The tenth step on the last road home.

I am WHAT?


Which John Cusack Are You?


How is this possible? I haven't actually seen SAY ANYTHING, but I know enough about it to demand a fucking recount RIGHT FUCKING NOW.

"Romantic. Adorable. Determined," indeed; these are code words for "Cheesoid Sap Spoiling to be Pussywhipped." "I love you ... but like a brother." And "Potential Stalker." You could put a big red clown nose on Cusack's face in the above photo for all the difference it would make.

Fuck you, whoever designed this test! Gobble my Lloyd Dobler cobbler, shitbag!

Fuck You, You Ugly American Nerds

For contractual reasons, this post has been removed; it will be restored shortly.

Until then, enjoy this marvelous picture:

GOJIRA KIJOU LIVING

howdy little nerds,

To both of my regular readers: My apologies for bailing on writing a post last Saturday; my bad!

For those of you who may not be familiar with The Unofficial John Westmoreland Memorial Tribute Webring and how it works, my name is Gojira Kijou, but odds are you know me better as "Godzilla, King of the Monsters." Of course, you fine, foxy female mammals who spend a lot of time looking for love online may know me better by my Web handle "ThundaLizard54" -- and believe you me, once you get to "know" me [wink], you'll never go back to warm-blooded love. Oh yes, baby; yes, indeedy-do.

Anyhoo, my close, personal friend Milos posts to this stupid thing six days a week, but not Saturdays, during which he observes the Sabbath. So I post today, usually by answering letters, comments and e-mails from my fans, casual followers, lawyers and the occasional prison inmate. Without further ado, on to the mailbag!

Dear Gojira,

I am preparing to move soon, which means my lovely little aquatic turtle, Foucault, will move with me. As a fellow reptile, do you have any interior design tips for his new digs? Right now it's shaping up to be a huge plastic tub with a floating island and good artificial light, with plentiful goldfish snacks. Anything else I should keep in mind to make him a happy turtle?

Your friend,

Rose


Dear Rose,

I'm sorry to say that I'm at a bit of loss on suggestions:

One, I'm not a turtle. Turtles are so small that I can't see 'em -- and no offense, but I'm not entirely convinced they exist; the descriptions I've heard have been too ridiculous for me to take seriously. I bet you wouldn't be very good or try very hard at furnishing a leprechaun's home, despite you both being warm-blooded bipeds, right?

Two, I've never been "domesticated," or whatever phrase you meat twigs currently use to whitewash your enslavement, for amusement or labor, of any species that's afraid of vacuum cleaners. You'll have to forgive me for feeling a little uncomfortable giving you design tips for a plantation shack. [By the way, you really should rethink that slave name you gave your "pet"; unless he likes getting his ass kicked by his peers, I would assume poor "Foucault" didn't get to pick his name.]

Three, I know fuckall about interior decoration. I mean, I spent most of my millions of years on this planet a bachelor wandering the Pacific rim; I didn't get married until the mid-'60s, and after that my condo was continuously redone in whatever hideous style was trendy that year as each of my wives would put her "stamp" on the house and "erase" all traces of the previous wife. I barely have need of shelter in the first place; I could care less what kind of wall treatments or lithographs should be on the inside walls.

Still, I would encourage you to keep the water as clean as possible, and you should have at least one of those swimmer things -- you know, like a scuba diver or a submarine that propels itself around a body of water by sucking in water, screening it, and pushing out clean water -- ideally the scuba-diver model, since then your li'l captive can have a human its own size to take out its frustrations on, which hopefully would go a long way toward easing the endless, dull pain caused by its unavoidably miserable life as one of your "possessions."

Hope this helps!

Sincerely,
Gojira

Why I Hate Comics, Reason #597

I was looking at the relaunched Comic Book Galaxy this morning, and did what I can afford to support them at the moment; I visited their sponsor, mycomicshop.com. I was looking through their back issues and came across this item.

First off, it's weird that there are still enough copies of the counterfeit CEREBUS #1 floating around, after all these years, that a big retailer like Lone Star could have enough copies in stock to make it worth their while to put them on sale. [Four bucks off as of this post; after you grab mommy's credit card, don't forget to help Comic Book Galaxy out by accessing the mycomicshop.com store through the sponsor ad on CBG, kids!]

Second, isn't it weird and a little dicey to knowingly sell/buy a counterfeit? It's not like you can't get a real copy of CEREBUS #1 if you want one; Sim reprinted it several times.

Third, only in comics could a counterfeit be "actually better than the original."


Does anyone know if they ever traced these faux-CEREBUS #1s back to the counterfeiter? You would think that there would be a paper trail leading directly to the source, but I don't remember anyone ever being exposed as the fink responsible.

I'm delighted and depressed to see that a near-complete, mint set of the complete NEIL THE HORSE sells for $11.63 these days. I've lost two sets of the series over the years, and I just know in my balls that the day after I scrape together the money and buy yet another set, either the old ones will reappear in my basement or one of those new contemporary reprint houses the will announce the publication of a COMPLETE NEIL THE HORSE collection, including stuff not in the comic books, later that year. I can't have anything nice, damn it all.

Drunken, Misanthropic Poets I Have Known, Part One

Po Li, the greatest poet of the Eighth Century, claimed that he couldn't compose at his best until he was thoroughly hammered. It's a testament to the esteem and respect he and his work rightly claimed that no less than the Emperor, Huang Ming, would take down Li's slurred dictation of his poems and stories since Po was too pickled to do much more than talk once his firewater found its own level.

A eunuch courtier who Li had unintentionally insulted orchestrated a secret campaign to drive Li from the Emperor's court, afterwhich Li spent the rest of his life wandering the provinces as a troubadour and honored guest/public embarrassment of mandarins, public officials and saloon keepers all over China. Here's one of my favorites of his work:

Far up river in Szechuan, the waters rise as the spring winds roar.
How can I dare to meet her now, to brave the dangerous gorge?
The grass grows green in the valley below, where the silk worms silently spin.
Her hands work the threads that never end, dawn to dusk when the cuckoo sings.


Despite his working habits and personal vices, Li lived a long life, only dying from a night-time boating mishap at the age of 61; three sheets to the wind, Li saw the moon reflected in the water, leaned over the boat's edge to kiss it, fell overboard and drowned -- giving what's likely his best known work, "Chiang Chin Chiu," an interesting context:

Snatch the joys of life as they come, and use them to the full;
do not leave the silver cup idly glinting at the moon.
The things that Heaven made, Man was meant to use;
a thousand guilders scattered to the wind may come back again.


Take that, Dylan Thomas!

Dear God,

For contractual reasons, this post has been removed; it will be restored shortly.

Until then, enjoy this marvelous picture:




As I'm sure you can recall, I only intermittently believe you exist, no offense. But let me point out that, because of those long period of non-belief, I've rarely bothered you with favors, questions and shit like that. Well, I believe at the moment, so I'd like to send a few requests I've collected over the last few months.

One: Having pondered it off and on over the last few months, I've decided that it would be funnier if my 2003 TCJ run won the Eisner and Harvey awards it's nominated for. It would also help me resolve the dilemma of whether or not to include nominations on my resume.

Two: I see that, in your infinite wisdom, you have arranged for DARBY O'GILL AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE to be released on DVD. Please make sure that DONALD IN MATHMAGICLAND, the cartoon short that ran before DARBY in its original theatrical release, is included on the disc; by making the short commercially available in a popular format, you will guarantee that future generations of children will learn how to line up bank shots and the like. Also, please make sure that the disc has both dubs of the feature: the original Irish audio and the later, flat-Angliziced redub. [If it absolutely has to be one or the other, go with the original Irish.] While you're at it, please make Disney include the comic-book adaptations of both DARBY and MATHMAGICLAND. The former is far and away Alex Toth's best movie comic, and I hear the latter has more useful demonstrations of how to use math to play pool.

Three: It's very cool that you've pulled some strings to get POINT BLANK finally released on DVD as well. Six words: John Boorman, Angie Dickinson, commentary track. I'm still deeply annoyed that the Criterion edition of THE KILLERS didn't have a commentary from Dickinson; please don't fuck this one up, Lord. Also, please get Universal cracking on a swank DVD package and a big promotional roll-out for CHARLEY VARRICK so that I never have to hear another dumbass cite Tarantino for the phrase "go to work on you with a pair of pliers and a blowtorch" and so that moral comics nerds everywhere can have something to shove into the hands of those shameless LAST OF THE INDEPENDENTS douchebags to autograph at conventions.

Four: Please send, to all mankind, understanding and peace of mind. And if it's not asking too much, please send me someone to wuv. Also, please download directly into my mind how to script a three-column blog page with one non-repeating element. And while I don't care about the receding hairline, could you please pick a hair color -- brown, gray or white -- and go with it? Ever since I stopped dying my hair a few months ago, my scalp has been acting like a fucking mood ring. Melanin shouldn't be such a harsh, fickle mistress. And finally, please send me an animated-GIF cycle of FUTURAMA's Bender holding his sides and laughing his shiny metal ass off.

thanks in advance,
-- milos

Looky looky looky

Taking a page from the Christians who organized large groups to attend showings of THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST, these folks are doing the same thing for Michael Moore's FAHRENHEIT 9/11.

If one of Our Boys isn't given the opportunity to rock his cock out by doing a fucknuckled imitation of Jimi Hendrix's rendition of the U.S. nation anthem, then truly, the terrorists will have won.

Brigitte Bardot was convicted Thursday of inciting racial hatred and intolerance in her recent book, A SCREAM IN THE SILENCE, and fined $6,000 by a French court. Here's the money quote from Bardot: "There are many new languages in the new Europe. Mediocrity is taking over from beauty and splendor. There are many people who are filthy, badly dressed and badly shaven." France apparently isn't big on free speech, but judging by what I've seen of Bardot's book online, speech over there is sold at very reasonable rates.

Why anyone who still posts to a Delphi comics forum should be sterilized

We simply cannot, with clear conscience, even entertain the idea that one of these pathetic assholes may breed someday: It seems that Micah Wright's sycophants are now seeking out "warbloggers" to prosecute a half-assed smear campaign against the two bloggers who played a major part in exposing Wright as a liar and opportunist. It seems that the campaign's not going very well, but no one should expect too much from the LaRouche Party of Comics Internerd-dom. ["Hey! STORMWATCH: TEAM ACHILLES may be cancelled, but the third trade's still up on Amazon! I just thought of a way to save the series -- everyone pre-order the trade, then DC'll see how loved the series is, ignore the singles' pathetic sales figures and uncancel S:TA!!!! Duh, haha haaaaa!!!!!!!!"] I hope Wright wasn't directly involved in all this. Now that'd be mighty distasteful, us bein' veterans of th' same war and all.

People far smarter than Wright and his fans have struggled and failed to solve the mystery of Jim Treacher and his secret identity. I investigated Jim for almost a month and had narrowed the suspect list to two people. A techie friend of mine was going to e-mail me sometime in the late afternoon with the last piece of info I needed to nail down Jim's true ID and expose him.

I had gotten into the habit of watching HAPPY DAYS reruns during lunch, and that day's episode was the one where the school's newspaper editor gives Richie Cunningham a shot at the front page by having him interview Howdy Doody and Buffalo Bob. But then Richie gets the idea that he'd have a huge scoop and fame & fortune if he gets a photo of Clarabell the Clown without makeup. He gets the photo. Word spreads fast and LIFE magazine contacts Richie to buy the picture for $300 -- just think of how many hamburgers and shakes that'll buy at Arnold's! -- when Bob and Clarabell visit the Cunninghams. Bob begs Richie to destroy the negative -- see, that photo would destroy the magic of Clarabell's act and probably end his career. Moved as deeply as a HAPPY DAYS character can be moved, Richie rips up the picture, Clarabell cries confetti tears of joy, and the credits roll.

I went to work, the e-mail with the technical stuff I needed arrived, and I deleted it without even looking at it. The magic of Jim Treacher is too special to ruin. I regret not looking at the info before I deleted it, though -- that HAPPY DAYS thing had wound me up so much that I totally forgot that Richie had actually looked at that picture. Even Potsie got to see what Clarabell looked like without makeup, for Christ's sake. Regardless, Jim will never cry confetti tears of sadness because of me, and that's the important thing.

My Red Meat: The Conclusion

Unless I find another folder of printouts somewhere in my files, of course. A new strip will launch in its place next Monday.


click for larger version

Supply-side Memorialis

It's a little late to suggest -- I coulda sworn I posted this a few days ago, but it seems to have been eaten along with a paragraph about how K.I.T.T. could battle a tricked-out SUV named M.A.D.D. [Mobile Automated Death Deliverer] in a post-Hasselhoff DUI KNIGHT RIDER TV movie -- but here's how I made the non-stop barrage of Gipper revisionism the mainstream-media herd shoved down our throats this week palatable:

1.] Keep a copy of the this year's DOONESBURY Memorial Day strip within reach.

2.] Each time you see Ronald Reagan's coffin, pretend it's actually one of the troops who died in Iraq in that flag-draped box.

3.] Say goodbye to that soldier and mark hir name off the Doonesbury list.

I only have a panel and a half of names left to name, and I don't even have cable. I hear that people with CNN could've worked their way back to the soldiers who died in Korea by now. Take that, complacent, spineless mainstream media and secretive, disingenuous Bush administration!

DUE TO CIRCUMSTANCES BEYOND EVEN GOJIRA'S CONTROL

there will be no guest post today. Mr Kijou will be happy to chat with his fans via the Comment feature tomorrow.

400 Words.

A swank hotel, a late afternoon, 1947: The DO NOT DISTURB sign is on the doorknob, the huge bed hasn't been slept in and an expensive suit hangs from a wall-mounted lamp next to the front door. There's a pack of cigarettes, a Zippo and a Rolex in one pocket; the wallet in the breast pocket is stuffed with hundred-dollar bills, but there's no ID. No other baggage. The lights are out. The room's phone is ringing.

There's a trail of clothing -- a fedora, an overcoat, a suit jacket, a shoe, pants matching the jacket, a white shirt, a pair of boxers, the other shoe, socks -- leading from the front door to the bathroom. In the tastefully ornate, freestanding bathtub lies a naked, unconscious man. His hair is perfect. There's some vomit on his lower chest and legs; you ask yourself why there's always corn in puke. The tub's bone dry, save for a ring of urine around the drain with a line of piss tracing back to its source. We don't need to isolate and identify where the reek of shit is coming from. The phone's still ringing.

To the immediate left of the man in the tub sits a half-empty case of booze; the other half have been emptied and smashed against the bathroom's walls. The bottle's label is in a language you don't speak, but if the date and design are any indication, it's class, expensive alcohol. A wet bottleneck's smell of hospitals is so strong that you can briefly forget the man's stench; it must be absurdly high-proof hooch. The alcoholics you know would call this stuff Gasoline if they ever encountered it. Whoever's on that phone's not going to take no for an answer.

The man's eyes slowly open, but he can't see you. If he could see you, he wouldn't remember you. Still, it's time to leave. The man in the tub still has half a case to kill before he can sober up with a clear conscience, stand up and clean himself off, put on his fancy clean suit and rejoin the human race. That kind of work has to be done alone. You lock up and walk down the hallway to the elevator. You can still hear the phone ringing as the conductor pulls the doors closed and asks you if you enjoyed your visit.

It's a Spencer Tracy weekend.

No coincidence.

Work has begun to neutralize 1,269 tons of the nerve agent VX; a drop the size of George Washington's eye on a quarter is enough to kill a healthy man. Some containers of the agent were left out in a field for 30+ years; it's entirely possible that there are retired Dayton depot workers who spent nearly every lunch break of their careers unknowingly sitting atop a rusting barrel of the most lethal chemical on the planet.

Today, I was eating my lunch when I unwittingly downloaded a dance remix of the Metamorpho theme, which we all should blame on Radio Heroes. There's no fucking way I'm ever gonna open the remix file, but I put it in my desktop folder of mp3s, where it's sure to stay, totally undisturbed, for a very long time.

I have little time for Joseph Miller today.

It would appear that David Hasselhoff got into his cups, then into his car and then ran akimbo of Bob Crosby. I don't know about you, but reading that report gave me multiple ideas for KNIGHT RIDER reunion TV movies.

I miss the old Larry Young.

This morning, a friend directed me to Tom Spurgeon's twin-middle-finger farewell to doing pro bono retard shepherding at the tcj.com message board. I looked some of the other active threads on the Journal forum and found one about a recent AIT/PlanetLAR group review, which contains this burgeoning spaz-out from Tom Beland, one of the cartoonists AIT/PlanetLAR publishes.

Beland's the-best-defense-is-a-good-offense sociopathology made me deeply nostalgic for the halcyon days when I knew AIT/PlanetLAR head Larry Young as a thin-skinned, junior-varsity Warren Ellis whose concept of promotion was to strike his pose, thump his chest and then talk a metric ton of shit and metaphorically compare penis sizes with anyone who didn't show the proper amount of love for all things AIT/PlanetLAR. Most of the folks Young published who had an Internet presence were cut from the same cloth, but when I had to immerse myself in comicsdom for work, Young and that Isotope jerk were the first Internet goofballs whose writing I would seek out. They rarely failed to entertain -- really, am I the only man left who misses the pleasure of reading a consistent stream of "I just created/sold/published MEDIOCRECOMICNAMEHERE -- What have YOU done for comics today, bitch???"-type bon mots?

The comics world lost a giant the day Larry Young apparently read Carnegie's HOW TO WIN FRIENDS AND INFLUENCE PEOPLE and/or realized that counting to 10 before responding to any criticism and sending out a few comp boxes could generate an amazing amount of promotion for his wares.

Red Meat is a Vegetable

You thought I forgot to post my Monday crappy scan of crappy printout of one of my crappy RED MEATizer strips, eh? OK, so I almost did.


click for larger version

I don't know about you, but I regret nothing.

By reader request, here's my official filmography:

The Hearts Of Butt
Too Much Butt
The Mercury Theatre On The Butt
Citizen Butt
The Magnificent Butts
Journey Into Butt
It's All Butt
The Stranger's Butt
The Butt From Shanghai
MacButt
The Butt of Othello, Moor Of Venice
Mr. Arkadin's Butt [Confidential Butt in the UK]
Butt Of Gina
The Fountain Of Butt
Touch Of Butt
The Butt Trial
Butts At Midnight
The Immortal Butt
The Merchant Of Butt
F For Butt
The Other Side Of The Butt
When Are You Ever Going To Finish Butt?
Butt Lear
Butt Tai Gojira Tai Unicron 3000

Watching the Reagan photo-op/funeral

It's quite refreshing to see a flag-draped coffin on the mainstream media, isn't it?

The only reason to have Caucasian friends

A recent, endlessly tedious discussion of ethics, moral culpability and the idea of surreptitiously tattooing things on people took me back to a fond but hazy memory from my early 20s: [Cue Snuffy Walden's music, and Daniel Stern's voice]

Oh sure, before then I had white pals -- they're everywhere, y'know? -- but it wasn't until that fateful trip to the pharmacy to buy a mega-sized bar of Bit O'Honey candy that I saw the reason for honkies: an end-cap in the center of the store, loaded with a new gel concoction that that would absorb into your skin and make it look like you had a tan, which could last for weeks. Yes, that was the summer I discovered self-tanner.

Now, I didn't use the stuff on myself -- it never even occurred to me to do so, since I was still in my don't-notice-me years and the cheeto-like glow of this sludge was too ostentatious for me. But I immediately grasped its raision d'etre; to be used to write graffiti on my friends, enemies and any bystanders who bystood too long.

I knew I had to act fast, before people caught on to what this junk was and what it could be used for, so I got to work on my first walking canvas in the pharmacy's parking lot: My writing partner had some li'l fuzzies in his eyebrows that I was happy to wipe away, leaving him with a very nice orange-brown Groucho Marx look. His then-girlfriend, who came with us on this candy run, got what I hoped was a Charlie Chaplin mustache, but it probably was more Hitler-lookin'.

I was still pretty new at the art of selective-tanning others but I got good at it pretty fast, soon graduating to writing slogans and commentary on people without them noticing. How much of that was due to them being slow or me being fast, I can't say, but suffice it to say that most of my young adulthood was spent in a world in moving in slow-motion. My life during Clinton's second term felt like an entire lifetime of living "in the zone."

Looking back, I still can't decide which of my final acts of tanning was my crowning achievement: The first was an essay about dysfunctional relationships that I had written on an ex-girlfriend, a pearlescent-Irish Goth chick -- an immaculately blank canvas just begging to be used. She had showed up at the place I was staying at one night; I let her in, which I regretted the moment she started yelling at me for faking many of my orgasms when she and I were a couple. Did I mention that she was drunk? She was always stoned when we actually went out, so I didn't recognize her drunk state until she opened her mouth and fumes hit me.

I herded her into the bathroom, the only room in the house where we could have some privacy. She yelled at me for probably another 10-15 minutes, then turned a few interesting colors while swaying in the breeze, and then she vomited in the bathtub and passed out. I turned her onto her stomache, turned on the shower, and went to go grab my self-tanner stash. [By this point, everyone had caught on, so I had to be discreet so as to avoid any boomerangs or blowback. I'm very proud to made it through that summer with nothing tan except my thumbs.] With a brush, I wrote down some thoughts about our relationship and relationships in general on her back. [She was wearing an open-backed dress, in case you were wondering; I'll do many things for Art, but stripping an unconscious woman isn't one of them. Also, that would've required way more work than I was willing to do.]

I took pictures, of course; just before I moved to Seattle, I found copies in my files and sent them to her. She's in a much better place now, so she could see the humor in reading an essay about us written in self-tanner on her back from photos I took of her while she was unconscious, laying face-down in a stranger's bathroom. We're still friends, at least until she reads this.

The other act of tanning came a couple weeks later, when I gave an entire boardroom of douchebag executives "the ol' brown ear" at a pitch meeting. Before the meeting, we had been given a tour of the facility that convinced my partner and I that we never ever wanted to work there: for instance, there was a high chain-link fence around the building topped with barbed-wire that was angled in, not out, like a goddamn sheep pen. You could break in, but couldn't get out.

We're escorted into this huge conference area that looked like the boardroom from THE HUDSUCKER PROXY; it seemed that the meeting table was so long that you could sit at one end of it and follow the lines of the sides all the way down to a vanishing point. At every chair was a phone with the wireless headset; the gold standard of phony corporate douchebagdom.

So our meeting is supposed to start at 2:30 or something. 2:45 comes and we're still waiting for the suits to arrive. At 3:00, I popped open my briefcase -- hey, it made me feel like a professional, fuck you -- and grabbed my bottle of tanner. The great thing about that gunk was that it didn't dry out -- or didn't for a long time, I forget which -- so you could leave it on things, like a landmine for your complexion. I spent ten minutes strolling around the table, slathering on some tanner to the earpieces on the wireless and landline at every chair. About five minutes after I finished, our party finally arrived, we give the shortest, undoubtedly crappiest pitch in history and haul ass out of there as quickly as possible. I'd like to think that, for a few weeks, every upper management shitheel at that company had a brownish-orange ear or two.

That, my friends, was the summer when I realized that while true friends and douchbag executives are forever, lovers and acquaintances come and go -- but you can do all sorts of mean, funny shit to all of the light-skinned ones with self-tanning gel.

Fort Thunder Furries: Epilogue

What Gojira forgot to mention is that the "furry" photos posted yesterday are actually World War I-era photos of experimental camouflage suits for snipers. The "BrinkmanZebra" jpeg is a U.S.-made suit, and "FTguy" is an American photo of a captured German sniper outfit and an armored observation post. I would assume the models did not make out after the photos were taken.

FORT THUNDER FURRIES

To wrap up the week, here's two photos of some overzealous fans of the seminal artcomics/poster/music/terraforma collective Fort Thunder:





After these pic's were snapped, the two made out on that gnarly tree-stump thing. Ha! I'm just kidding. Actually, they wandered around for a while, did and saw some obscure stuff, and then they made out. Hee hee hee!

Gojira

MILOS' FRIENDSTER PROFILE GALLERY: PARTS FOUR AND FIVE

Milos saved the worst for last, apparently. I can't decide which is uglier:


or:


It's hard to believe that Milos did not attract a suitable mate by representing himself with these images. Ha! I kid because I love.

Gojira

GOJIRA WRITES BACK

howdy meat twigs,

Everyone knows the drill by now, right? My name's Gojira Kijou, you film buffs might know me as "Godzilla," you ham radio buffs know me as "Guerrilla-whale Radio" and you finefine, single Japanese ladies who've looked for love online may have been wooed by me under the handle "ThundaLizard54." I'm an actor/producer, environmental activist and 500-foot radioactive dinosaur. My pal Milos takes Saturdays off for the Sabbath, so I fill in for him.

This week's mailbag is light, so I think I'll continue this week's jpeg theme after I answer the mail:

godzilla,

have you seen this? did warren ellis ask you for permission to put you in his book?and what do you think of bukkake?

anony mouse


Dear Anony,

I hadn't heard anything about it before now. That's cool -- I like most of Warren's stuff I've read, and there's nothing I can really do about being in his book even if I wanted to. I forget what your tiny rules say exactly, but my lawyer humans tell me that I'm too public a figure to not be fair game for any artist to use in a piece of fiction. Or something like that.

However, I damned well better be delivering the load, not receiving it.


I won't be fooled again.

Peace, Love and Understanding to you all,
Gojira

My Friendster Profile Gallery: Part Three

Since some people complain TUJWMTW isn't comics-related enough:

My Friendster Profile Gallery: Part Two

I'm pretty sure this one is the first jpeg collage I made with M-Paint, way back in 1998. It's not as autobiographical as you might assume:



Click for larger version

I would say that I should've quit when I was ahead, but I never really got any better or worse at these.

My Friendster Profile Gallery: Part One

All those ones and zeros wasted on a collage I knocked out with Microsoft Paint in ten minutes. Even my mommy wouldn't put this on her 'fridge door, if it had been a proper paper & glue collage.


And no, I didn't attract any mates/friends/"activity partners" [wink] with the above.

[ps. The apparent meteor that hit Seattle early this morning was pretty awesome; I was just minding my own business, working on a press release when there was a five-second flash of white light in the sky, then a flash of red light with a loud boom. For about a minute, I was utterly convinced that Martian Terrorists had taken out the so-called "Space Needle." It was all a bit unsettling until I realized I didn't give a shit if this city really was razed to the ground, and went back to writing.]

Duende

A post-show interview with Mr. Westmoreland: He was asked what he thought about while he was soloing through chorus after chorus after chorus of the workhorse tune he had just closed the show with. I vividly remember how John leaned back in his folding chair, stared at something just above our heads and sharply inhaled a chestful of air. He slowly let it out through his nose, and once he had deflated himself, he blinked and returned to our strata. "Nothin'" was the only answer he could give.

Faintly Amusing Out-of-Context Comics Gallery


Click for larger version.

From "Foxy," DENNIS THE MENACE #136, 1974. Rejiggered somewhat.

looking for "inhabitable life" in the universe


"we cannot endanger the Cygnus by exploding them too soon ... Give them distance, then BLOW THEM OUT OF THE SKY!"

The site I found the above image on raises an interesting point, by the way.

The Emo Elephant Pirate Has Rocked His Cock Out

Have you ever been reading a Ron Rege comic and said to yourself, "Hey, this is really good, but I can't help but wonder what this guy's stuff would be like as animation?"

Me neither, but a friend passed along a link to this page, where you can stream the Regemated music video for Mew's song "156."