I've decided that this page loads too fast

so I'll slowing the load down with lots of pictures this week.

In case no one else got to this thing first:


"WHY CAN'T PUNY HUMANS LEAVE NOEL GALLAGHER ALONE? NOEL JUST WANTS TO WORK ON SOLO ALBUM IN PEACE, BUT HUMANS KEEP HOUNDING HIM! DON'T THEY KNOW NOEL MIGHTIEST BEATLES-PASTICHE MAKER THERE IS?!?!?"

Or, "Don't make the guys in Oasis angry; you'd wouldn't like them when they're angry." [Please, no "But I don't like them now"-type snappy comebacks. Thank you.]

GOJIRA HAS COOLED OFF SOMEWHAT

OK, Milos has explained to me that 93 percent of any webthingee's audience are "lurkers," so a lot of people are reading this and enjoying it, but they don't "rock the vote" or "write letters of comment." I must confess that I've never understood your silly Arabic numbery, but Milos insists that he could show me how this is mathematically true if it wasn't the Sabbath and he could use a pen and a separate sheet paper to show his work. Anyway, he suggested that I just write about whatever I wanna, so I will!

[Milos also pointed out that that nice Tony man linked to us in a recent "Tony's Online Tips" column. Hello little mammals that followed that link! You can read my posts here and here and here and here and here and here and here, and I posted here if you wanna be completist about it.]

Anyhoo, I wanna write more about how great a role GREASE's Sonny LaTieri is. Looking at my last post about it, I forgot that after washing his hands of what plagues him, a newly energized Sonny takes to the dance floor to pull up Patty Simcox's dress in front of the NATIONAL BANDSTAND cameras. [In the film, you can see Sonny start running up behind her to do the deed, but the prettyboy Kenickie is the one seen actually doing it.] Then, his juicy-juiced libido fully engorged, Sonny dares to cockblock Alpha Male/T-Birds Leader Danny Zuko by stealing his dance partner Sandy Dumbrowski just as they're about to win the big dance-off. Sandy immediately rejects Sonny and runs off in disgust, leaving Sonny "at sea" in the vast ocean of the school gym as Danny and Cha Cha dance on to win the prize. THEN, we next pick up on Sonny as the broken wreck who's uncomprehendingly dragged out flash his hairy ass to '50s America. Sonny LaTieri is the role of a lifetime to any true actor.

peace love and understanding,
gojia

ps. the "fuck you"s in my last post still apply to the three people i directed them to, "fyi."

SO THAT'S HOW IT IS, EH???

I'm Gojira Kijou, blah blah blah -- ah, who gives a shit. Not only does no one have any questions for me, I'm leading in that stupid "What you shitcan?" poll!?!?!?

After thousands of years of peaceful co-existence with you tiny pricks, after 50 years of entertaining you, after testifying before your puny, wrinkly Merkin Congress and "naming names" over The Hitler's Brain Debacle of 1966 and all my charitable work for The Frank Stallone Foundation, it comes down to writing guest posts to some loser's Web blog that nobody likes, eh? Well, fine -- even with my head in the sky, I can read the writing on the wall around the teeny tiny little land-monkey city where I'm not wanted!

Fuck you and you and especially you,
Gojira

I'm in love with Al Gore and Katherine Lanpher

But I wanna write about just Al: First, go here and download this mp3 of the speech he gave Wednesday at a moveon.org function. =swoon= Now why the hell couldn't he have been this good during the '00 debates? And can we slot him into the Kerry ticket, please? Pretty please?

He even looks like a President now:


Well, that's it for me; Gojira has fuck-all for letters this week, so he's promised to answer any and all questions you folks post to this entry's Comments section all day tomorrow. Get writing. And don't forget to vote in the What Would You Shitcan? Poll. I'll be back Sunday.

Three cans of aural tomato juice for the skunk-spray in your mind

This morning, I've found three ways to get the Metamorpho song out of your head. Any one of these songs should do the trick:

From Gojira's dear pal, Monty Python's Eric Idle, here's The FCC Song.

From the stinkers who foisted that Metamorpho mp3 on us in the first place comes Power Records' Aquaman theme.

And at this fan site devoted to Earth's finest nerd-rock band, you can download an mp3 cover of "Hockey Monkey."

Note: The above procedure, if it works, will result in the song playing incessantly in one's head simply being changed from the Metamorpho theme to whatever of the above songs is listened to last. Fight catchy dumb song with catchy dumb song, that's what I always say. Mr. George, Mr. Kijou, Blogger, Sitemeter, Haloscan, the Bad Idea Factory, RECONSTRUCTIONALISTS magazine, the John Westmoreland estate and all of their parent, sibling and subsidiary companies -- and anyone else, for that matter -- are not responsible for any of this, so don't even think about starting any shit if it does or doesn't work. Offer void in Utah.

While I'm at it: It won't help purge the stink of Metamorpho from your mind, but this site is packed with decent-quality downloadable files of almost a full run of Orson Welles' MERCURY THEATRE ON THE AIR program, the gold standard of radio drama, along with scads of other excellent stuff.

They're not downloadable, but this archive of Julius Knipl, Real Estate Photographer radio shorts starring Jerry Stiller are pretty neat.

I still have "Metamorpho" stuck in my head, thanks for asking.

I was doing some research today when I came across this DC Comics timeline. It's a little strange to see a publishing history of the company that doesn't reference its 1968 Writers Purge or "The DC Implosion," but it's still a curiously compelling read with a few "huh" revelations on every page, such as these two:

Feb 1977 Superboy appears in a comeback attempt in DC Super Stars 12 in which it is rather heavily implied he loses his virginity. Cary Bates, Curt Swan and Murphy Anderson produce this controversial epic.

Oct 1977 Plastic Man cancelled (#20). Mike Gold later comments that it was the worst selling title of the seventies.


And the site has this wonderful image:



That's right; "The Gorilla of the Gas Bags" backed with "Balloon Juice." BEST PULP, EVER.

SURPRISE GUEST POST FROM MILOS' PINCH WRITER ... GOJIRA

howdy meat twigs,

Milos's out in the alley, screaming that Metamorphose song at the top of his puny lungs and throwing billiard balls at low-flying planes, so let me entertain you with another effervescent anecdote from my long, fabulous career.

But first! I want to post this link for The Limper -- see, Milos fucked his fragile footsie up a while back and since he's nearly destitute, he hasn't gone to the human veterinarian to get it fixed, so I [and I alone] call him The Limper -- anyway, please imagine my awesome frame astride home plate of an athletic stadium, pointing to the far right bleachers since the alley behind them is where Milos's at. [You can occasionally see a pool ball coming up over the stadium wall, and even this far away, you can hear him screaming that stupid theme song over the feeble "roar" of the stadium's crowd. Anyhoozle, this one's for you, Champ:

Pan-ter's Rozz TOX man-eh-fest TOE!
Pan-ter's Rozz TOX man-eh-fest TOE!
Pan-ter's Rozz TOX man-eh-fest TOE!


I like that Gary Panter mammal, and that manifesto of his is like the Little Black Dress of DiY pop aesthetics; it never ever ever goes out of style. I don't like to throw the word "brilliant" around, except for when the press asks me about someone who has the same publicist or agent as I do and stuff like that, but Panter really is brilliant. Someone told me I'm a big influence on his work, which, of course, is a HUGE compliment -- and I'm absolutely stoked to hear that his next book, JIMBO IN PURGATORY, will be extra-large for my benefit! Hoo boy, I can't wait to get my copies of that and Artie Spiegelman's also-thin-and-really tall book IN THE SHADOW OF NO TOWERS and then pitch them in battle against the short-and-superthick anthology duo of Sammy Harkham's KRAMERS ERGOT 5 and Chris Ware's MCSWEENEYS 13! It's sure to be the artcomics battle of the century!!!!! And then, when they're done fighting, they can be friends! Ha! I can't wait until I can make a little fort from them -- ideally the low-and-long fort, where KRAMERS and MCSWEENEYS hold up the "roof" of TOWERS and JIMBO, than the short-and-tall fort! That's gonna be so NEAT!!!!!!!! Hee hee hee!

Anyway, the faint but incessant sound of Milos' shrieking that theme song got me thinking about one of my most amusing musical-theater adventures; this was 1980, and I was co-producing and directing a production of GREASE. It felt genuinely good to be working "behind the scenes" for a change -- although it was quite challenging work, since this was an open-air production in the round. Very difficult for me to find scenes to be completely behind! I would have loved to have stayed far far offstage until the night's curtain call -- the project was a labor of love and a laboratory for artistic experimentation, not an excerise in ego-stroking or a crass grab for cash -- but the money men wouldn't fully back the show unless I acted in it too. OK, fine, whatever. Everyone wanted me to play Danny Zuko, but I wanted to play Sonny LaTieri. Yes, Sonny. Here's the closest thing to a picture of the human who played him in the movie [his face is mostly behind John Travolta's hand] if the name doesn't ring a bell.

I thought the role was the richest, most fascinating of the cast; each of the T-Birds have a natural analogue in the Pink Ladies with which to trade banter, dance and mate with -- but Sonny remained alone, as Marty Maraschino only had eyes for Vince Fontaine, the Scorpion leader and almost anyone other than Sonny. There are all sorts of fascinating nooks and crannies to explore with the character: When Sonny offers the whitebread Kenickie a bite of his salami -- simultaneously an attempt to bridge the cultural and ethnic gap between pudgy Italiana and chisel-cheeked WASPery as well as a clumsy homosexual come-on born of Sonny's deep, intractable sexual confusion stemming from Marty's paradigm-shifting rejection of him as a temporary mate/companion -- Kenickie rejects both Sonny's race and his phallus with a faintly racist bon mot about Sonny's poor hygiene.

While the other T-birds drank, ate and partied together, Sonny is alone among them. At the dance, Sonny comes alone, armed with a gift for Marty, who's clearly just tagging along with the Scorpions leader [and I don't mean Michael Schenker!] and Rizzo. Sonny's wooing of Marty is quickly rebuffed when she sees the bland TV honkey Fontaine and leaves Sonny alone ... again. Our hero is next seen defiantly striding across the dance floor and pulling long swigs from a hip flask during the "Hand Jive" segment, again emphasizing the isolation, sexual hysteria ["hand jive," indeed] and substance abuse that drive this noble buffoon. He spikes the punch with his hooch, and when an authority figure demands to know what he's doing, Sonny tells him "Just washing my hands." That's right -- WASHING HIS HANDS OF THE BANKRUPT HYPOCRISY HE'S DROWNING IN! It's at this point that he stops "playing the '50s game" of teen society and mating rituals. When Doody and Putzie decide to flash their bare asses to the NATIONAL BANDSTAND camera during Danny and Cha Cha's spotlight dance, they have to drag a drunken, defeated Sonny to do the deed, reducing the once proud young man to merely a "blue moon."

I could go on and on about why he's the best character in the cast for an actor looking for a real artistic workout. Also, Sonny didn't have to sing and dance as much as the others, which was a big plus for me and the windows of surrounding buildings for miles in every direction. Anyway, the Mr. Moneybags said "No, we want you to be Danny." I said "No, I want to play Sonny and if you ask me to play Danny again I'll smash you flat right here and now." They said "How about you play Coach Calhoun and we'll give you three percent of the gross." So I played the Coach instead, which I really regret since I can play the Coach now but I don't think the crowd would believe me as Sonny at this point. Shoulda taken the road less traveled. Fiddlesticks.

Yours Truly,
Gojira Kijou

Why should I be the only one to suffer???

So I was just minding my own business online, downloading pornography and reading funny Web pages about stupid crap when I unwittingly downloaded this. I listened to it yesterday morning, and here's what my life has been like ever since:

EXT. THE FRONT DOOR OF MILOS' HOUSE

MILOS
[turning doorknob to make sure it's locked]
Left-right left right, left-right-left RIGHT!

INT. BANK -- MILOS IS STANDING IN LINE

MILOS
[under breath]
Un-emp ploy MENT, un-emp-ploy MENT ... Bank-dep pos IT, BANK-dep-pos IT ...

INT. SUPERMARKET -- MILOS IS LIMPING DOWN A PRODUCE ISLE

MILOS
[muttering]
"Wah-ter mel LON, wah-ter-mel LON ... Wah-ter mel LON, wah-ter-mel" -- OW! Dammit!
[incoherent, presumably obscene epithets]
"Com-pound FRACT ure, com-pound-fract URE! Com-pound FRACT ure, com-pound-fract URE!"

EXT. STREET CORNER -- MILOS, HOLDING SHOPPING BAGS, IS WAITING FOR THE "WALK" SIGN

MILOS
[getting increasingly louder]
Muth-ah FUCK cah, muh-tha-fuck CAH! Muth-ah FUCK cah, muh-tha-fuck CAH! Muth-ah FUCK cah, muh-tha-fuck CAH!


I know I should blame Power Records and the producer[s] and writer[s] responsible for the Metamorpho theme, but I swear if I ever meet those "Radio Heroes" site guys, I'm so gonna give 'em all wedgies. And the rhythm I'm gonna yank their drawers to? "Duh-duh DUH DUH, duh-duh-duh DUH!"

ROBOCOP, not Barzini, voted most likely to have outfoxed Santino

SEATTLE, Wash. -- In an online poll conducted last week, a cross-section of Earth decided that Barzini, Tattaglia nor Samantha Fox could not have outfoxed Santino "Sonny" Corleone. The fictional gangster was outfoxed in the 1972 motion picture THE GODFATHER, but the identity of the party or parties responsible has never been conclusively revealed. Corleone's father Vito, as portrayed by actor Marlon Brando in the film, believed that it was fellow fictional gangster Barzini, based on his instincts regarding comments made at a meeting of the major fictional crime families of New York.

Of the remaining candidates offered as Santino outfoxers in last week's poll, Kikuchiyo of THE SEVEN SAMURAI, that chippie Santino porks against a door during his sister's wedding reception and Miss Royko's kindergarten class [provided that Eugene didn't distract them too much with his farting problem] each received 13 percent of the vote. In a surprise move, The monkey's got a hockey stick garnered 25 percent -- something the pollsters had not expected, considering the entry is more of a sentence than a proper name.

But, with a whopping 38 percent of the vote, the people of Earth have fingered ROBOCOP as the person who outfoxed Santino Corleone. The fictional cyborg policeman could not be reached for comment.

Further revelations drawn from the poll are that Brando did not say "out-fought" Santino, as is occasionally misheard, nor that simply anyone could outfox "that hot-headed retard."
--30--

People are always asking me if I know Tyler Durden.


Click for larger version.

I paid a cover to go bury alternative comedy, not to praise it

Yesterday, an old friend of mine reminded me about the moment I declared alternative comedy [or notebook comedy, whatever you want to call it] to be dead; this must have been 1996 or '97, and we were at a midnight "edgy" show at some comedy club in Los Angeles. I'm with some friends, just minding my own business, when this chippie goes up and starts her set ... and it's a dead wringer for Janeane Garofalo's. It was surreal -- the same gestures, the same body language, the same speaking rhythms, even the same syntax, but coming out of a totally different-looking woman. Normally, you'd only see that kind of "homage" from actors who did standup solely as a way to get stage time, but those desperate shits would rip off a bland "name" comic to appeal to the clueless industry tards in the audience, not a comedian that was only marginally better-known than they were. That's when I realized the good part of the alternative party was over; it had reached the fan-fiction stage. [See Joe Jackson, Roy Thomas, et al.] Oh, and that Garofalo clone? My pal told me it was Merrin Dungey, who's now on that ALIAS show the people like so damn much. I'd say the joke's on me, except that I've never given a shit.

THE STUPID LOSER'S FRIEND BLOGS AGAIN

Greetings Mammals,

It's Saturday, so I'm here to guest post. This is Gojira Kijou, but you non-cineastes would know me better as my best-known role, "Godzilla, King of the Monsters," and you AOLers who hang out in the "Shin-Issei Singles" chatroom would know me as "ThundaLizard1954." In case you're bad with names, here's a picture:


how, palefaces

My sinuses are really acting up and there's slim pickin's in this week's mailbag, so let's make this one short and sweet:

Yo -

I'd just like to let you know that your friend Milo is a loser, and I
bet I could kick your ass if you have friends as stupid as that. Don't
even know your own name, fucking retarded lizard.

Caleb Wright


OOOOoooOOOOoooOOOO! I'm SO scared! PLEASE don't HURT me, you big tough meat-ant!

See, this is why guys like me and Mike Tyson don't go to the clubs anymore; around every corner is some anonymous fuckstuck nimrod who thinks he's one open can of whupass shy of an instant rep as the number-one badass of Earth if he can take down a famous destructive badass like me. Then, after the nimord starts the fight and promptly get his ass handed to him, he sues you! Cockbiters.

And it doesn't seem to matter what station you warm-blooded tards hold in life -- a junior-college student who only works at Arby's part-time to support his Pogs obsession, the President of the Philippines and/or C.C. Deville's replacement in Poison -- you males see me and immediately have delusions of grandeur. Get over yourselves; I've been to many planets and seen a scad of different species you couldn't even imagine, and I followed mankind's evolution over a bazillion years. Twenty-First Century Man-kind has about the same amount of Alpha-Male cojones as the average "male" in a testicular-cancer-survivor support group on Planet Zero. You're not fooling your "girlfriend" or anyone else with that faux-macho bullshit.

Yours Truly,
Gojira

ps. keep the letters a comin', folks. This column doesn't write itself, you know.

Choose your own quote-caption



"Fascism should rightly be called 'corporatism' as it is a merger of state and corporate power." -- Benito Mussolini

"You don't know anything about a woman until you meet her in court."-- Norman Mailer

"Military justice is to justice what military music is to music."-- Groucho Marx

"Stupidity got us into this mess -- why can't it get us out?"-- Will Rogers

"A dead body won't bruise; neither will a dead conscience."-- John Broome

"Friends come and go but enemies accumulate."-- Thomas Jones

"It's after the end of the world. Don't you know that yet?"-- Sun Ra

"The difference between love and hate is that hate lasts."-- Charles Bukowski

"Men are born ignorant, not stupid. They are made stupid by education."-- Bertrand Russell

"You're emotionally bankrupt ... Scott Fitzgerald was emotionally bankrupt ... we're all emotionally bankrupt ..."-- Snoopy

"Accustomed to trample on the rights of others, you have lost the genius of your own independence, and become fit subjects for the first cunning tyrant who rises among you."-- Abraham Lincoln

"Those who are skilled in combat do not become angered; those who are skilled in winning do not become afraid; thus the wise win before they fight, while the ignorant fight to win."-- Zhuge Liang

Nothing can be folded in half more than seven times.

Take a piece of paper as large and/or thin as you want. This is your world.

Fold it in half any way you’d like; Buddha teaches that this fold is Samma Ditthi, the “Right Understanding,” the first step on the Path to Enlightenment.

Fold it in half again; accept this as Samma Sankappa, the “Right Attitude of Mind.”

Fold it in half a third time; this is called Samma Vacha, the “Right Speech.”

Again, fold it in half; it is Samma Kammanta, the “Right Action.”

Your fifth equal fold is Samma Ajiva, the “Right Livelihood.”

Know the sixth equal fold you make as Samma Vayama, the “Right Effort.”

Remember your seventh equal fold as Samma Sati, the “Right Recollection.”

And the Eighth Fold is Samma Samadhi, the “Right Meditation” at the threshold of Nirvana.

You will not fold it eight times. You probably will have difficulty folding it the seventh time with just your bare hands. With the seventh fold, you have changed your flat “world” into the beginnings of a sphere, and no one can fold a sphere. How you achieve the Eight Fold [and the seven Sammas before it] is your concern.

Since nothing can be folded in half more than seven times, then nothing can be equally unfolded more than seven times. All mysteries contain no more than seven equal “folds” waiting to be undone.

Seven Heavens. Seven Hells. Seven Seals. Seven Wonders of the World. Seven Palms in a Sacred Cubit. Seven Ages of Man. Seven Deadly Sins. Seven Seas. Seven Colors in a Rainbow. Seven Days To Create the Earth. Seven Doors. Seven Candles in the Menorah. Seven Core Principles of Bushido. Seven Hills of Ancient Rome. Seven Major Planets.

According to Mr. Westmoreland, somewhere on The Road To Ann Arbor, 1991

"You shouldn't worry so much, man. Worryin' ... it's misusin' your imagination. You need to respect your mind and not waste it thinking of the little things that might go bad. "

Have you seen this cat lately?

Pippy, where are you???

You're so gay, you probably think this post is about you

My favorite part of Margaret Cho's mash note to Hugh Hefner: "that sacred turkey neck gobble gobble Thanksgiving phallus of yours." Beating on Hef for becoming a wrinkly caricature in red velvet is so darn mean, but Margaret acknowledged yesterday that she's not nice. [A stand-up comic with emotional problems??? Say it ain't so, Cho!!!!!!!] And her blog also points to a San Francisco protest here, which I point out because of this:


I want a poster of that so fucking bad. It's funny because Ernie is pointing at Bert's ring.

Vaseline Alley

Warren Ellis points to a news report about a man charged with felony criminal mischief for allegedly doing over $1,000 worth of damage to a Motel Six room ... with Vaseline. I'm not surprised in the slightest that something this strange occurred near Binghamton, NY. People can't understand how truly autobiographical Rod Serling's TWILIGHT ZONE work is if they've never spent any time in that town.

While we're on the subject of Vaseline: This is undoubtedly the most disturbing thing I've seen on the Internet this month. [Yes, I've been avoiding the Nick Berg beheading media files.] First off, the phrase "Vaseline Glass" sounds so mutually exclusive, and in so many ways, that it sends a chill up my spine; second, it's somewhat radioactive? Wait, what? Third, what's the deal with the embossed howlin' wolf background JPEG? And ... a full MIDI version of "Stairway to Heaven"? Really?

OK, I just hightlighted the text so I could actually read it. Vaseline Glass actually sounds kind of cool: The high energy emissions of electrons from the black light cause the uranium oxide particles in the vaseline glass to become unstable thereby causing ... the piece of vaseline glass to look like it has exploded in flames." And it only emits the same amount of radiation as a microwave oven! I dunno about youse, but I'm off to the nearest head shop to buy a black light, then I'm hitting the antique shops to get me some V-glass.

Once again, the most important question to ask

Go vote in the new poll, to your right. If you have trouble deciding, go here, do everything they tell you and then come back and vote. It's an election year, and the hard questions are the ones we as a nation, as a world, need to ask first. Thank you.

The best part of waking up; lame web comics in your cup



See also.

No more calls, please; we have a winner.

And the Most Valuable Samurai is ...



Kikuchiyo, with 33 percent of the vote. Congratulations Kikuchiyo!

Permit me to also congratulate runners-up Heihachi Hayashida and Katsushiro Okamoto, who each received 22 percent; Kambei Shimada and Gorobei Katayama who garnered 11 each; and even Kyuzo and Shichiroji, who got zero votes. You're all winners!

Image taken from here. Seven Samurai action figures; finally, 12-inch pieces of plastic your girlfriend will let you play with that aren't her dildos. [By the way, I am available for hire as an advertising copywriter, if there are any executives reading.]

In other news, Kikuchiyo the filthy scavenger is now ready to fly up to Heaven. [For those of you who can't read the text, it says "Every time someone drops food on the floor and quickly picks it up and eats it anyway, a raccoon gets his wings."] Have a safe journey, little Kikuchiyo!
Another fine cover from the Mikester: Showing once again that they had the pulse of young comicsdom under their thumbs, 12 years after the end of the McCarthyite fad of the early '50s, DC cashed in on the witchhunt zeitgeist with the exciting "Name Names" story arc in WONDER WOMAN.

By the way, many minutes of time can be pleasantly wasted looking and listening to the other media on that Webcorp site.

GOJIRA WALKS THE LINE

Another week gone by, huh? Where does the time go? Keep those letters a' comin' in to gooseberrysprigatyahoodotcom, friends. Or post 'em to the comments thingee on the page, I don't care. On to the letter of the week!

Dear Godzilla,

Your so fuggin RAD! My cellmate and I always thought you were cool but after reading your blogs to this sight we KNOW your cool now!!! Do you ever perform at prisons or plan to anytime in the next 45 years?

Yours truly,
Martin, [web address withheld by request]


Dear Martin,

I used to make appearances at prisons -- I can certainly sympathize with anyone who finds himself on the wrong side of The Man! -- until an unfortunate incident during a show that I co-headlined with Johnny Cash at Chuckawalla Valley State Prison a few years ago. As part of the settlements, my lawyers promised the state of California, the families of the inmates I incinerated and the local residents who suffered collateral damage that I wouldn't say much of anything about the incident, but suffice it to say I wasn't paying close enough attention where I was moving my tail inside "the yard," and even the best-behaved medium-to-minimum security inmate will forget all about "the honor system" if the main machine-gun/lookout post and a 50-foot gap in The Wall are wiped out in one swipe.

I still think unwittingly triggering a mass-escape/riot was worth it just to see Johnny Cash standing in front of the smashed opening, smacking the escaping inmates [who looked like lemmings going off the cliff, hee hee] right and left with what was left of a Martin D-28 acoustic guitar. So I got a little too into it and fried a couple dozen escapees with my atomic breath -- so WHAT??? I figured, the guards were shooting, John was swinging, I could and should join in! The lawsuits that followed wiped my savings out, which didn't affect me any -- despite my fame and success, I am a radioactive dinosaur of simple tastes and besides, the money couldn't have paid for my daily sustenance if I had to buy it rather than just take it from the bounty of the vast ocean and the nuclear reactors of man's idiocy -- but your species of tiny hypocrites really piss me off sometimes. No one sued the guards who shot and killed inmates, no one sued John, but I get smacked with a dozen class-action lawsuits and the U.S. government threatens to revoke my work visa for reducing a few ESCAPING CONVICTED CROOKS to an environment-friendly ash??? Fuck you. You all know it's because I'm Asian.

Anyhow, thank you for the very nice note, Martin. I'll be sure to walk by your facility some time in the next half-century so you can at least get an eyeful of my awesome size and might, and if you send me another note letting me know what block you're in, I'll be happy to wave at your building.

Sincerely,
Gojira


By the way, since I know this blog is visited mostly by comics nerds, lonely shut-ins who are too socially retarded to be able to "hook up" even on Friendster, I thought I'd share this wonderful site with Milos' readership. Be sure to drop me a note and let me know of any success stories you nerds have of meeting, courting and mating with the prisoners you find there.

Gawd of THUNderrrrr, and Wimmin's RIIIeeeIIIIIIIIGHTSSSSSSS


"You can send your dog to school to learn tricks, sit, beg, do all that stuff -- none of the women have that advantage"

Gene Simmons, socio-political pundit, rock bassist, comics fan and tireless advocate for Women's Issues, reportedly told Melbourne Australia's 3AW radio that Islam "is a vile culture and if you think for a second that it's willing to just live in the sands of God's armpit you've got another thing coming ... They want to come and live right where you live and they think that you're evil," adding that the culture treated women worse than dogs.

Two things: One, Simmons was born in Israel, so you do the math on his latter comments. Two, that Islamic chippies haven't been taught to do tricks, sit, beg, etc. is why the Middle East has been denied that rock spectacle of KISS's live show for so long. C'mon people, "The Demon" is far too important a pop-culture oddity to have to train his fuckin' groupies. We must maintain our standards of womanizing or else the terrorists will have won.

By the way, nothing will make you feel better about your last band going nowhere than a few minutes reading this page. There, but for the grace of God and a bad manager ...

Normally you have to be on a unicycle to backpedal so fast

Ringwood Ragefuck: Your one-stop shop for tracking the blogosphere's reaction to a few sentences about blogging in Heidi MacDonald's latest CBG column starts here. I'm not a real blogger so I don't have a dog in this fight, but I wanted to point one thing out: In her blog response to the blogger response, Heidi's posted a photo [of herself, presumably] that's a piquant mix of obscure, funny and disturbing. Never seen bruises that resembled lipstick traces before.

I was never lovelier.

This morning, a friend sent me some links to old Comicon threads I posted to. I had forgotten about these three, so I got laugh and fall in love all over again. And now, I want you to go and do the same.

Actually, I'm only putting these up because Blogger's Preview option has been malfunctioning the last few hours, so the only way I could see what I was doing to my template was to publish it and look at the new page. I don't know if blo.gs will read those changes as an actual update and perfectly innocent bored-office-workers will be directed here with the promise of new content to waste company time on, only to find that I just changed the color scheme to an more legible scheme of ugly. [I also wanted to pay tribute to the Boss PN-2 Tremelo/Pan, the greatest foot pedal of all time.] So, here. Content. Read.

If Abraham Lincoln was alive and working in comics right now, do you think he'd be posting mean things to a message board? I was never this young and ironic.

This is why I bring my laptop with me whenever I'm out of town, and why I don't share my Net connection or my prank-ideas files with nobody no more. It's probably just a matter of time before some newbie who reads no further than the first post before replying launches a third round of amusing/sad responses.

Nothing better than a chance to reminisce about my days in the circus ... Sigh. And apparently, all roads lead back to autoeroticism when I think about the circus. [See, Robin was an acrobat in the circus before he became Batman's little fucktoy and, uh, nevermind.]

Well, I am such a taciturn fellow ...

I've wanted to do a Warren Ellis-esque post for almost a week:

"Although lemurs are social, they would often stop what they were doing to play on the computer."

Despite being well-fed, the lemurs would do anything for sugar pellets.

please imagine the above being on www.diestupidthreaddie.com ["the unwashed lemur, he has his own agenda," etc.]. i thank you for your indulgence.

A Very Special Issue of TEEN TITANS

Mikester posts the cover which I'd like to think continued DC's series of late '60s/early '70s PSA-like cautionary tales to encourage youngsters to avoid vices like drugs [Speedy in GREEN LANTERN/GREEN ARROW], eating disorders [Wonder Girl in WONDER WOMAN], cheating on standardized tests [Aqualad in AQUAMAN] and perhaps the greatest threat to our youth, ever -- Autoerotic Fatalities [Robin in that BATMAN comic; "Robin --? Oh, No -- NOT AGAIN!" indeed]. I shudder to think of what kind of man I would have become had I not see these comics a couple years ago. And That's One To Grow On, since Knowing Is Half The Battle, etc.

Hey Kids, Another Comics-promotional Free-giveaway Contest!

If I could have one superpower, I would want a penis that would always point to Magnetic North when erect; that way, I wouldn't get lost when I hike into the deep forest to masturbate. I would use my power for good whenever possible: I wouldn't think twice about whipping out my swollen man-compass in front of any, like, stranded campers or lost girl-scout troops that I would come across, and then use my power to lead them to safety.

No, wait, I would want the ability to karate-chop people in the throat any time I wanted to, but my victims and any eyewitnesses would think I was just being friendly. I would use that power non-fucking-stop, so any talk of using it for good or evil is kinda irrelevant. It would probably shake out to being 50/50.

OK, I take that one back, too: I would want the power to telepathically control dogs, so I could use them to rob banks. When I was younger, I would train German Shepherds, Bull Mastiffs and Yorkshire Terriers to pull jobs, but the little bastards would fuck off with the loot every time. [I guess I'd beat them too hard when it was disciplining time or somesuch.] I'd give some of my ill-gotten gains to the poor, and set up soup kitchens and stuff. Man, soup is so fucking good.

Contest sponsored by Shane Bailey, Kevin Melrose, Rick Geerling, Johnny Bacardi, Larry Young, Digital Webbing and Ken Hatin' Lowery. Man, that's a lotta people. The contest ends at 12 pm EST tomorrow, so any of you who actually want to enter should do so right away.

Phil Lynott; Not the Greatest Lyricist, Ever

I've listened to Thin Lizzy's JAILBREAK off and on for my entire life, but never noticed until this morning that the first line of the first [eponymous] song is:

Tonight there's gonna be a jailbreak, somewhere in this town

Wait, "somewhere in this town"??? Where else can a jailbreak be held besides a jail? Duh? And why didn't I notice something this dumb sooner? And why doesn't it diminish the album's rocktagiousness now?

Hey Kids! Mediocre Scans of Badly Printed Web Comics!

I was going through my files and came across a bunch of printouts of my ancient "Make Your Own RED MEAT" strips. Here's one that still makes me laugh:

This is tangible proof of my theory that Character With Gun + Girly Dialogue = Comedy with a remainder of Discomfort. Some may have some quarrel with my spelling of pisgetti, but only the clearly deranged would dispute the mathematical genius of my theory.

I found a few more RED MEAT printouts, and somewhere I have a relettered sequence from SIN CITY where I inserted Katherine Hepburn's speech [the one that Spencer Tracy interrupts when he accidentally winds up on the dais] from WOMAN OF THE YEAR in the mouth one of Frank Miller's tough-guy antiheroes. The two fit like Pink Floyd's DARK SIDE OF THE MOON and THE WIZARD OF OZ. Yeah, I know, I'm so fucking clever.

Image hosting by the lovely folks at Photo Bucket. Make a donation to them today.

Another Nugget of Wisdom from Mr. Westmoreland

"When you negotiate anything face to face, bring a pistol in your jacket. Make sure you're the last to sit down. Take the gun out put it on the table. And never speak first."

IF IT'S SATURDAY, THEN THIS MUST BE GOJIRA'S GUEST POST

Good evening humans,

I'm Gojira Kijou. You probably know me best as the lead actor in such films as GODZILLA, GODZILLA VS. KING KONG and my latest ALL MOSTERS ATTACK, although I've also had a long career on the stage and in radio in addition to my philantropist work, protecting the envioronment and regularly donating to the non-profit think-tank created by this site's host, The Wipe Out Endemic Treponematosis Within Milos' Lifetime Foundation.

I've been talked into writing this stupid guest post thing every week now, but Milos claims he can't pay me anything ... "BLah blah blah, think of how much fun it would be to interact with your fans all over the world, think of the children, you know I'd do the same favor for you, besides you don't need the money you greedy douchbag, blah blah fuggin' blah." And that's what he actually said. Jerk. Let's just open the mailbag and get this over with:

*points skyward; lips move out of sync*

Aaaah! Godzilla! No! It's him- Godzilla!

Aaaaaaah!

The monster named Godzilla is attacking the city!

Aaaah! No, Godzilla! It is Godzilla, come to destroy us all!

Godzilla! Aaaaaaaaaaah!

Sincerely,
Chris Ekman


Dear Chris,

Yeah, yeah, yeah -- like you're the first putz to do that "Aaaaaaaah! Godzillaaaaaaaaa!" bit. Hilarious. Why don't you go get Lenny Nimoy to show you the Vulcan mind pinch or whatever that bullshit is called? I can eat your parents' house without blinking an eye and then, once their basement is exposed, chicken-fry you and all your nerdly possessions with one atomic-powered belch. Don't fuck with me, dork.

-- Gojira

Comparing Art About The Biggest Human Tragedies of the Mid-Twentieth Century: A Halfassed Drinking Game

OK, get a friend, a few gallons of your drink of choice, a pen and some paper. [Don't open the booze until I tell you to.] First, write down that you're doing this of your own free will and that I cannot be held responsible for anything that happens as a result of the following game instructions. Then have your friend sign the bottom of the paper as a witness and mail it to me.

Next, take another sheet of paper and write down the title of every movie, book, etc. about the Holocaust you can think of. Keep going until you run out of names or you reach the halfway-point in your stack of paper. Count up how many entries you thought of and put the number on the top of page one.

Now, write down the title of every movie, book, etc. about the atomic bombings of Nagasaki and Hiroshima you can think of. Count up how many entries you thought of and put the number on the top of the page. [Unless you wrote big, you probably won't reach page two.]

Pop open your booze and take a drink for each Holocaust entry you have beyond your A-bomb count; if you have, say, 40 of the former and 3 of the latter, take 37 drinks. [Note to your friend: My legal team told me to encourage you to please keep an eye out for any signs of alcohol poisoning in your buddy. Thanks.]

It's shameful how little hibaskusha literature has been translated and released in the States; the cold comfort is that, by remaining so far off the West's collective radar, the horrifying, unforgivable obscenity of the A-bombings is safe from becoming trivialized in our popular culture the way the now-familiar Holocaust has; there's only 16 years separating NIGHT AND FOG and THE DAY THE CLOWN CRIED. [Or: imagine how well-received a LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL-esque dramedy about the Nagasaki bombing would be.] The trivialization of the Holocaust and the mass ignorance of the A-bombings are depressing and outrageous, but you're now too drunk to really give a shit -- and really, isn't that what drinking games are all about?

Hey, Kids -- Monkey Illustration!

On his Live Journal, Dino Haspiel just posted a pretty snazzy illo he did for HIGH TIMES magazine.

Frankly, I'm outraged to learn that the dancing-monkey contingent is against the gravely ill monkeys getting their medicinal reefer. That's just fucked up. From now on, all the money I would normally give to the furry fez-wearing li'l bastards that climb up to my window and frug to the music of the hurdy-gurdys their drunken Italian owners grind on the street below will go to The Woody Harrelson Foundation For Giving Pot To, Like, Sick People And Stuff. You should, too.

Hope this joke works

This is why I don't even attempt doing conventional blogging.

I got a copy of the Schulz L'IL BEGINNINGS yesterday; once I got used to the very very very plain design -- I thought I had received an advance galley, since the cover is a dead ringer for a promo copy -- I've quite enjoyed what I've read so far. Schulz's early efforts are no great shakes, but even the weakest gag is offset by Derrick Bang's comprehensive commentary.

Running on empty

I can't think of anything worth writing about, so here's that random CD-third song thing all the cool kids are doing:

1. Grab the nearest CD.
2. Put it in your CD-Player (or start your mp3-player, I-tunes, etc.).
3. Skip to Song 3 (or load the 3rd song in your 3rd playlist)
4. Post the first verse in your journal along with these instructions. Don’t name the band, nor the album-title.


Well, I tried to see you after the show
But the limosine had taken you away
You was in a big crowd, I couldn't get near
I guess you saw no reason to stay
The message I gave to the security guard
prob'ly never, never got through
'cause I know that you're busy
I know that you're turning my plan
This life I'm sure is sure easy on you

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

So, as a belated birthday present, my friend Woody sent me ... a link. Nothing else; just the URL. I think we all deserve this wonderful present: A page that claims to present "Natalie Merchant naked naked" -- I guess the N Scrabble tile Merchant's holding in the photo stands for Naked -- with the added promise, "Click here to see Natalie Merchant having sex." Even I'm not interested enough to click that link, but the stats at the bottom fascinate me:

Natalie Merchant Born on: August 5, 1971
Place of Birth: Los Angeles
Nationality: British
Height: 169 cm
Talent Agency: London - Elite
Shoes Size: 37
Divorced
Bust-Waist-Hips: 88 - 52 - 90
Eyes: Gray
Hair-Color: Brown


Now, I'm no expert when it comes to these things, but I'm pretty sure she was born in or near Jamestown NY [as was Lucille Ball, which a ex of mine who was from there would remind me of whenever I mentioned my hometown boy Rod Serling] and if she was born in 1971, that would have made her about 12 when the first 10,000 Manaics record was released.

This is one of those pieces of clueless junk that you [or I, at least] just have to waste time pondering -- did this porn site really screw up the most basic personal information, or is the above info for another celebrity that they copies & pasted in as a spaceholder, or is it boilerplate text for all the pages? I'd click around the site to investigate, except that I'm already bored with the whole thing, and I'm afraid of infecting my computer with one of those data miners/spybots/whatevers I hear the porno pages are filthy with these days. [Thanks, Mari.]

My Micah Wright War Story

Back in 1943, I was a captain in the Army Rangers pushing 30 but well on my way to being a general if my luck [and lower back] held out. Young Micah Wright was in the engineer pool of my company; he specialized in destroying bridges. Most of my demolition guys just did their job, but Micah ... well, he really got off on it. I think it was because of the funnybooks he read; when we weren't locking horns with the Krauts, he'd have his head in a comic and be off in his own little fantasy world. Sometimes some of our guys would be barely off a bridge when he blow the sonnuvah bitch up. That, with his annoying habit of defacing the morale posters -- like he'd take, say, the Uncle Sam recruitment poster and add "TO DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" under "I want you." Yeah, real fuckin' clever, I know -- didn't make him the most popular guy in the outfit, even with guys who actually agreed with his opinions.

My company had been assigned to babysit a bridge near Anzio, and to destroy it only if the Germans wiped us out. No more than a couple hours after we arrived, the Kaiser's whole damn army attacked -- least, that's what it seemed like! They pushed us out fast, until it was just me, Micah and Luigi Puttanesca-Nero [a B.A.R. man from the Bronx who invented the pizza-bagel and dreamed of marrying of his deaf-mute girlfriend and opening a pizza-bagel shop/Notary Republic when the war ended] hauling ass across the bridge so Micah could take it out. We were almost across when a bullet caught Micah and he ... fell down.

Luigi returned fire while I grabbed the kid and dragged him to cover. Micah starts yelling gibberish like "It's not fair, Cap! I didn't shoot first! I DIDN'T ... SHOOT ... FIRST!" and then something about Panama. You yell dumb shit when you get shot. Anyway, I told him, I said "That's crazy talk, solider! You're gonna pull through, you're gonna be fine and someday you're gonna be a second-string, junior-varsity-level book guy! But first you got a JOB TO DO!!!" I shoved the detonator into his hands and gave him The Stare. He looked at me, the bridge and then the detonator, then pushed the plunger. The comp-B blasted the supports to smithereens and the incendiaries turned the wood to ash in moments. [I found out later that Luigi was still on the bridge when Micah dropped it. Bad habits die hard, I guess.] I looked him dead in the eye and I told him "That's not the last bridge you'll ever burn, Micah Wright." Boy howdy, was I right.

Sincerely,
Brigadier General Melos Tecumseh George (Ret.)

ps. Thank you, James, Michelle and Kevin, for helping this old dog of war remember his brother-in-arms.

GOJIRA POSTS AGAIN

hey there hi there ho there!

Milos said he's decided to "keep it real" and observe the sabbath, so I guess I'll be guesting this page every Saturday until he cannonballs off the kosher bandwagon into the goyim deep end! I hope I got the right faith you observe on Saturday -- it's definitely not the one with the "t" necklaces, so it's gotta be either the one where you wear a bathtowel on your head or the one wear you waer a beanie. I can never keep what you humans believe straight in my head since I can barely see you down there. 'Sides, all the meeting buildings smash the same to me! No offense, folks -- I'm just sayin'. Um, to the mailbox!

Dear Godzilla,

I'm pleased to hear that you're back on your swimming-pool-sized feet and out to take the film world by storm once again. I couldn't help but wonder if you'd lost the magic at a certain point, leaning on King Caesar or Jet Jaguar for victories that a younger, hungrier Godzilla could have won even if he had his arm in a sling and was on the tweak. (If I had to, I'd peg your decision to pander to the Yankees by taking a fall in the American version of "King Kong vs." as the turning point.) I'm glad that you're back in business, and hoping that this means I will soon be reading about Dean Devlin and Roland Emmerich in the obituary column.

Your lifelong fan,
Sean


Dear Sean,

Don't call it a comeback; I've been here for years, aside from a brief period in the late '70s when I left film to return to my first love, the theatre. I'm not quite as prolific as Woody Allen, but I put out a new movie almost every year.

As for Jet Jaguar and King Seesar, after a while, I felt obligated to "give something back" to the field that had made me the most prosperous radioactive dinosaur the Earth has even seen. I'll admit that I had grown bored with the role and the franchise, and wanted to be taken seriously as an actor. So I agreed to share the spotlight with some of the newer Toho contract players. Poor Seesar "had no helmet"; he reminded me a lot of Sal Mineo, where there's just nothing you could've done to save him from himself. Very sad. Jet Jaguar was a complete asshole; I'm not surprised in the slightest that he's a vice-president of marketing at NBC now.

I hate to say it, but you know what annoys me about you gibbering little Yankee Bluejeans? You all forget that Godzilla was the heavy in the first few movies. I know you racist mammals get your jollies watching me trash Tokyo, but that carnage was considered a bad thing when we shot the first few movies. I hear the Japanese masturbate to the scenes in the Devlin & Emmerich movie where that scab they hired to replace me trashes New York. Howdoya like them Fuji apples???

regards,
Gojira

Letters to Gojira should be sent to gooseberrysprig at yahoo.com. Be sure to include an URL, since linking to stuff on a blog is really cool.