 |
| This comic is a needless parody of last Friday's xkcd. |
Showing posts with label Happy Monday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Happy Monday. Show all posts
4.25.2011
11.23.2009
Why Do They Call Me Mr. Happy? "Read Between the Lines" (Filler Comic)
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.
11.09.2009
Live from Not For You Studios, The Happy Comic Comedy Act with Mr. Jack Happy: "No Means Whatever"
[Act One: Scene Three]
June 18th, 2008:
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.
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.
10.26.2009
Mr. Jack Happy Presents A Not For You Studios Presentation of the Happy Comic Comedy Act: “No Means Whatever”
[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.
10.19.2009
Not For You Studios Presents Mr. Jack Happy Presenting The Happy Comic Comedy Act: “No Means Whatever”
[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 ofall 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?]
10.13.2009
Please Hold
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.
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.
10.05.2009
Continuing Tales of Mr. Jack Happy
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":
ENJOY AT YOUR OWN RISK!
His eyes rose to the moon and stared for one long minute. In that minute, the moon reflected in his blue irises, and the dying fires of an awful disaster could be glimpsed. He finally blinked, and resumed his scavenging. In the distance, the sirens of approaching emergency vehicles began to trickle into the periphery of his hearing.
Cursing loudly, the blue-haired man quit looking around the wreckage and hopped over what seemed to be charred remnants of a leather couch. He ducked down behind it and laughter suddenly erupted into the quiet night. The man rose back to his feet, holding a blackened human skill in both of his hands. He grinned maniacally at the chipped and broken teeth of the victim's skull, and poked a finger into one empty socket curiously, exploring.
"Jack be nimble, Jack be nimble," the man recited in a high-pitched falsetto like that a child's voice. "Jack found himself a candle stick." He bellowed with mad guffaws at his own joke, and hurled the skull against the still-standing husk of one of the building's walls.
"THEY CAN'T KNOW!"
* * *
Jack's Recipes for Happiness: The "Orange-Up-Your-Cherry":
- 1 shot Skye Vodka
- 1/2 shot Contreau orange liquer
- 2 shots Kilbggan's Irish Whiskey
- 6 drops orange bitters
- 1 cup Cherry 7UP
ENJOY AT YOUR OWN RISK!
[Editor's Note: Attached images not meant to be relevant to contents of body.]
9.28.2009
NFYS Goes to SPX, or Bee Are Bee
Jack looked solemnly over the somber crowd and grimly wondered silently and darkly to his grave self how many sorrowfully knew of the abysmal terrible cruel and cold fate that hellishly would morosely befall them all—in a totally bad way. The bleak future yet to come: the Invasion, the War, the Bombs, the Famine, Death, Capitalized Nouns, Fire and Symbolic Crying Babies. They would know soon, he thought with his mighty brain full of mindpowers and brainmight.
There was a surprising amount of handlebar moustaches amongst the very youthful happy youth of the very young. Moustache wax must’ve been on sale, verily, or demons possessed them all. The three-quarter hat is the very height of indie fashion, as it turns out. We have all very much seen Newsies, as it also turns out. It was a brisk very Saturday on this very fateful very-berry-berry Crunchberries. Mmm. Shit, man, it, like, rained hard, dude.
The Place: Bethesda North Marriott Hotel Ampersand Conference CentreNot 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.
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 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.
—Dullasaurus Rex: “So, as an artist, how do you like art?”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).
—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!”
AND SO WENT OUR CONQUEST, YE PURVEYORS OF OURN SITE OF TUBULAR ACCESS!
[Bears exeunt, stage-left.]
9.21.2009
All Roads Lead To Jack
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
—“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 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.”
9.14.2009
More Tales of Mr. Jack Happy: 2008 - 2009
The following were discovered at the site of a terrible fire on August 10th, 2009:
9.07.2009
Tales of Mr. Jack Happy: 2008 - 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
