 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....

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.

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?"

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.

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.

Don't mess with me, Johnny. I am your fucking mother.

Merry Christmas all you strange little people who read my son's nasty little website!

Call your mothers.

I'm serious.

What I've been doing recently

2009-12-13T21:36:00.005-05:00

Things I've been working on.

http://forums.elementalgame.com/369550

Still Basically Sick

2009-12-06T17:27:00.002-05:00

Okay 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.

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.

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 Ginga Nagareboshi Gin. 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 known harbor for pirates, 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.

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,

A certain Mr. Johnny Despair, Esq.

Why Do They Call Me Mr. Happy? "Read Between the Lines" (Filler Comic)

2009-11-23T21:49:00.002-05:00

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.

Man, Swine Flu Is For Posers

2009-11-20T11:04:00.005-05:00

Stand 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, sick. 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 real friggin' sickness. That shit killed presidents, 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.

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 Wondermark. 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 that is how my vampires role and jesus FUCK can I stop seeing Twilight ads in my fucking convalescence pretty pretty fucking please I know bitching about Twilight 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, Tweet Me Harder along with Kris Straub, who is, last time I checked, a friggin' institution or something. True story about Tweet Me Harder: I once listened to it so harder, 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.

Oh, another item for the list: David Malki! designs some of the net's best shirts. Don't believe me? Consider the evidence. If I was a cartoon character and could only wear one shirt forever, it would be hard not to pick "Steam Powered Heart."

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,

Johnny Despair, Esq.

A Not Very Special Presentation by Mr. Jack Happy (Do Not Be Alarmed)

2009-11-16T21:29:00.002-05:00

[ Why late, Scene 4? ]

1. Jack went away over the weekend on a lovely vacation.
2. Adult Swim dares to premiere both new episodes of Venture Brothers and Metalocalpyse online on Mondays.
3. See Jack work. Work, Jack, work. Hard. Harder. HARDER! O-o-oh, baby, that's the spot…

[COMING TOMORROW]
(Double Entendre'd)

Live from Not For You Studios, The Happy Comic Comedy Act with Mr. Jack Happy: "No Means Whatever"

2009-11-09T23:51:00.004-05:00

[Act One: Scene Three]

First: [Act One: Scene One] Previous: [Act One: Intermission] Next: […]

June 18th, 2008:

Jack 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.

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 simple, it’s easy, it’s profitable…

…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.”

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.

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.

Jack did not live Happily Ever After. Quite the opposite, in fact, for awhile… It was lucky for Jack that he had good friends.

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?

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.

But never love again.

Stuff I Found Lying Around My Place

2009-11-06T18:57:00.015-05:00

Well hey there, boys and ghouls... wait, shit, Halloween was last week.

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.

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 just right. Seriously, don't even ask about it, if he's working on something. Dude is crazy territorial. Next thing you know, he'll be peein' on shit just to "ward off interlopers" or whatever.

I kid, I kid.

Everything at his place is already covered in piss.

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.

So, let me tell you a little about ME. Because, lawd knows, I don't talk about me nearly enough. 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 thing, 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.

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.

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:

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'

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:

"Many people know the story of Angel and Bones 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?

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!

The internet "bluzz" about The Dark Knight has been huge, and to whet fans' insatiable "blopetite," they're released Gotham Knight, which many are describing as 'The Batmanimatirx.' Which would make Batman Begins 'The Batman Bematrix,' and the pending Dark Knight 'Utter Goddamn Bullshit!' "

I have no clue what that was all about. Let's see here... there's 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... sigh... "dickgirl" pornography. Here's a good example page:

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.

This is probably the single most insane idea I have ever had.

Except for maybe whatever prompted this:

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.

No, seriously. That's all there is.

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?

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.

Let me give this abomination some context: Back when I started these, dream-maker and internet SUPAHSTAH KC Green 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.

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 even less of me.

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."

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 ain't two motherfuckers in a shaky-ass panel standing dead still, looking straight ahead, delivering pathetically structured jokes, you better be goddamned thankful, is all I'm sayin'. I work hard so that you don't see this kind of shit, ok?

Unless of course this turns out to be the most popular thing I've ever done.

Shit.

~ A missive from the gaping maw of the abyss, and your old pal,

Johnny Despair, Esq.

A Very Special Presentation of Mr. Jack Happy's Happy Comic Comedy Act from Not For You Studios: "No Means Whatever"

2009-11-02T23:52:00.004-05:00

[Act One: Intermission]

First: [Act One: Scene One] Previous: [Act One: Scene Two] Next: [Act One: Scene Three]

December 31st, 2008:

The city was dark and all lit up; he stood in an alley and frowned prolifically. Jack is a good boy, 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.

Darkness hid his face, shadowed all but his downturnt lips and stubbly chin. Jack is a happy boy, 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.

He had fluctuated. Jack is a naughty devil.

Jack is a good boy,
He does his chores;
Jack is a happy boy,
He smiles more and more.

Jack is a happy boy,
He sings all day long;
Jack is a good boy,
He cannot be wrong.

Jack will never crack,
He brings us all the cure;
Jack will bring us back,
He rows the boat to shore.

Jack sang ‘O Lord, Hallelujah,’
And angels did appear unto him;
They brang Jack the Word,
Jack is a good boy—
A happy boy.

When the Day doth come,
Jack will raise us all up to Him.

Marscast Project

2009-11-02T20:09:00.002-05:00

As 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...

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.

Now, I've just got to work on diction and what I'm going to say. If anything happens, it'll be posted here.

Unfunny Post

2009-10-30T11:00:00.004-04:00

Alright, 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.

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.

So, I read this thing on Grinding.Be (which is an awesome site) about how some chucklefuck out there saw this artisit's work 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?"

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.

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.

So, seriously, ya'll should do what you can to help this dude out. 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.

Go forth, my children, and seek out not the pure land, but rather, the site for its construction. And build.

So sayeth the prophet of this hill,

Johnny Despair, Esq.

Mr. Jack Happy Presents A Not For You Studios Presentation of the Happy Comic Comedy Act: “No Means Whatever”

2009-10-26T23:53:00.006-04:00

[Act One: Scene Two]

Previous: [Act One: Scene One] Next: [Act One: Intermission]

“Hotel Fuck,” a cheap little poem by Mr. J. Happy

And the haze lifts, her bare hip
Shifts, watch it go: so far, far;
Away with him. Send for snacks,
Open the mini-bar—tiny happy gifts,
Hey! Watch out! Attack!

Sex is a weapon, a loaded gun,
All too much, too much fun;
Games in secret—don’t let on,
That you know, you know?

When the dawn breaks, her wet
Hair shakes, all over you, it’s all—
All set! Are you awake? Can you
Get up. Let’s fall—fall apart;

Three blind judges, one Eye between.

Sex is a weapon, a sharpened blade,
So little escape, so little to gain;
Let’s just hope—mark the grave,
Make the grade, here lies our Son:

Alone, he left us. So much pain.

What’s that? A meaning? Oh,
No, it’s just the maid, please turn—
Turn it down, honey. Quick! To the
Shower, we can cram in another…
Love is made, watch out! It burns.

Sex is an extension of our selves,

How do you rate?

Bill paid: one-oh-one-six-eight.

Fairy Tale Endings: Hail to the King, part 1

2009-10-23T22:48:00.007-04:00

All 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. It's crazy.

Hail To The King

—written by: Johnny Despair, Esq., with illustrations by Mr. Jack Happy

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.

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...

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.”

“Would you highness not prefer to be escorted by his veteran retainers on his trip?”

“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.”

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.

“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...

“Laugh,” he told me.

“I beg your pardon sir?”

“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.

“What a dashing figure you cut, Lord!” I was sure that it would anger him, but I simply could not hold back.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

“Who built you this lodging, Highness?” I asked, curious as to the modest abode's origins.

“I could not say. It is irrelevant.”

“Do you commission many homes in this fashion, Lord?” I continued, unsatisfied.

“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.

“Oh, the people who built this place.”

“Where are they going?”

“I never thought to ask,” he said, clearly bored. “When shall dinner be prepared?”

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.

“Oh? So you think your own comfort comes before that of your King?” I couldn't stand to look at him.

“No, your lordship. I shall see to the victuals.”

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.

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?”

“To hunt, lord?” I answered with what I hoped was simply “timidity” and not “fear.”

“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?

“And my liege hopes to slay him?” I ventured.

“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.

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!”

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.

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!

Till then, kiddies, stay away from strange monarchs, and the even stranger

Johnny Despair, Esq.

Peanut Butter Jelly TIme

2009-10-21T23:00:00.005-04:00

Hi there...sorry I haven't been around...Been busy with well...nothing, lately. Cept getting achievements and phat lewts on my troll.

Got a new tablet pen and graphics software today. Still trying to figure it out since I accidentally skipped the tutorial. Got some of it down. It's like a more intuitive photoshop really, cept I don't know if I can make like, comic boxes and stuff in it yet.

Also, felt like drawing an anime chick, just to reaffirm that I have other nerdy interests besides WoW.

Not For You Studios Presents Mr. Jack Happy Presenting The Happy Comic Comedy Act: “No Means Whatever”

2009-10-19T23:54:00.007-04:00

[Act One: Scene One]

Next: [Act One: Scene Two]

Jack's Recipes for Happiness: The “Dr. Feel-Not-So-Good”

2 shots Skye Vodka
2 shots Kilbeggan's Irish Whiskey
1 shot Bacardi Gold rum
5 drops of orange bitters
3-3 cups of Diet Dr. Pepper

PUT IN DRINKING CONTAINER WITH THE MIGHT OF YOUR WILL AND CONSUME, MORTAL!

“An Ode to Hicks”

—a poem by Mr. Jack Happy, with illustration from a sketch diary (circa summer o' 2003)

O Hicks, thou art the foulest of
all so-called subcultures; for thou
art defined by thine ignorance and
absence of substance, for shame.

Thy patron saint Foxworthy may
claim “A glorious lack of sophistication”—
Alas! 'Tis no redeeming stupidity,
will thoust argue from atop thy dung-hill?

Hark! Who doth approach?
—“Wha'tchu sayin', faggot?”
The stench of Budweiser and American cheeses!
Most foul beast, what sayeth thou?

—“Ah dun' like yer tone, boy,
Ah'll break you in hahf, c'mon”—FLEE!—
“Ya'll come back 'ere, y'hear?”

[Editor's Note: I must confess, the comic was pretty much the money-shot, everything else was just filler. A three minute doodle? An old sketch from a six- or seven-year-old sketchbook? A poem out my ass? Seriously, self?]

Fairytale Endings: No Princess

2009-10-17T22:16:00.012-04:00

Alright, 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.

Now, settle down, cuz this treat is special, see. You gotta hear a little this and that to appreciate it, alright? Now, me and Mr. Happy've been workin' our little hands to the bone! This all started with a simple little story, and then good ol' Mr. Happy said, "Why don't I make some pictures?" And I said, that's fine. And he said, "Gosh, why don't you make more stories, so I can make more pictures for all the boys and girls out there?" And I said, "Why sure, they've been good lately, why not?"

And all of the sudden, we had five stories on our hands, two written by Mr. happy himself! Now, it wouldn't be fair to make him write AND draw everything, so I lent a hand and started drawing too.

"But Mr. Johnny—"

That's Mr. Johnny Despair, Esq., kid.

"But Mr. Johnny Despair, Esq., you don't draw!"

Awww, ain't that cute, thinkin' he knows things. No, boys and girls, I don't draw much. But I can make a little magic happen from time to time, should the moon be in just the right position.

Oh, there's just one more thing: I mentioned we had five stories, right? Well, one story ate all of his veggies and did all his chores the first time he was asked, so you know what, kiddies? He grew up real big and strong and fine-lookin', too. And he was so mush bigger than the other kids, it made them feel all wimpy just standin' next to him. So we're going to let him out to play next week.

Now, settle down, children. Who here likes fairy tales?

Sour Apple

—written by Johnny Despair, Esq, with illustrations by: Mr. Jack Happy

oddamn, fucking peons,” she said.

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.

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.

“What 'cha looking for?” I asked.

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.

“What's anyone looking for?” she finally answered.

“True love?” I ventured. She laughed again.

“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.”

“How so?” She snaped her head back forward.

“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.

“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.

“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.”

“Well…what about if you never met your true love?”

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!”

And then, to her drink again: “Why can't anyone see that?”

I waved down the bartender, ordered us another round. I raised my drink to her. “To romantics.”

She raised her drink to mine. “To happily ever afters.”

What Fools

—written by: Johnny Despair Esq., with illustrations by Mr. Jack Happy

'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…

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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…”

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…

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.

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?”

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.

Hope you like our second half, kiddies. Till then, I'm just the lovable, huggable,

Johnny Despair, Esq.

Fairytale Endings: Good Night to Angels and Devils Alike

2009-10-17T22:15:00.006-04:00

Children, 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.

Do not wander in the woods, for wolves shall devour you. Thou shalt not trust the stranger, for it may be a villain in disguise. Do you wish to bring ruin upon your family? I hope not!

As a service to your good-for-nothing failures for parents, the illustrious Jonathan Despair and myself offer unto you, you writhing sacks of foolish innocence, these stories.

Sit still, backs straight, shoulders square, and listen carefully, for it is story-time…

I do so hope God is in your heart, for you will need Him.

Two AM Revelations

—written by: Mr. Jack Happy, with illustrations by Johnny Despair, Esq.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

“Fine. You?”

“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.

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.

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.

I really wanted to go to bed, all of a sudden.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And he sang:

“When the cattle crawls,
Through the cornstalks;
The livestock we ain’t,
Not the farmers a’night.

“When the meadow grows,
The fleece, oh, the fleece;
Fleece the forty winks,
Rob that ol’ Sandman blind.

“Walk the tall grass, darlin’,
Find the lamb, again, son a’none;
He ain’t my shephard, I say,
Can’t herd my dreams.

“And await the Seventh Seal,
When Gabriel doth blow, sweetheart;
First came Cowboy Ron, yee-haw,
The second was a grey September in One.

“Lil’ ol’ Kim’s stomach rumbles after three,
Po’ boy fightin’ a po’ atomic wa-wa-war;
Four flus, why you still askin’, son,
Won’t be long, oh no, it won’t be long.

“Meanwhile, deep in the Heart a’Darkness,
Six-hundred souls suffer number five;
They sing—
‘O, fall on us, hide us, face us,
From the wrath of Mary’s little Lamb,
For the great Day hath come,
An’ who, who, who can stand?’
“An’ at six, the tropics have shaken,
Boy, are you still not yet awaken;
Where is he, who tends the flock,
Will you wake ‘im, son?

“O Lord, not me, not me, Lord,
Surely he will not like it;
And cry, and cry, and cry…”

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.

I find myself talking to myself, as I clutch the lid of my toilet, “Will I wake him?”

The Unwhole Story

—written by: Mr. Jack Happy, with illustrations by Johnny Despair, Esq.

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.

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.

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.

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.

—“Yes, dear?”
—“You can never let us out.”
—“Oh… Why is that, Donn?”
—“He will never marry us.”
—“Well, you are welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

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.

Sometimes, at night, I consider my grasp on reality and say a little prayer of thanks.

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.

One patient brushes his teeth every seventy minutes on the dot, without exception or fail. He hasn’t had a cavity, yet.

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.

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.

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.

—“Scrub the floor! Wash the dishes! Scrub the floor! Wash the dishes!”

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.

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.

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.

We started her on sedatives after that, it took the remainder of her life away.

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.

August’s large family visited that day, all six of his siblings.

—“So, Doc, how’s old Gus doing?”
—“Mert! Don’t act like he’s not right here.”
—“Yeah, sure, Blossom, he’s right here.”
—“Hasn’t been in ages, you know it.”
—“Did you bring the cheese, Jaq?”
—“Perla was bringing the cheese.”
—“No, I brought the string.”
—“Damn…”

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.

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.

—“Doctor Jacob, I… Well, I don’t know where, but she, uh, found some toenail clippers.”
—“And, Nurse Tremaine?”
—“She took off all of her toenails, there’s blood everywhere…”
—“Jesus! Really? All of them?”
—“She seemed to be trying to actually cut off her toes with them, I think…”

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.

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.

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:

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.

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. “She isn’t supposed to be at the ball! No! He was supposed to pick us! No! How can she have been there?!”

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.

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.

—“We were supposed to be at the ball, not that wretched filthy cunt…”

* * * * *

—“Doctor Jacob, what happened to my sister?”

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.

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.

It was after days with those types of meetings that I drank at night.

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.

—“Well, Miss Sharmon—“
—“Lady Sharmaine…”
—“Right. Well, her sister… your sister… Donn, she… She mutilated herself quite horrifically.”
—“Hm. Dreadful. Just awful. But, you said on the phone this was in regards to Geal, did you not?”
—“Oh. Yes. She… she has, well… taken her own life, I regret to inform you.” (I was never good at this part.)

I nervously fidgeted in my seat, and I swear to this day I saw something in the shadows where her eyes should be gleam.

—“Good.”

…And thus concludes the time for stories, boys and girls. What have you learnt? Much, I hope, to carry home to your cozy little houses, in your tranquil little neighbourhoods, outside your vile little cities full of Godlessness.

Those of you who talked amongst yourselves while I read are required to stay after for disciplinary prayer sessions, unfortunately.

—Godspeed,

Mr. Happy

Dilly-Dalliance

2009-10-16T23:44:00.001-04:00

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!

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!

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 expensive hotspot.

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?

Please Hold

2009-10-13T00:52:00.000-04:00

Oh, 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...

Fear not, though. There is a reason we are both tardy. We have been collaborating on a single update. It is coming along quite nicely, but there have been some issues. Nothing that can't be sorted out with a bit of time in the box though. Isn't that right, Johnathan? Hmm?

Sorry, it looks like Johnathan will take a bit longer. It seems he has not yet learned the value of being a good boy, or of turning in his work on time. when the teacher says "Pencils down," you'd better believe that she means pencils down OR ELSE. IT WAS NOT A SUGGESTION, JOHNATHAN. IT WAS AN INSTRUCTION. YOU CAN FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS, CAN'T YOU, JOHNATHAN? OR IS THERE MAYBE SOMETHING IN YOUR EARS? HMM? HMMMMMMMMMM?????

So, please check back with us soon. Thank you for your patience, and God bless.

Life Changing Conversations Vol. I

2009-10-12T17:21:00.003-04:00

Dr. Overwrought fell off Thursday two weeks ago and landed on Monday, today. This is one of the tales he has brought.

“Hi, welcome to McDonald's, what will you be having today?”

“Oh, I'm not here to order, I'm just here for the atmosphere.”

“The... uh... what?

“Well, I was walking down main street clothed with nothing except for my thoughts, and it occurred to me what was missing from my life was a sense of authenticity. Here I was, a man, on the cusp of adulthood, in so many ways innocent and in so many ways guilty. It is a mysterious dichotomy, isn't it? Mankind, angel and beast. Fearless and fearful. Creation and destruction. Anyways, with so great a burden of regret, I beg for reprieve... a little leave to just think, penniless and unsheltered that I am.”

“There's an employment agency, sir, down the street. Wouldn't work help you with your problems?”

“No, shame on me, for I have lost my trust.”

“There's a church, sir, down the street. Wouldn't spirituality help you with your problems?”

“No, shame on me, for I have lost my faith.”

“There's a homeless shelter, sir, down the street. Wouldn't a second chance help you with your problems?”

“No, shame on me, they have no heating.”

“Then please sir, clad yourself in our garments and warm yourself by our hearth! You are welcome here at McDonald's.”

“Had you asked me a week ago, sir, then I would have out of pride rejected your charity. But desperation is death's mistress, and so I'll accept your comfort.”

“I would be honored. We are simple, good folk here.”

“You seem to have made this place your home. Has it been in your family long?

“Oh yes sir. This place has passed down from my father from his father and from his father since last September.”

“Ah, that's a beautiful story. That's why I came in off the street, because this place just radiated warmth....”

“Unfortunately, this place is closing. We are losing the business.”

“No... that's impossible.... how can that happen?”

“It all started when a Trader Joes opened up across the street, and since then... well, since then, we've been offering fruit salads and hummus, but no even tries them. They all ask if we've got real tahini, and I don't know what that is. One man did try some, but he hated it so much he threw his pink shirt at me!”

“That's terrible!”

“What am I saying? This place is worthless. I'll hang up the clown wig for good.”

“Don't say that, look at what you've done!”

“What have I done, sir, what have I done? Everything in my life is McDonald's, McDonald's, and now I'm tortured because I know now I'll lose everything! You're lucky! You never had it all! It was in my grasp and now I've squandered my life!”

“Look out there! Look at all the people that have copied you and your ideas! Monolithic capital and marketing was brilliant, and now, those who you've inspired now rule the world. It's not that you were not ready for the world... the world wasn't ready for you! I mean... are you crying?”

“Oh... yes, I'm sorry... no one has ever thought this place authentic. I always knew what this place meant to in my heart... there's where the cousins put their hand prints into the mortar, and there's where we buried Uncle Carlos. I just want everyone else to see my passion. But no one ever says what authentic manufactured cuisine we have... everyone just complains about the estrogen we put into our drinks.”

“Ssh, don't cry. Everything will be fine.”

“I... I have a request...”

“What it is it?”

“I'm... I'm too ashamed to say it.”

“Just tell me.”

“No, no, it's too embarrassing.”

“Whisper it into my ear.”

“Ok.... it's just a little thing... ooooh... I can't say, but I have to.... could you... could you butt-fuck me?”

Without a Trial

2009-10-07T09:22:00.004-04:00

Winter Morning by leenik on DeviantArt

My whole body felt as if it were on fire. It was probably because I was too close to the sun. At least that's how it felt. I had been lying in the frost laden grass for about an hour and a half now and could feel the UV rays seeping past my clothes to the dermis: that's the top layer of skin. The whole thing is called the epidermis, from out to in, and back around again.
That almost sounds like a child's rhyme.
Opening my eyes was like waking up after sleeping for 12 plus hours, the light streams in through a crack in the curtain and it goes right into your eyes. You can feel the sheer whiteness of the light sear into your eyes and bore into the back of your head. It's something about the winter sun that makes it whiter and brighter.
I stood unsteady on shaky limbs that had settled into a sleep-like position and felt the pins and needles of numbness prickling my feet and trail up to the tops of my thighs. I swallowed the cobwebs from my mouth and stretched to the sky. Today was different than all the others. Today I was going to do something more, something better, something bigger and different and unique and it would make an impact and erase all the bad.
Dusting the dirt and grass from my skirt, I tromped through the cold dead leaves, pulling my woolen shawl tighter around my bodice, trying to forget that my organs were rearranged in a different pattern than nature intended. I could see the white cloud of my breath to remind me that it was late January, and that I should have been inside hours ago. Bending over with what seemed like great difficulty I wrapped my hand around the nettles and yanked them out feeling the prickly texture of the perimeter of the leaves. A bright emerald against the rouge of my fingerless woolen gloves. My fingertips were almost the same color. It was a wonder I hadn't frozen to death while taking my afternoon respite.
Cold penetrates with unrelenting tenacity, until it takes over, spreads to the bone and travels to all parts until it freezes and captures and takes takes takes...It reminds me of him. I can hear his voice, feel his touch and my lip curls, my eyes narrow. Hate is the only thing I can think of when I think of him. And then I hear my name on his lips.

"Rosalie! Ge' ova 'ere righ' na' an' make ma' dinna'!"

Ill-bred. Can't even speak properly. Just his bastardization of low land inbreeding. But this is my lot in life. I was the first daughter of 4, the 'lucky' one as my mother put it. Oh, we were simple low merchant class, but this man would make my name rise above the rest. The executioner was in his own class, he got paid more than any merchant, sometimes more than a lord, depending on the execution.
He was rough with me, more than expected...more than I was warned. Every time he bedded me he made sure I was in pain before he finished. It was my duty, my job, my position to give him what he desired when he returned from executing this or that peasant for whatever reason. I never know why, and now after a year of it, I don't care. Trudging down to the village, smoke trailing from our chimney I knew that my constitution would not last if I didn't muster courage quickly.

"Coming..." I breathed and opened the door with my left hand, the nettles clutched tightly in my right. "I'll be right there."

Continuing Tales of Mr. Jack Happy

2009-10-05T23:55:00.002-04:00

August 9th, 2009

From the smoking ruins of a smoldering building arose a hunched figure silhouetted by the huge moon hanging low in the night sky. The figure rummaged around in the ash and debris—searching. Upon closer inspection, it would be revealed as a soot-covered man with wild, singed blue hair and barely any clothes clinging to his wispy, sweat-soaked body.

His eyes rose to the moon and stared for one long minute. In that minute, the moon reflected in his blue irises, and the dying fires of an awful disaster could be glimpsed. He finally blinked, and resumed his scavenging. In the distance, the sirens of approaching emergency vehicles began to trickle into the periphery of his hearing.

Cursing loudly, the blue-haired man quit looking around the wreckage and hopped over what seemed to be charred remnants of a leather couch. He ducked down behind it and laughter suddenly erupted into the quiet night. The man rose back to his feet, holding a blackened human skill in both of his hands. He grinned maniacally at the chipped and broken teeth of the victim's skull, and poked a finger into one empty socket curiously, exploring.

"Jack be nimble, Jack be nimble," the man recited in a high-pitched falsetto like that a child's voice. "Jack found himself a candle stick." He bellowed with mad guffaws at his own joke, and hurled the skull against the still-standing husk of one of the building's walls.

Twisting his head toward the quickly escalating sounds of sirens, the man frowned and wiped the grime from around his eyes with his fists.

"THEY CAN'T KNOW!"

* * *

Jack's Recipes for Happiness: The "Orange-Up-Your-Cherry":

1 shot Skye Vodka
1/2 shot Contreau orange liquer
2 shots Kilbggan's Irish Whiskey
6 drops orange bitters
1 cup Cherry 7UP

Pour vodka, liquer, and whiskey. Add bitters. Mix in 7UP. Stir, then drink. Or, drink then stir.

ENJOY AT YOUR OWN RISK!

[Editor's Note: Attached images not meant to be relevant to contents of body.]

Not For You Studios Presents: A Rare Literary Find!

2009-10-02T23:25:00.016-04:00

[Note: Sorry, kiddos, for not tunin' in at the same Despair-Time, same Despair-Channel last week. I was at Small Press Expo, kickin' it anachronistic-school, takin' names and creepin' out Meredith Gran. Sorry I was wierd. You're a real nice lady. Anyway, more con details later, maybe. And now: As the title says.]

James Joyce is undoubtedly one of the most famous authors of the 20th century, with a collection of works as dense with meaning and allusions as they are influential. Perhaps best known for his Ulysses, his unquestioned masterpiece, but his neither is his earlier work unforgotten. His infamous collection of short stories, Dubliners, was composed between the ages of 22 and 25, yet is just as complex and rewarding as anything he's written. Recently, yet another classic Joycian composition has been unearthed: a previously unknown collection of stories that compliment and build on the rich themes of Dubliners: Americaners. Here, we are pleased to present some excerpts from this recovered marvel, which we are sure is not long off from being elevated to most celebrated positions in the literary canon, as well as some brief introductory analysis.

In our first excerpt, “A True Patriot,” Joyce once again explores the theme of man's struggle against the horrible inevitabilities of the universe, of the common worker's endless battle to retain some control over his existence, and the sad lows that this losing war drives him to. “Sunday Mornings” turns Joyce's attention to the church, as one might expect of that classic religious provocateur. “Hard Work” focuses primarily on the senseless brutalities that are so often encouraged by male bonding rituals, touching briefly on the question of where the blame in these situations lies, on the individuals, or on the society. “Gentlemen Prefer Blonds” continues Joyce's exploration of manhood, this time directed towards the study of often predatory male sexuality and its consequences.“Wastes” is truly classic Joycian stream-of-consciousness, which is always a deceptively complex delight, giving wonderful insight into the amazing mind which gave rise to so many complex, wonderful characters.

A True Patriot

A dark red truck races along a tired back road. The driver's heart races along with, faster, setting the pace as the lead car. His name is short and crude, either Frank or Earl or perhaps even Bob. It is irrelevant, much like his suspended license and his pending court date. He is tense, willing the Earth to somehow compress so his destination might be closer. He will make it, he tells himself, he has to.

A single rock sticks out of the barely-paved road, a mineral-based iceberg in his path. Bloodshot eyes weary of long hours at the mill and longer hours at the bar fail him. The truck sails smoothly over the rock like a longboat cresting a wave. The heap reconnects with the road in a jarring cacophony of scraping and shaking. It is too much for him. For an instant, he eases, and in that instant, he is lost. The man releases a long, greasy tube of excrement into his coveralls.

His face reddens with shame. He mutters some curse towards the minority that served him his ethnically flavored yet inescapably Americanized dinner. He blames them, the Mexicans or Italians or perhaps Chinese who prepared his meal, though his heart is not in it, and the ugly slur tastes bitter upon his lips.

He finally arrives at home. He pounds through the front door of his trailer and back to the bathroom. “What stinks like shit?” his wife calls. He kicks the dog, and then the other dog, and thinks about chasing the other three down and kicking them, too, just to show them, but goes to clean himself instead. He sees the mirror hanging over the sink and avoids looking at himself. He wipes the massive, smeared pile of crap from his good pants and studies the bumper sticker taped onto the mirror: “These colors don't run.”

Sunday Mornings

Sunday mornings, Father Randy stood before the crowd and told them God's inalterable, immutable will. Sunday afternoons, he followed them to the local sportsbar and indulged. He was a good man, a pious man, and after all, beer was not so different from wine. Father Randy often joked about his Buds being sacramental booze. People rarely laughed at his jokes.

Father Randy almost never drank alone, and there was no one he wouldn't drink with. He drank with old Hershel, who preferred Old Testament stories, and he drank with young Tommy, who never wanted to “God talk” with Father Randy. Father Randy drank with the ladies about town, as well. Norma Jean and Bobby Sue and Sally Sally all consented to pass the time with the good father, in and out of the bar. Some places might have talked about such conduct, but people around these here parts were decent, God-fearing folk, and they knew that Father Randy was a man of God, and God moves in mysterious ways, and after all even a man of God is still just a man, let he without sin cast the first stone, and so on.

Besides, Father Randy still maintained his duties as a reverend. He was never late for services, and he always made sure someone was taking confessions. He himself manned the confessional four days a week: Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. Wednesdays were slow, and he felt sure he could simply skip that day's services, but he didn't because he was a man called by God, after all. Saturdays were the busiest day, as people wanted to get themselves right with the Lord in time for Sunday morning. Saturdays he heard all sorts of sins. He heard about cheating, lying, lusting, and even stealing from time to time. He never judged them, for it was God's domain to judge mankind. He showed them the way back on to God's path, and he prayed for them to be strong and resist the Devil's wicked temptations.

Out of all the people Father Randy prayed for, he prayed for Joey Gren the most. Joey came in every Saturday night to seek forgiveness for his sins. Joey never said it was him, but Father Randy could tell. He'd drank with the boy many times, still drank with the boy, in fact. Ever since Joey started confessing, though, Randy felt strange, sitting next to each other, sharing a pitcher. Joey'd take a drink, and Randy couldn't help thinking about the places he knew those lips had been. Joey'd laugh over something, maybe one of Randy's jokes, and his laugh was so easy, so friendly, that Randy could only think about all the other boys that Joey had laughed with. What drove a man to do those things, those horrible, disgusting things? How could he just sit there, knowing what he'd done? Knowing what people would do, if they knew? More than that: why did Randy still share his Sunday afternoons with him? What drove him to hear more about those illicit sins?

One Sunday morning, Joey didn't make it out to services. Father Randy filled his sermon with the full severity of God's wrath. Father Randy couldn't wait for it to end. He needed a beer. He needed a lot of beers. He rushed through the proceedings in a sweat. At the bar, he drank like he did back in his school days: recklessly. On this day, there were no jokes. Father Randy couldn't help but speak. He spoke the truth, but without honesty. He poured out the knowledge he had of Joey Gren's sins. “In a town this small, how could I not tell who it was,” he asked them. The places, the times, the acts, the men. All of this he heaped on them, hoping to free himself of this terrible knowledge. No one interrupted him. When he could not say anything else, he simply left.

That week, he could not sleep. Why had he said all that? No, the real question was: why did it matter that Joey wasn't there? This Saturday, when they met again, in the confessional, he would ask. He'd ask more than that. He'd ask questions he thought he could never ask.

Saturday came. Father Randy could barely contain himself. He did all things in his normal way, careful not to let anyone notice anything different about him. But every time he heard the confessional door open, he felt himself stir.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.” It was just old Hershel. He didn't come into confessional all that often; Randy had the distinct impression it was something against him, personally. “Though I done it in the Lord's name, I have committed the deadly sin of Wrath. That little queer you done told us about? Well, I done strung his ass up, inna tree, the way folks used to.” It was old Herschel. In a town this small... Randy stared at the floor of the confessional, searching for something. But of course, he knew that this was the only way it could end. Closing his eyes, he blessed old Herschel and sent him on his way.

Hard Work

Thunder split a dull gunmetal sky, but the men gathered in the bar couldn't hear it over their cheers. The television was broadcasting images of brightly colored cars speeding around and around a track, and they all marveled at their speed and their circling ability. Their drinks are staggeringly cheap and plentiful and do nothing to soften the incessant pain of their pedestrian lives. But the cars drove on, and that was such a clever thing for them to do.

Someone won and the race ended. The men continued to cheer nothing throughout the evening, even as they were thrust into the miserable, storming night. There were four of them, there, stumbling through the parking lot. In a dazzling display of cunning and skill at the very least equal to that of the race car drivers', all four make it to their own chariots and persuade them to life. The first, Bobby Mitchell, dashed himself against a tree in a truly tragic scene. “Big” Curtis Lee was far more successful, only hitting a passing vagrant. Billy Bobson made it home unmolested, parked his car askew across the driveway, filled his passenger seat with vomit, and passed out. But Russel Hass took home the gold. His voyage home was a simple thing, as was easing the car into its proper place, as was finding the right keys for the front door, as was beating his wife, nightly, for reasons that only true gentlemen could understand. Tonight, he beat on her before taking in the meal she had prepared him, and even before his customary glass of whiskey. It is not that these things brought Russel any joy; but, one does what one must to get by.

Gentlemen Prefer Blonds

It was Friday, and for Hank Johns, this meant two things. The first was that it was payday. The second was that he could afford to buy some pussy. The women he purchased often referred to it as “attention” or “company” or “a date,” but in this act, Hank did not harbor any illusions. He knew he was buying nothing more or less than a few hours of their time and a big, messy farewell.

Hank loved whores. He loved to watch them walk, carrying confidence in their product and anxiety. What was it exactly that worried them, Hank sometimes wondered. Was it fear? Of arrests, of being robbed, left bound and gagged and maybe gutted out in some cheap hotel? Of blacks, perhaps? Hank's father taught him how to pick out whores, how to know their tricks, how to avoid getting caught up in their personal tragedies. Hank wondered: what did their fathers teach them? Were they taught how to hide a gun, how to shoot it, how to squeeze men for their last dollar? Were they taught how to drown it all away in the same bars they worked?

Hank's father always told him not to think about whores, just holes. Hank used to think this was wise advice; it was certainly the easiest way to avoid getting taken in, after all. But Hank found that half the fun was in the thought of it. Thinking about their fears. Thinking about what made them do it. Desperation? There weren't many jobs around, that was for sure, and everyone needed to eat. He could tell, from stretch marks and the occasional cesarean scar, that many of them had children. Hank liked to think of those children, liked to imagine them watching him as he used their mothers. Sometimes he stood in screaming crowds outside the doctor's offices, and as he looked at all the signs urging to “think of the children,” he'd get hard. His wife, standing beside him, always seemed to notice, always turned away in disgust. Did she know? It didn't matter. Perhaps she whored too, maybe she was in other bars picking up men, or being picked up. The thought of this, though distasteful, was not enough to stop him.

This Friday night, Hank was lucky. A fresh one walked into the bar. Hank could tell by the way she avoided the bar, avoided ordering a drink, that she hadn't done this before, and actually thought it mattered to the bartender that she was underage. Hank wondered how underage she was, and felt a furious stiffness growing in him. He walked up to her. “Hay thaar, sweet thang.” She flinched as he laid his hand upon her, withered under his smile, but he knew she would not turn away. “Is thar a keg in yer shorts? Kuz I can't wait to tap that ass.”

Wastes

A fat, blotchy redneck drinks awful booze. His face is horrible and his mind unbelievably dumb. He loves only awful things and is just a stupid jerk. He hits his wife and his kids and minorities sometimes when no one is looking and what a miserable piece of crap you're thinking well you know what surprise he's the perfect metaphor in every way for this stupid goddamn country.

—Sweet American dreams, kiddies, from your very own oogie-boogey man,

a certain Mr. Johnny Despair, Esq.

NFYS Goes to SPX, or Bee Are Bee

2009-09-28T23:56:00.004-04:00

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

There was a surprising amount of handlebar moustaches amongst the very youthful happy youth of the very young. Moustache wax must’ve been on sale, verily, or demons possessed them all. The three-quarter hat is the very height of indie fashion, as it turns out. We have all very much seen Newsies, as it also turns out. It was a brisk very Saturday on this very fateful very-berry-berry Crunchberries. Mmm. Shit, man, it, like, rained hard, dude.

The Place: Bethesda North Marriott Hotel Ampersand Conference Centre
The Time: Saturday, September 26th, 2009, 11:00 AM until QUESTION MAAAAA-AAAAARKKKK-K-KKKK??!?!?!?!?????!?!?!*
* (Answer: 7:00 PM)
The Thing: Small Press Expo
The How: Magic. And cocaine. And magic cocaine. Made of ground Unicorn. Magic MEXICAN Unicorns, hombre.

Not For You Studios was out in force at this gala extravaganza bathed in the spotlights and lime-coloured light. The crowds could not get enough of these seven up-and-comers, greeting them with the ultimate in Hipster praise: an absolute lack of any acknowledgement whatsoever. In the indie niche, nothing says “You’ve Made It!” more than when nobody gives a shit about you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not For You also attended the spotlight on Jeffrey Brown, during which Mr. Happy solidified his place in Hell with some sketching. It never hurts to go that extra mile to ensure Satan takes notes in the margins of his diary about how he’s going to jam terrible things inside your rectum when you burn in the eternal Pits. It was also discovered, as well, that Jack finds the moderator for this panel to be a dull, dull woman with dull, dull questions.

—Dullasaurus Rex: “So, as an artist, how do you like art?”
—Brown: “I, uh, you know, like it.”
—D-Rexface: “So, as a comic artist, how do you like comics?”
—Brown: “They’re coo’.”
—Planet Dullplanet: “So, as an arist of comics, how do you like art in comics?”
—Brown: “Hm, well, it’s—“
—Dullforce Omega: “TIME!”

Finally, The Center for Cartoon Studies held a comicking workshop, which was attended by Not For You. We learnt much of the sacred art, such as “Westerners read left-to-right,” and “panels are those square things on the page.” (No, in all seriousness, it was fun and not-at-all-dumb-like-that).

AND SO WENT OUR CONQUEST, YE PURVEYORS OF OURN SITE OF TUBULAR ACCESS!

[Bears exeunt, stage-left.]

Random Picture

2009-09-28T18:15:00.005-04:00

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

Paramount Announces New Peter Piper Movie

2009-09-24T12:42:00.002-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

I asked Bay who Keanu was supposed to acting as.

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

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

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

Christopher Lee looking youthful as Peter Piper.

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

Slice of Life

2009-09-23T18:00:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

Advice

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

1. WHAT A GREAT CAST! THEY'RE SIMILAR TO ME AND MY FRIENDS *ADDS TO FAVORITES*
Make your characters believable, but not TOO believable.
Emphasize a characters physicality, personality and especially a grace or flaw.
Examples:
Fiona is beautiful and slender (physical) frequently nice (personality), however SHE NEVER BATHES (flaw).
Brad is big and fat (physical) generally grumpy and irritable (personality), but has a secret love of unicorns (grace...or flaw, depending).

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

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

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

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

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

All Roads Lead To Jack

2009-09-21T23:57:00.011-04:00

STRAIN

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

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

FEAR

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

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

DESPERATION

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

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

ESCAPE

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

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

PURITY

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

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

REFLECTION

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

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

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

“Steady, keep it, steady
METRONOME

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

“Steady, keep it, steady
METRONOME

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

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

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

Did you ever think you could fly?

2009-09-21T20:50:00.006-04:00

I did.

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

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

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

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

Talk like a Pirate

2009-09-19T21:01:00.002-04:00

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

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

Well, for starters:

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

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

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

I do.

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrsssssssssssssssssssssss Truly,

Captain Cutthroat

My Wilde Ride

2009-09-18T21:19:00.030-04:00

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

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

I ain't no broke nigga'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta'

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued...

I Found A Funny Thing In My Inbox

2009-09-18T20:40:00.004-04:00

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

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

Bizarre Agenda of Local Survivalist-Cult Figure Revealed

Lawsuit, Self-Published Magazine Paint Disturbing Picture

By Franklin Wolfram, Staff Reporter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And his name is Johnny Despair, Esq.

No time for introductions...

2009-09-17T11:25:00.005-04:00

This is my rockband's first CD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buy my fucking CD.

Introducing...

2009-09-16T21:08:00.005-04:00

Click for full view.

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

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

Next week, LOOK FORWARD TO COLOR.

Drowning in my pwn spit

2009-09-16T13:00:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

A little bit about me :

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

My crew :

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

What's up with the pirate thing anyway :

I will fucking cut you down with my hook foot.

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

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

... :

Yeah, that's what I thought.

Ha-ha! Gross!

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

More Tales of Mr. Jack Happy: 2008 - 2009

2009-09-14T23:58:00.005-04:00

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

Tales of Mr. Jack Happy: 2008 - 2009

2009-09-07T23:59:00.007-04:00

FOREWORD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

THERE IS NO YOU, THERE IS NO ME! THIS IS NOT FOR YOU!

June 19th, 2008:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jack! Watch out!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

October 9th, 2008:

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

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

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

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

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

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

December 31st, 2008:

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

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

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

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

March 17th, 2009:

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

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

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

—“And you believe her filthy lies?”
—“I don’t see how she’d gain in lying… Wait, what are you even saying? That she lied you were born on this date, or that you were born at all?”
—“I WAS REBORN IN THE HOLY FLAMES OF JESUS CHRIST’S ETERNAL LOVE, BITCHFACE, AND YOU BEST TO BELIEVE IT BEFORE I TOTALLY REPRESENT ALL OVER YOUR GODDAMNED WHORE FACE, WHORE!!”
—“What is wrong with you?!”

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

They smoked all of our cigarettes.

June 18th, 2009:

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe I should write a Blog?”

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

Oh, yeah, I knew I was forgetting something

2009-09-07T23:59:00.006-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least, that's the word on the street,

from one Mr. Johnny Despair, Esq.

First post!

2008-06-18T14:29:00.004-04:00

wooot!!!1!1!111!1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!