Ha, I finally get people to look at this page and then I disappear for a week and a harf. Ha, I laugh at my own remarks that aren’t even jokes. You will believe there are still moderately expensive hotel rooms in this country without easily accessible internet. You will also believe that I never needed an excuse that good. Here, have a fox at war. Nevermind why, for the moment.
You may be pleased to know I actually had this done last Tuesday but couldn’t be bothered to make even as lazy an update as this out of it. Also, I only realized now after printing this out and giving it to a fellow that there was a big pink streak from where I had moved the edge of the tank bullet (that’s what the large shiny thing is) and forgot to fill in the vacated space. And then I fixed it and for the first time ever saved the little internet version COMPLETELY over the big version that I make prints from right just now. I can restore it from my flash drive duplicate, but it’s the botch that counts. Thankfully, that is not the most disgraceful thing I allowed to happen over the week-end and surrounding territories. That would have been a disappointment, I think. I always bring enough gaffes for everyone.
Some people insist on enjoying themselves anyway.
I intend to do something strange this week-end. I am preparing for it. I am also doing a terrible job preparing for it.
Here, then, is some old junk from last November.
I hope she didn’t say it like that
Indeed he does! Verily, this picture of Carson Daly contains Carson Daly.
I’m glad you caught that.
Jeff, I’ve been saying that for YEARS. There MUST be a faster, shiftier way of getting powerful, sense-numbing drugs. Curse this narcotic bureaucracy!
Oh, excuse me. This is from November 70 million BCE. Or 1995.
Well, I’m sold.
I thought that said “never lose a potato.” As it stands, I don’t see how this will do a thing about potato loss.
JJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJ
I don’t know where the time’s going, but I hope it’s enjoying itself.
JJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJ -world’s greatest The Guardian Legend password
My eyes hurt.
A special message from Jay Piscopo among the comments.
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Page 33 (it’s below page 32) of this.
Hey, remember when I used to post a comic here? Well I don’t. Could you remind me what that was like?
The moral of this story: believe in yourself and you too might one day cause someone else a spinal injury
The page size limit affects me yet again. I do not think it is as obvious today as the previous time, though. The size was FINE when I was PLANNING the thing. It was only when I drew it and started thinking “maybe THIS should happen instead…” that problems arose. Problems often arouse themselves in this way.
Once this “story” is finished, I intend to use a different content-delivery method if I think of one that seems like I would be capable of working with it. I imagine the shift would be considered abrupt if I did it mid-action. Even though I apparently have no problem with taking month-long breaks mid action, ideally at the conclusion, when the next images are posted, the gap isn’t visually apparent. Surely it’s fun enough to track the color depth changes between pages.
I wanted to be like Hergé. As far as cramming lots of stuff into little spaces and having it not seem like I crammed it beyond reasonable protocols of crammage goes. I still do. I cannot. Look at this page. Or don’t, but I’m going to continue talking as if you’ve looked at it regardless of whether you have. FIVE rows of panels. I never even realized the pictures were smaller than usual here until a few years prior to now because the author was a master at what he did. Every little box gets my full attention, as if it’s all I see (ehhh, in the actual book, off the internet, at least). Not only are there lots of boxes, a lot happens into. Herge gets China invaded and occupied, and then the invasion gloated about in ONE PAGE. Maybe it’s a little bit racist, maybe Tintin’s survival throughout his numerous captivities is incredibly improbable, that these guys who start wars just because they feel like it will point guns at but not kill the one meddler who threatens them the most, but that’s beside the point that my drawings are incomprehensible. It’s beside the point of itself because the improbability doesn’t affect my desire to finish viewing the story nor my ability to enjoy it. That improbability is all around us and people are used to it. I need to realize that I can get away with some blatant improbabilities. I do, but most of the ones I set up are, at their roots, attempts to avoid other improbabilities that are easier for people to ignore. Or something like that. I feel asleep back when I used a form of “improbable” in the fourth consecutive sentence.
Meet the Windows XP install program lonely arrow. You can meet it because it is a person, with feelings, fears, wants and needs, just like you. Must we anthropomorphisize all things? I feel bad about not needing this thing’s help. That’s it’s only purpose, its only aspiration in life, the thing it has devoted its entire existence to being ready for, and I don’t even give it a chance to prove itself. Worse, its only friend, the baby arrow, decided it would be more popular if it got in with the green square arrow’s crowd instead. There is no one to comfort the help arrow in dealing with its unfortunate spinal condition caused from spending so much time awkwardly bent over inside that little circle. I almost want to cry.
I will persevere, though. A lot of people have it worse than I do but don’t lose their heads over it. They still might want to attach a string, though, just in case.
I think feet as the O letters is pushing the gimmick, a bit. Some members of the logo lobby seem to think that any object can be used to substitute any vowel. If anything, this is Giigle, which it isn’t, which means it’s nothing.
On the subject of Michael Jackson tributes two months after his death still suddenly and inexplicably turning up in places where they never would have had the man lived to 180 years of age, I can at least understand them, to some extent. He was a near-mythic figure, most people know who he was, and he did plenty of things they liked. He did things they didn’t like… even if you don’t see validity in the molestation charges, it’s hard to not see some level of unusual weirdness that the guy could have and ought to have controlled, acknowledged or challenged people to accept, but that only became most apparent AFTER his greatest hits, unless we count Moonwalker. It’s easy to keep the various Jackson editions separate in one’s mind for denial purposes.
Anyway, fine, you like Michael Jackson when he’s dead. Billy Mays, however, I don’t understand. He was just an oaf who talked kind of loud and abrasively. He had nothing to do with the creation of any of the junk he helped (apparently) sell. I thought at first people were just honoring him as a joke, but there are those on the internet who sincerely found their lives less full with that guy in the ground. Research into the accusation that these people also enjoyed the movie Watchmen and expected to enjoy Snakes on a Plane has yet proved inconclusive, because I don’t actually want to talk to any of the people I thinking of or learn anything about them.
The Friends and Company, a restaurant, and its unappetizing hot dog sign. Maybe it’s the total lack of detail, maybe it’s the bright primary colors, maybe it’s the too-small hotdog roll, maybe it’s the fact that this is near Friends and Company, but I never want a hot dog LESS than when I see this. Perhaps that is the point, though, since as far as I am aware hot dogs are not served within Friends & Company, and so it can only benefit from making the thought of eating one seem unpleasant.
Or so I once thought; upon re-evaluation the day after writing that, I discovered this makes me not want to eat anything.
I should post something here later today that is not about tv shows. I should also stop consuming so much sodium and learn to play a xylophone.
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I did not realize until the second broadcast that James Wormworth, the drum-player who replaces Max Weinberg during Bruce Springstein season had become a reglular member of the band, because if Stomp has taught us anything it’s that you can never have too many guys banging on things at the same time, making the total quantity of members eight and my reference to a “Max Weinberg 7” inaccurate. Although the seven has never been officially designated as referring to the number of the people in the band. And even if it did, Max Weinberg himself was often announced separately from the Max Weinberg 7, suggesting a total of eight people. The name was wrong before. I still think “The Tonight Show Band” is a mundane name, however much accuracy it currently carries. I should probably hide this part, too. Give me a dollar.
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What follows are observations I had when watching the “debut” of “The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien” and other stories. It is only here to serve my compulsions. I wrote it in about forty minutes. It was not supposed to be like this. Yet if I do not post it now then I will always want to, and it will only get longer. I don’t need you to read it. I just need to be done reading it.
I am told that the new These Green Eyes album Relapse to Recovery is now for sale at places where things get sold not necessarily in Connecticut. Remember: I’m not shamelessly, flagrantly betraying what I pass off as integrity to deliver a blatantly commercial message: I’m just related to somebody in the band.
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I used to love the 1980s. Now all I think of are awful songs, the same death-dealing fast food as now but with trans-fat and styrofoam, omegadouches on Vh1 channel plus Ads who think they’re better than the 80s (but are worse!), and bad intentionally plotless cartoons that have been referenced to death beyond death by onlinedom’s least adventurous jokesters.
Works whose sole redeeming quality is that they have better concept art than more recent referenceable reprehensibanality. A few months back, before my 2:am Thundarr the Barbarian (essentially, non-retarded He Man) rerun came on I accidentally saw an advertisement for a new cartoon about a kid with one tooth whose mouth was always open and somehow at the internet the next day I was less than one degree removed from a gang of
And this, my old nemesis. I have many old nemeses. I have many new nemeses. I don’t have room for them all. Somebody has to go, and this one happens to stir up within me particularly boring, non-eloquent complaints. Like so:
I am beyond the point where I hate South Park because of teen-smoker beer pong afficionados that occasionally got arrested who happened to swap meaningless character impressions in between filling me in on just how gay I was and [different] lousy radio stations [than I mentioned last time] playing brief, scratchy voiced dramas from it out of context. Somehow the musical maestrosity that earned Kyle’s Mom’s a Big Fat Bitch in D Minor spot #1 in the nightly top arbitrarily-determined quantity countdown for a solid week was lost on me. I did not understand at the time that merely by being less than two minutes long it was surely preferable to whatever the other candidates were. That was over ten years ago, before I knew this thing was a tv show that would have looked better on radio, and that I hated radio.
Now, I don’t need to resent unfortunate behavior it inspired in others. I can merely hate it because every audiovisual aspect of it is repugnant. It is a disgrace to two of my primary senses and reminds me of disgraces to the others. I can’t get close enough to it to be concerned with how funny or clever it is or was. I’m just tired of it. I want it to go away. It will not. Maybe once it does I’ll look up some transcripts –it seems inconceivable that there aren’t people who make it their personal business to type out every single syllable ever spoken on that program– but as long as those awful sights are fresh in my memory I daren’t try. I remember once I was at Tommy K’s Video and South Park was being shown on the monitor despite south park content on rentable media not yet existing, and a bunch of bobbly south park people tried to stop an erupting volcano by forming a human chain around it and then the bright red lava poured over them and then all these freakish bright white skeletons could immediately be seen floating around in it and it made me sad even though it was supposed to be funny. I remember that.
I hate those round characters with their flibbity mouths. They’re too gross and they do too many gross things to be cute, and the only things grosser than gross things are “cute” gross things. The South Parxists are not as ugly and their mouths are not as flibbity as those of the Family Guys, but I don’t watch anything on FOX* channel so I don’t see nearly as many ads for that, and when I do they tend to be partitioned to include various ugly fat man wearing white t-shirt fox cartoons so there’s less time to focus on one specific unpleasantry.
*although if they keep this up…
Somehow I only realized this year how bad the southern park’s theme song is. There’s an interesting spasm of banjo noise at the start to trick you into thinking, “oh, what’s that?” and then awful voices saying stuff attack. I could tolerate the Simpsons music if I didn’t mentally associate it with Simpsons, but Suppark’s would be irredeemable in any situation.
I remember for a while it was totally gnarlburger for people to create “south park version”s of themselves, and I hated it. First, it’s ugly. Second, it’s obviously so easy that nobody could possibly be impressed who was worth impressing. And third, do you really want to go to the south park? Every person or sentient object there is horrible and they die all the time.
And you might say to me “hey mildred, all your characters look and act the same, too.” Right. And nobody gives a steaming rolodex about my characters! It’s really easy to not ever see junk that I made. It’s even easier to not ever see non-junk that I made. I wish people would stop looking at my junk.
Eh I think I’m done for now.
This goes on, unfortunately. I realized I hated “rock” music over time but didn’t pay attention to how many unrelated paragraphs I had accumulated saying this in different ways, and that somehow this was inseparably mingled with my hatings of the last two decades. It’s really not fair that there’s never been a month of my life during which I didn’t hear any Errorsmith songs or just something about Aerosmith in general. Is it any surprise I’m a failure? How can I succeed in a world where that is how success is defined?
These last two entries were very whiny, weren’t they? Yes.
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January 5, 2009: Roneldo still too cool for school.
The magic word fairy inside my telephone informed me that the “same people” reviewed this application as the previous, and that once again the raging debate came down to the essay portion (denoted on the form with “please indicate the reasons for your choice of study), because Paier College of Art Incorporated is, foremost, a writing school. And though I communicated inadequate readiness for rigor by filling beyond capacity the space reserved for accomplishments mistakenly with art related items, still the non-approval was a surprise; I didn’t even say anyone was a whore this time.
What bothers me is the thought that I may have been rejected on the basis of my previous rejected application, and if that is the situation, why make me go to the hassle of applying again? Why set me up for two months telepoking the East Haven high school I did not go to but “officially” did, trying to make it deliver unto Paier the exact same transcripts Paier already refused to acknowledge my previous application without, that application which it has acknowledged it did acknowledge? Why did I have to call the school before somebody got around to preparing this note? No, actually, I called the school in January after hearing nothing from it since October, and the admission person said she would return my application as well as the 25 dollar application fee, which I received the very next day. The official typed up notice of refusal didn’t show up until more days later than that. Does watermarked paper take longer to pass through the postal tubes? Did it really require three days to change the word market to marketplace?
Should I be offended that Francis Rexford Cooley still thanks me but no longer “very much?”
The fact that I got the “non-refundable” cheque back, is it an example of people being nice or considering me unworthy even to accept dollars from? Is my money no good here? Is the immediate remailing of all documents back to me once I called the crew out on their inaction some legal maneuvering so that if associated busybodies of my own acquaintance succeed in convincing me I have been discriminated against or simply forgotten by some force of incompetence –when I attempted contact the handler told me the person who knew the whereabouts of my application was at lunch and I would be called back, which didn’t happen for three hours– the school masters can say “what? who? we have no application from such a person, and even if we had, where is the fee? We certainly would not have refunded it, as the fee is non-refundable.”
The problem may have been that I stated a willingness to improve my skills rather than asserting that I knew everything, as any well adjusted commercially minded person would, and might thus have deprived the paierists the fun of breaking me.
I don’t feel bad about losing this time, though, as the telephone person told me “I’m sure you’re a good artist” before we disconnected.
As to why I didn’t fill out application pages for other institutions, it was half a miracle I finished just this one without coming across as crazy, and even the crazy seems to have merely lay dormant until now. I’m no good at no smart stuff. Can’t I just move boxes at a warehouse or something?
Oh no!
I wouldn’t want to use internet inside a place that smells like a Subway Restaurants. I don’t think I could go inside anyway after Jared caught me spying on him. Actually, it feels more like he’s spying on me and that’s worse.
Relevant to the televised material I recently, illogically feared being wronged by: I appreciate that Saturday Night Live’s legendary expensive, pointless, sketch-ruining guest star budget saw fit to bring in a harmless, w-list goof like former pornography mogul Jared Fogle, but it still would have been funnier if they just cast some random dork wearing glasses in the part. As it would have been with William Shatner, just not necessarily with the glasses. Really, how much is NBC paying Darrel Hammond to appear in one sketch per show? I don’t think I’ve even heard Bella Corolli speak on more than four occasions in the last 12 years; anybody could have done that impression and I wouldn’t have known how accurate it was. I think Hammond may actually just have been hired into the cast the last time this guy was considered relevant enough to put in a sketch. That’s how long ago it was. I like funny impressions more than supposedly accurate ones, anyhow. But even then there’s only so much Regis Philbin, real or otherwise, that is tolerable.
I didn’t see this week’s (now last week’s) because through some unusual for me circumstances I was instead watching the film Waking Life, which has successfully displaced Harry Nilsson’s The Point as the most boring movie I’ve ever seen. However, I had a picture I wanted to use for that complaint, and having occupied a bit over five eighths of my allotted, purchased web space has somehow managed to fill it beyond capacity and I can upload no more files without first deleting others (ftp access gives a more concise “disk full” explanation) and I’ll probably have to spend a week filing official complaints, after which, assuming I am successful, in the company of winners like American Carol and Beverly Hills Chihuahua, an underexposed art-ish film from six years ago won’t seem like such a big deal.
Clearly, I am a tremendous drain on resources.
As long as I mentioned THAT program, here’s something from six months ago. At the time I was of the opinion that I mentioned that I watched that show and that it bothered me too often. Evidently I still do. Let us hope this is the end of that. Let us also hope I become independent enough that I no longer need to ask permission to have hope.
March 8, 2008, I even dated it because I anticipate forgetting about things now.
Did you see this Saturday Live Night sketch? I did, but I did not understand. It makes no sense whatsoever if you don’t also watch Project Runway every single week -notwithstanding the intense irony of me saying this in the context of another tv program lots of people don’t watch-, because all it’s doing is imitating someone who was on Project Runway. Not even in the context of making fun of the show, just someone who
There was another sketch about Daniel Plainview from the feature film There Will be Blood. If you haven’t seen the movie, it’s not funny and just seems random. And if you have seen the movie, it’s kind of stupid. If you see the sketch and THEN see the movie, you’ll probably get annoyed at suddenly realizing “oh, THAT’s what that meant. Ha ha?” Guess which I did! And the popcorn was less than satisfactory, too. These sketches literally have no value to somebody who doesn’t obsesively keep up with every stupid new movie and tv show because there is so very little to the sketches outside of imitation. They cannot stand on their own and will make no sense in a year. A program that sells its reruns for decades afterward should be more conscious of that.
I liked when Will Ferrell would be Haray Caray or Robert Goulet or somebody I, and presumably most of the audience, knew nothing about and make such fools of himself as them that I wanted to know who they were. The current showmasters just give the cast tapes of celebrities and say “here, do this.” Fred Armisen, who actually looks and sounds funny when he’s talking normally as himself, seems to almost be in pain as Barack O’Bama, just because he’s trying so hard to sound like Baraq Obomma
I’m not going to say “time to cancel the show” because I’ve probably said that before and there’s always some yahoo saying “OK, NOW’s the time.” No, dorf. It was time in 1994, it was time in 1998, it was time in 2005. This show is an incumbent senator. Jay Leno will be forced off the air for good before this show will, and that will probably only happen when he dies at 109 50 years from now. It will have to be really bad for really long before it gets cancelled. It’s recovered so many times people expect it to recover.
And don’t forget (unless your mental wellbeing requires it) all the home/office/youtube “comedians” who thrive on emulating the trashiest aspects of the program, who’ve never had a creative thought their entire lives, who see the Saturday Night Living as “institution” and buy the best-ofs on dvd and say to themselves “if it’s on Essennell it must be funny! It’s a comedy showww!” Until THEY stop watching, it will endure. Until they rush to the “MadTV vs. SNL” topic they started on imdb.com and switch their vote and change their arguments into “this message has been deleted”s, it will go on.
Unless you vote now!
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The time was insufficient, but I successfully lobbied for more days. So.
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I only have a day remaining [to complete a christmascard picture] and I fear it will be insufficient for my needs. I have special needs.
I need to correct the feet of the purple thing and the green thing, make the red one look less constipatory, figure out the background some more, decide if I absolutely must designate every aluminium siding piece, possibly place a string of tacky lights along the house-edge thing, and ideally keep myself from finding anything else wrong with it that seems fixable. If you have a helpful suggestion that’s not hard to implement eh I should have asked yesterday. I’m not into that whole whip in progress or whatever it is sort of thing. That’s not professional. And usually I’d say “neither am I” but massively jpg-exporting, uploading and image-code-entering unfinished rubbish seems like a fairly easy thing to not do. In this case I just don’t like having gripes about dumb tv shows at the top of my page, if anywhere. Ooh I’ve seen several people claim that horizontally flipping an image can be heap big helpful in correcting vague errors. I don’t like flipping so I just rotated the thing and hopefully that’s enough. And I don’t think I’ve turned it back around yet.
It has been suggested to me that the creature at the right is a dragon. I think that is simply not possible, as it has also been suggested to me, although not by the same people, that dragons are great, or at least kind of good at a few things*, which this personoid is not. You might as well call an aphid a cockaroach or a nanosella fungi a deinacrida heteracantha. Why would you do that?
*Obviously, this does not extend to appearing in feature films. Dragon movies are always bad news. Likely because the only people who would make dragon movies are themselves bad news. Probably people like this dumb lizard here.
You there, you’re supposed to be the ultimate all powerful beast and you just stand there and take that? Pathetic! You can’t even protest this occurrence, because your moping mouth is the thing getting bomped. How dare you shame my page with your presence twice over!
Obviously, this is not a “finished” picture. The finished one should have a fish in it somewhere. I have been too busy not finishing other things to tend to this.
I don’t fare well in tense situations. However, I have fared well in situations related to tense. In the future as well I believe that I will. Or so I thought. I recently came across a conundrum which created a crisis of confidence.
When was this place open? Or rather, these places? When were they open? Which point in the past does their “now” refer to? Were they open when they began work on the sign, but aware that they’d be closed by the time it was on display? I feel so inferior not knowing.
Could we stop with the u2 greatest hits? No? We can’t?
How long must we sing this song? I don’t know, that’s up to you, buddy. Unless this is some kind of torture technique. How long must we sing this song? Until you TALK, that’s how long.
I heard that song on WLIR 105.7. The WOLRD FAMOUS WLIR 105.7
They’re not messing around. All over de waruld, despite every other radio station in the country playing the same songs, wlir is known for being… just for being. People in Borduria are setting up satellite systems to intercept the signals. You can buy pirate tapes of it in China.
All that and a side of onion rings holds true for the Clam Castle. Surely you have heard of it, so I will not even explain it. The residing monarchs, the astounding clams with eyes on the outsides of their shells, they attract spectators and scholars from across this planet and others.
Across the road, Pip’s arcade, AyKayAy whatever Boring Souldraining White-Collared Place of Business 367028 is calling itself these days. I miss having an arcade nearby. So many memories. This was the place where two thugs I never saw before or again swindled me out of fifty cents by praising my skill with Captain America & The Avengers. Fifty whole cents! It was all the money I had in the world at the time. I don’t think I even got to level three. I really wish you hadn’t brought this up.