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Somebody recently gave me a compliment to the effect that the stuff I write here now is an improvement over what I used to because it tends to be more focused and less about jumping around between unrelated items I felt like mentioning.

Mmmm, tastes like sox! The packaging purports this to be the “official ice cream of the Boston Red Sox,” The Boston Red Sox being a professional baseball team. I know you don’t use ice cream while playing the game, and you don’t do it while training to play the game… Obviously, everybody uses steroids these days, but they still need to moderate their diet and exercise regularly, two habits which ice cream considers strictly against its principles.

The official severed, plucked, preservatized, frozen, reheated chicken wing of professional Futbol at least has protein in it. All the teams can agree on that, it seems. And while there is always, for it exists outside time, the official pizza of Nascar, Nascar is the only “sport” of the bunch that is done while sitting down, which is conducive to pizza eating.

Ha ba, I used to think that page was long.

Despite millenia of accumulated knowledge, many mysteries yet remain in this world. For example:

Why does this box of corn flakes have a recipe for Rice Crispies treats printed inside it in Spanish?

“Oops,” facebook? You’re used by millions of “people” every day and sell more ads than an xbox game with a flat surface in it, and the best you can do when something goes wrong is say “oops?” You could at least tell me that imbecile yella animal on the left had something to do with it. I would accept that. I wouldn’t FORGIVE it, but I would better understand how things came to be this way.

Meet Robert Pattinson, the world’s most photogenic hobo. He seems a bad choice for a calendar, though, as I get the impression he has no idea what year it is, much less the specific day. I assume this guy is an actor in one of those vampire movies, since for one reason or another men who look dirty are good at distracting tweenfidels from horrible scripts. Yeah, guy, the bow tie isn’t…
I’ll tell you later. That’s the way to be famous, though, because during your inevitable sex scandal/drug addiction, tabloid photographers can’t possibly get worse looking pictures of you as “proof” that your career is on the outs. “Robert Pattinson, seen here looking dazed, hair uncombed, face unshaven, might very well still be getting regular work.”


I know it’s about teenagers, but this seems like a bad time to get casual with the language.

Good friends anti-racism cereal. I notice this is a high fiber cereal. Is Kashi an advocate of increased diplomacy with my bowels? Are we trying to open up talks with excrement? Are we going to be negotiating ACROSS THE TABLE with intestinal terrorists?

Headshot: it’s like getting your brains blown out with bullets! What’s next, curb-stomp brand fruit snacks? Why, that’s about as appetizing as construction equipment and building material.


You shouldn’t eat snacks all the time, anyhow.

How about some rusted tow truck soup?

Or perhaps this, the only soup that you risk having eat you first.

Is this commercialization and masculine/feminization of every possible thing necessary or truly desirable, o supermarket?
I used to think it was pretty neat that I could have fruit snacks with numbers on them and canned soupoid substances containing things shaped like sharks, and look how I turned out. A gender-dysphoric, anti-corporate whiner who hates to buy unnecessary things. And nevermind.

Maybe I can compile a bunch of these silly notes and call that an update. No, I CAN, but I wonder if I WILL. I haven’t decided if this one counts yet, either.

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I just went outside for ten minutes or so for the purpose of looking at the moon. That probably means I’m crazy. However, it might be the good crazy. Either way it probably also means that I am boring.

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Last year I whined, inadvertently, on my birth-day. This year I pledge not to do that. If you don’t know when it is or had forgotten, that is fine and possibly preferable.

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Monday:
Yes, it’s true! I broke my own website!
While trying to block another abusive IP address with a file called “.htaccess,” I inadvertently destroyed everything. I thought the webhost people had removed the old one, but evidently it had only been set to be invisible somehow. Since I could not find the old one to work from, I couldn’t add the old data nor keep its syntax, the syntax being the disastrous element. Eight hours later, I noticed. All I could do was swap the bad htaccess for a blank one, because I appear to never have bothered to save an online copy of the most recent functioning non-blank version. And so now not only is the new comment robot not blocked, the OLD ones are UNBLOCKED. Whoopth.
WHILE the site was broken, a message instructed anyone, possibly no one, to send email to “[email protected].” I don’t know whose address that is, but it certainly isn’t mine! I am but a webpeasant. I did sometime ago make this thing forward any email addressed to bimshwel to me, but I doubt it knows how to do that when it’s broken. Also, I haven’t been writing a page update since the last one.

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page 7 of that
At last, I have uploaded three comic pages in one month! However, I did not get much else done and now expect to revert to my standard .9 or less.
I reversed the creature positions from the old ones so they would match the previous page. However, the words fit better the old way. Whoopth. Someday I’ll figure it out. Maybe that should be the title. No, I like the current one better.

I did not hate the “I had my house built BACKWARDS” line, despite its apparent untruth conflicting with the odd, unfunny compulsion I make the speaker have later; I’m sure something about the house is backwards that kumquat kould klaim makes the statement true, but this alternate version occurred to me and I didn’t want it to go to waste.

In addition to the color, I like to think I’m using this as an opportunity to correct the errors of a poorly/not at all thought out thing but that I like the eventual result of and so dare not scrap entirely. So why am I still using the same fonts I picked out on a whim almost nine years ago? I don’t adhere to them as strictly as I did when I first started hand-writing them rather than type-setting them, but you can still discern that they’re based on fonts.

You do not own me! I do not answer to you! Stop trying to take my rights awayyyyyyyyyyyyyy!

February 23: first loud, distracting power tools of the season! There’s still snow on the ground and I can’t walk outside without my coat, but if the calendar says spring it’s time to start making shrill noises that have no end.

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Well, now you know why I’ve been so slow to update this site.

Also, I acknowledge in advance that a lot of this is generalizations and assumptions. The fact that I’m writing at length about frozen pizzas should tell you that I am a less than cultured individual.

What we have here is a deceased German medical doctor trying to sell an Italian product to Americans. It would be like if Yakov Smirnov started selling Yorkshire pudding to Indonesians. And you can say “uh actually Yakov Smirnov is still alive.” First of all, watch the attitude. Second, truly?

Then why, recently, on the television program 30 Rock[efeller Center], a show fond of pointless, improbable cameos, when it came time to cast in a brief role a bearded Europy-looking guy named Yakov with a funny accent who appeared to be in his 50s, did they choose… someone else? I checked his name in the credits but neglected to make a note of who it was. Whoopth. I am a student of counterfeit Yakovs, but hardly an authority. I wish my name was Yakov.

As long as I’m buying a pizza from a German doctor born in the 19th century, I might as well buy it from a German World War I fighter pilot with a historically inaccurate mustache.

So many decisions to make! Incidootily, I used to eat Red Baron pizzas, specifically the “deep dish” variety, all the times, until my mother stopped buying them because they cost the same as bigger frozen pizzas. When I finally had one again, I didn’t like it because I reminded me of the “pizzas” sold at the Saint Vincent de Paul school cafeteria I had eaten within a few times. The same size, the same weird cheese that will come off in one piece if you bite it the wrong way, the same bright red weird sauce, and most importantly, the same weird crust that when you bite into it appears to be comprised not of a crispy mass of expanded dough, but several flimsy white layers of a thing I cannot describe. I had somehow developed a revulsion to the sight of those layers and had difficulty finishing. Only my trusty red pepperoni cubes, the one aspect the school version lacked, kept me going. I would eat those, but not actual pepperoni disc slices. It has today been revealed to me by the internet that the Red Baron pizza brand indeed got its start as a school supplier, and only became called that when somehow the things were popular enough to justify supermarket expansion, at which point, compared to “Schwan’s School Cafeteria Pizza-like-object,” calling it Red Baron made an adequate quantity of sense. Kids will eat ANYTHING if you say it’s pizza, though. I thought I was more mature and wiser, but I wasn’t, because I then reverted to my interim Jeno’s brand pizzas, which had the exact same cheese, tomato sauce and cubes. The only difference in the actual product was the absence of the creepy layer-things. The bread-product itself wasn’t of any higher quality, it was just narrower, so that I couldn’t see how it was constructed. So easily I was taken in once more! I tell you, these things’ll be the death of myself.


I’ll show them: I’ll have my body cremated. My initial plan was to have my body fed to dogs, but after a lifetime of eating frozen pizzas, particularly one ended by that, I don’t think I’ll be very nutritious.

Back to my first non-point, the problem is that “Italy” is a stereotype. The populace at large assumes –or is assumed by advertisers to assume– that Italy is still lost in the 17th century renaissance and all food is prepared for days at a time by old ladies mixing tomatoes and garlic and that green stuff in pots and such while children chase chickens through the streets which no cars drive over constantly. In fact, Italy today is fundamentally indistinguishable from any other post-industrial nation. There are paved roads, security cameras, giant buildings and McDonalds’. The number one frozen pizza title means as much there as it does here, where I am told the leader, by a huge margin is DiGiorno, despite depicting its customers as naive oafs who can’t tell the taste of a frozen pizza from a real pizza.

The sort of person lazy and devolved enough to buy a pizza from a specially programmed remote control button, with devolved taste-buds to match. The Pillsbury people claim Totino* pizzas and not DiGiorno are the highest selling, so clearly this is a thing that anybody can claim. However, Totino’s, despite having the power to taste like both a cheeseburger and a taco, never claims to taste like a pizza and in any event does not have special deals with the satellite company, so I will not be buying their product.

As to what’s being ORDERED here, obviously you’re not ordering the pizza to be delivered to you off of the television. “It’s not delivery,” after all, and if it was you could do much better. No, you merely press select to ORDER your WOMAN to bring you your FROZEN PIZZA on a FROZEN PIZZA-SIZED WOODEN PLATTER, because YOU like PIZZA and BURGERS. You know, MAN FOOD. The signal goes through the tv to your lady’s punishment helmet, administering shocks until she gets up and does her domestic duty.

WLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH! Eat that pizza! Eat it! Eat it while I scream at you from your home torture chamber! Sure, don’t even look! You didn’t have the torture chamber built right next to your kitchen with a convenient view window because you wanted to make eye contact with your victims, did you? You are the master of all: your television, your domestic propertner, your hostages. If you eat lousy pizza, it is because you CHOOSE to.

Anyway

No doubt there are classical cities in Italy that have managed to retain or restore their old timey touristy appeal but… just imagine if everybody there imagined us Americonians all lived in Colonial Williamsburg and ate beans and grits every day. That’s what it would be like. And then we walk 2000 miles to Texas and hang around in saloons comparing mustaches.
Why would this fictional, frozen in time, Brigadoon-esque Italy give any dignity to the idea of frozen in grime pizza at all, much less rank them? Do we even have any idea what is considered good pizza in Italy? Do they ever EAT pizza in Italy? Does it bear any resemblance to the sort of pizza we eat here? Specifically, the sort we eat but that isn’t pictured in this site entry?

What is the quintessential “American” food? A hamburger? The number one selling hamburger almost certainly comes from a major chain, and even people who eat them will often gripe about the quality. According to a vague memory of mine I cannot substantiate the validity of, 7-11 sells more hot dogs than anywhere else. I’ve never even been IN a 7-11, much less associated the thought of the place with my occasional hunger for weird sausage with weird bread.

Hey, you, idiot off to the right: stop lifting that one slice out of the pizza before we take the picture! I don’t give a

pucky o’hare if somebody already cut around that one slice but not the rest of the pizza. Leave it alone!

But yes, Dr. Oetker pizza seen alongside another thing that should not exist: Mystic Pizza, precooked, frozen and mass produced.

Really? I think rather the movie made the pizza famous. Nobody would care, otherwise. This is not outstanding pizza. It just happened to come from a joint in a town that somebody thought would make a good setting for a forgettable romantic comedy. It could also be that I go into these places looking for my deluded idea of an Italian pizza when the people specialize in the Greek style. What they should say is “warning! we do not make Italian pizzas well!” but they don’t and present all the standard tomater sars/mozzarillo cheese options, knowing full well they cannot be trusted.

I’d like to go to Italy and eat some pasta, because I don’t like the store bought product so much, unless it has meatballs with it. Real Chinese food, however, does not need to come into my life.
As you may have figured, I will not, at this time, be ordering a Dr. Oetker pizza, Italy’s number one frozen pizza. Who eats frozen pizza while in Italy? The immigrants, evidently. And I would be if I went there, but I haven’t gone yet!

Oetker. With a name like that he should be selling snake oil or fighting Spiderm-An. True enough, more than a few supposedly competing American frozen pizzas are actually produced by the SCHWAN food company, including the famous baron (as well as Tony, who I am afraid searching for media relevant to will prolong this entry beyond a reasonable length), so perhaps I should praise the doctor for his honesty. But I won’t, because he says “ristorante” when babelfish assures me he means “Gaststätte” and an actual German speaker who left a comment on this entry tells me he just means plain old “restaurant.” Additionally, I recently started buying pizzas by Palermo, who assure me they aren’t owned by any of those other crumbumpanies. They make pizza and nothing else.

Palermo pizzas are so pure, they’re made at an authentic imitation Roman villa with a factory behind it. And so. I wanted to conclude on the line about dogs eating my corpse but we can’t always have happy endings.

^{*Totino’s and Jeno’s are both Pilsbury brands that produce nearly identical products but go to different stores, a fairly common occurrence. However, they are both purported to be named after actual people, so it seems reasonable to assume one resented the other.}

Sunday:
Oops, now I have to go to a weird place. I assume I will return eventually.

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I always liked Montgomery Python, despite the internet’s efforts, but I still don’t think Eric Idle is that great a composer.

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I am feeling a little better, sanity wise, for the moment. However, I now have a headache.

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Saturday: I just accidentally drank some water less than half an hour after using mouthwash. I will probably be dead within the hour, but I want to let you know before I go that yes, I use mouthwash.

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Friday: Being a psychopath is no fun when you’re too sensible to act on any of your constant deranged impulses.

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There’s something incredibly wrong if the most intellectually stimulating thing I do all day is recreate the first few notes of the Faxanadu town music by scrolling through menus with my telephone.

Also, just that stupid little thought there is evidently 57 units too long to be permissible by twitter. I hate you, twitter. You discriminate against people who associate with sentences. That fits, but I won’t bother.

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Thursday: It may shock you to know that I am capable of having personal issues that prevent me from doing things that I normally do, such as talking at length about nothing in text boxes on the internet. Still, you have my assurance that they are entirely selfish and introverted reasons.

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Which means I’m not in any great trouble and I am open to being resented further.

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page 37, of this. I reckon those backgrounds are subject to change. Oh, and I’ve finally decided on a title. It’s called “weird looking people falling down for no reason.”
What’s wrong with me? I think my favorite part of this sometimes is tracing over the letters in ink, which I think you’ll agree is not my strength.
I know I had a “rule” for biv v zuh at one point, but I forgot how it went.

I am trying to see if I can discreetly insert some of my old pictures into the bimshwellian national archive using the automated thing rather than a single html page that is annoying to update. In theory, this way will be easier at some point. If this somehow appears on the main page I will be most disappointed and it will be punished.

Preemptive revenge.

It seems to be a picture for TITASH. It is based on a true story, in the aspect that it is true I made this. It looks nice if you zoom out and squint.

I like the rock. I’m not sure it’s big enough, though.

I am trying to write the next thing, but it is very boring. So watch out.

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Even Wikipedia does not know why Craig Slist wants me to support Wikipedia.

All it knows is that Jaffa Cakes are very controversial.

Obviously, these things are cookies. However, they are sold as cakes because for some reason cookies in England are “value added” taxed, but only if they have valuable chocolate added to them, yet cakes aren’t ever. Rather than argue that this differentiation is stupid and arbitrary, Jaffa Inc. convinced a judge that the cakes are in fact cakes because they get hard when stale, and that worked, and so they are not subject to the extra tax. The American legal system isn’t the only one that’s silly.

I think it has something to do with cakes being considered “food” and biscuits being considered snacks. If they have chocolate on them. Because that’s just the way the English do things. You couldn’t very well have your afternoon tea without cake, could you? Why it’s the most important meal of the day old boy. As it is also the only one without bacon in it, a suitable substitute is required. Next they’ll be wanting to tax our chip butties and our monocles, what?

The issue on that page is whether or no it’s relevant that Jaffa was in Palestine at the time when Jaffa cakes were invented, even though it isn’t, since these things are Jaffa-y in name only, but I suppose it doesn’t hurt to be aware. Here, though, it is only brought up to be a source of contention, because a surprisingly large amount of people have been killed over what a very small geographical region is called and this makes everything right. Jaffa has also been a part of the Byzantine and Ottoman empires, just not at the time when a silly sugary object was created elsewhere by people oblivious to the conflict.

I have eaten some. They are rather a bit like hostess cupcakes… and those are neither cookie nor cake. I’m not sure what they are. Not “natural,” certainly. They’re whatever pop tarts are. Some weird manufactured things that are too soft to be cookies, but too industrial to be cakes.

The picture on the box is, not surprisingly, enlarged to seem larger. I neglected to take a picture of this box to prove that to you, but I’ve requested that you believe stranger things than that which is printed there. “The squidgy orange bit,” as the package so regrettably refers to the squidgy orange bit as, is never centered and always has a clear seam around it which makes it look simultaneously smaller and uninvited. Yet the box claims both the biscuit itself and the orange part are considerably larger than they were at some unspecified previous point in time, a thought which upsets me. These things are schmofully inadequate as they are.

As to where I acquired Jaffa cakes, myself being a resident of some united states, I went to Big Y, the WORLD CLASS MARKET. It is a classy market of the world. It brings me classy goods from all over the world. Small, local, struggling brands from far off places often find their ways into the big y’s famous shelves.

Ahoy there, rabies! I done found the carbonated treasure yup.

If I had ever considered wandering from y’s influence for any reason, I now know things can get no better, with good old Eli around. What say you, my good, albeit inconsistently drawn man?

Whaaaaa? Can I do nothing to change your mind? It would be a dark fact indeed if you left. The morning just doesn’t grow the same without you! You simply must stay!

Please do not be angry, Adol! That is not what I wanted at ol!

Alas, what a tragic existence! I can already feel my life pulsing toward ruin. I hate to spend valestine castle’s day alone!

Fine then, be off, fair Adol. You were my idol (Maybe I will construct a doll to remember you with). I was a fool to think I had anything to offer you; you already have 057 RING. Perhaps I will go to the pet shelter and get a Dogi of my own. I will differentiate him from yours by gluing a hat to his head.

Wait, come back! I have good news!

That’s the spirit. Though I think you’re supposed to drink the stuff rather than dump it and sail over it.

On a related topic, at this time of year when people pay tribute to their advertising masters so that they may be spared from elimination, I give praise to this advertisement for doing the improbable and making the graphics seem worse than they actually are.

My vision is fine, but my eyes hurt a lot.

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My mother seemed excited to have tentatively “won” $200 by betting money on a super bowl calendar, but I wonder how much money she has paid in total to rent those squares in previous years. Probably not more than $20 a year, and I don’t think she has done this more than five times, which would mean a one-hundred dollar profit. Even so, I don’t think I would watch a four hour advertisement with occasional football breaks just because you MIGHT give me $100. I want a guarantee and a contract. I reckon clicking on one of those “congratulations, you’ve won a free i-phone*” internet ads is a more solid deal.

I did not say that to my mother.

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I was recently complimented on the quality of my recent entries in comparison to some other ones I did, I guess. This is something I will not stand for.

B CUZ.

Searching my note file for “Ringo,” I find this:

I never knew John Lennon (though I apparently just missed him at a few These Green Eyes shows), but I appreciated that I didn’t hear much about George Harrison when Paul and Ringo were out doing embarrassing things. Ringo’s new song is the music equivalent of Down East magazine. What’s he know about writing songs, anyhow? I realize he’s had forty years to figure it out but… I don’t think he has. I remember he had another album some years ago and the song was something like “All you’ve got to say is la dee da, la dee da,” and it was kind of stupid, and not even in a “to do it, to do it, to do it, to do it right” kind of way. Either way our vocabulary suffers so we may as well enjoy it.

Don’t bother. We’ll find you.

Ringo seen here with backup Ringo. He needs the other Ringo to be near the front when he tends to a drum emergency because beatnik Triple-H was attacked from behind with a steel stool (I swear that makes sense).
Searching my hard drive for “ringo” turned up the pertinent accompaniment, “ringo and backup ringo.jpg,” dated January of 2008, which the calendars tell me was two years ago and not of pertinence to the ad for his more recent schtick I started this with. I have no recollection of what the song being performed here actually sounds like, which is just swell with me.

Speaking of people that aren’t Ringo, I read that Paul McCartney got dead in the 1960s, and rather than tell people, three Beatles and a guy who looked and sounded exactly like Paul that I guess they just knew and got along with as well but that nobody else knew about, somehow, recorded an album with really idiotic, tenuous clues about Paul being dead. It’s too hard to call the police and release a statement. Let’s just spend a couple months making thirty songs alongside a clone that we raised in seclusion for just this purpose.

When I heard Beetuls fans were mad (angry) about a new advertisement, I assumed it was the one in which Paul McCartney hops through a cartoon avenue playing a banjo. Now that I have thought of this issue a year or two or three later I have forgotten which ad people were actually mad at, but I still remember the banjo hop.

Hopping in general is a bad sign.

Though I assume for Mr. McCartney it was also a dollar sign.

As for why I passed my opportunity to talk pre-emptive trash about A Downeast Smile-In, I was distracted by

1800s Oval-Frame Portrait: The Movie

More old beat-notes:
Guitar Hero 5! “9.5 out of 10 [success points]. This is the Guitar Hero to own,” says some source I didn’t bother wasting brain space with learning the identity of or the reasons why i should not trust its opinion on anything. Less than three weeks ago (three months ago) I was getting the same business about “Beatles Rock Band.” That’s the sort of statement that only starts getting lobbed around when the series is so over-saturated with redundant, indistinguishable entries in so short a period of time that no sane person could afford to own them all. I remember when Nintendo Power Magazine, the Fox News of my day, said something similar about Super Street Fighter 2, and then, it couldn’t have been more than a year later, the Power was running an article about Street Fighter Alpha, featuring all the same characters and all the same moves plus a few new ones. The goals and [lack of] story progression are exactly the same. Beat X number of guys one at a time in absurd yet predictable two dimensional combat. Nintendo Power didn’t MAKE the street fighting happen, but it also didn’t take the opportunity to say “don’t you see? Buying this only encourages them.” It’s disgusting and it never ends. It still hasn’t. Dumb twits will buy slight improvements for the price of a new product for eternity and then post whiny journals about how they’re out of money and I should pay them to draw for me, like they’re doing me a favor because they’re maniacal, decadent scoundrels. Even in a recession this is apparently the situation. True enough, Electronic Arts, who should have gone out of business back when they released Rolo to the Rescue, has sold approximately 1,037 times as many Sims 2 add-ons, but I don’t have tv ads, dorks on the internet and otherwise non-video game playing adults trying to seem hippy by gorking all up in my longitude every single fudgey time one of these gets made (these are the same adults who wouldn’t shut up about Avatar last month). There was even a Sims 3 produced and sold without me finding out. That is how it should be. I’d rather not be aware and I’m busy, besides. I only got around to finishing Star Tropics a week ago.

I shouldn’t have rushed! Yeah, ha ha, you guys. I remembered what the number on the letter was for nearly twenty years, too! All for you!


Like I could hide this in my pocket and walk out with it…?
I remember, growing around, how much my father liked them Beatles, and how I would always think “gosh I wish somebody would invent a way for me to pretend to sing and play along with these guys, preferably in the form of big cumbersome expensive pieces of plastic. I will not acknowledge that this group ever existed until that happens.”

As always, the ongoing popularity of the dot-field simulator is a mystery to me (as I like it best. I don’t have time to like it!). It’s like those awful old laserdisc games like Mad Dog McCree and Cliff Hanger that only require you to press a button at some point and the entire outcome depends on that, except instead of at some point getting to see the entire movie about guys with guns hiding behind stuff standing up and falling back behind stuff, you’re just rewarded with more dots, and not even the dippin’ kind. Or maybe it’s more like Legend of Dragoon, the depressing Final Fantasy ripoff whose sole gimmick was that your attacks wouldn’t work properly and you’d always lose unless you pressed an action key at certain intervals as your gang attacked foes. Toward the end your attacks would have up to eight steps in them, and I got pretty good at it, but I still remember the game as dull and mopey and without a whole lot to do beyond pressing a button while my guys were fighting. Making me tap along to the game’s mopey music rather than what was actually happening would not have made me like either any better. I’d sooner tap out to the challenge.

See, I’m so weak that I’m reusing old pictures of scoundrels whom I despise. Let that be a lesson to you!

Alfight, now I have returned to writing things. However, I also need to return to sleeping. So much returning! I’m glad I don’t have to rewind first.

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I am drawing stuff. Progress is slow. You know how that goes.

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page 6, down there somewhere, of that.
I tried to remove bits of this conversation that don’t make sense but I left in parts that are out of character. In either case it is easier to get away with childish writing when it is accompanied by childish drawings. However, I have no intention of getting away. Even in my dreams I know: I’d never get away, not even for a day when… a peanut hits me on the nose.

Aw baw, those green bricks look like the backgrounds in Alfred Chicken. That is NOT GOOD. Even though the only bearable thing about that game were its incidental colorful environments, I’d rather not think about it for any reason. Hopefully my musical score won’t be similarly evocative.

I expect to have a thing for Saturday. I expected it Thursday, but I know not to really expect something until the third day I expect it.
Here are some notes I wrote to remind me what to work on when I wake up. I thought you might be interested in them, too, so you can also work on it.

clean up pumpkin
adjust fallen box
NUMBER HERE more clear
mip frame coat shadow and yellow feet
better line than “away for repairs?”
point frame bigger kumq
NO frame leftover paste erroes

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“Purging sexual predators from facebook and myspace, that story is next, at 6.”
Wasn’t that supposed to have happened four years ago? By this point I think myspace IS a sexual predator. It was already a functioning operating system predator and the hunt can only stay exciting for so long.

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This Tiger Woods billboard would be creepy even if he wasn’t the subject of a popular and prolific adultery scandal. Also: my biggest problem with wrist watches was always that they were uncomfortable and hard to not constantly think about when I had one on. Making the device bulkier and insisting that I restrain my applicable thumb with it seems apart from the solution.
According to this page, the Heuer Taggers discontinued the ad before I ever saw it, which makes me suspect that the Branford Jewelers had to pay a sizable royalty to use this picture and can’t afford to buy one with somebody else on it. They can’t afford this because nobody wanted to buy the creepy leero humpfiend giant time piece that you wrap around your hand. I’m not saying that it’s absolutely credible that every single woman who suddenly a month ago remembered Tiger Woods did a sex with them once is being truthful, but other people might, if they would otherwise be fickle enough to buy a largely obsolete piece of technology that’s not even sold on the basis of its function just because some guy who does stuff to a ball got paid to wear one the wrong way.

The rough weather we’ve had lately and the exaggerated lighting of the photograph used on the sign not matching very well the natural sunlight around it make Mr. Woods look like a different professional athlete, and that only worsens matters, I think. At least, I thought that at first, but the plausibility of a tabloid story accusing Don Flamenco of having sixteen mistresses is decidedly less, never even mind the likelihood that these classy ladies might voluntarily come forward and say “yeah, I did ‘im. You wanna make something of it?”

This reminds of a kid named Gary that I went to [special] school with. Actually, it reminds me of Ryan, but it was Gary who actually said the thing I was thinking of. When he felt he was challenged he would always accuse “are you starting with me?” and in the same class was a kid named Ryan who was likely to respond “you wanna make something of it?” Ironically, despite Ryan being my nemesis and Gary being my friend, Gary was the one who got a copy of WURM: Journey to the Center of the Earth for his birthday because I saw it in Nintendo power and thought that I would enjoy a game about making some lady run around in a cave kicking things and so would other people. My other choice was Earthworm Jim but it cost about 40 dollars more and my mother didn’t want to pay for it but the only things I liked were video games. And the course of the world was forever altered.

The watch-maker folk, Tag Heuer, by the pie, is not to be confused with Taghor, the dwarf warrior you who joins your huddle of adventurers on floor 5 in Eye of the Beholder. Seriously, that’s not even close. I can’t believe you, sometimes.

Don’t try and change the subject. I said I was serious, now.

Well alright. We can discuss this matter some other time.

WILL YOU LET IT DIE, MAN!

page 36, down there somewhere, of this.

I thought: I can get away with 15 frames because this “scene” is mostly talking, mostly by the same creature, myself forgetting that before the end I’d have crazied it up with distracting lsd backgrounds. I would like to be part of an anti drug program, for the part where you explain how illicit substances destroy a user’s brain cells. You would show the caffeinated spider’s web and then this comic page. We won’t tell the kids that the worst thing I ingested was a barrel of snack mix. Maybe if I get famous I will be able to hire an assistant to undraw backgrounds for me. Fortunately, this issue has totally distracted me from the list of problems with the page I was initially going to list here. After doing them this time, I had momentarily become terrified that my character drawings were becoming more troublesome than the backgrounds, but in the end the backgrounds came through and reaffirmed themselves as the bigger nuisances and all was as it should be. Howdy.

Hey, I wonder… You don’t think…

I worry I may have more in common with that spider than I thought.

Yes, I actually did it. I screwed your brains out I bought the 30 ounce JAR of Utz snack mix. I know it says “party” mix, but I don’t go to parties, and when I do there’s never stuff like this there. This is what I stay home and eat while other people have parties. This is my meth. That may not even be so far from the truth; Judging by the way it is sealed, this stuff is apparently prescription strength. Although the side label professes the presence of 30 servings, one per ounce, I reckon I can have this finished in under a week. Hopefully I won’t have to. I will give it my list of demands in short time.

Officially, it is a “barrel,” but anybody who’s played enough video games knows that barrels often contain life sustaining, fully cooked, nonrotting foodstuffs (occasionally on plates), and while edible, what I have is not quite food. Beside that, suggesting that I can eat the entire contents of a BARREL makes me seem like a fat glutton. My metabolism is too fast for that. I am a moderately skinny glutton. I have a physical appearance accurately described as “salvageable.” Come back when I’m thirty [years old]… If I’m still there, eating utz party mix alone, stop me.

Donkey Kong would not throw Utz Party Mix at Mario. Monkey Donkey would not… no, actually we could be on to something. It is a shame that the only web page documenting this phemonemonemon is over ten years old. Clearly it is a relevant, pressing, depressing issue.

Look at that, just while I was here talking to you. I would weigh the remnants, but my scale is broken. No, not because I stood on it, narf narf. I was merely incidentally mentioning that I own a scale which does not function. Why don’t I throw it away? Why don’t you throw it away? Am I on trial here? Fleeps, lemmelone!

This jarrel, though very orange inside, does not contain cheeseballs. Tell us about the cheeseballs, Utzy.

I reckon you’ll pay more attention to the weather once acid rain starts pouring out of those bright orange clouds.

Those are not the famous Planters Cheez Balls… I know Planters’ are famous because one person uploaded this picture to the flickr and google images turned up the exact same picture of the same obsolete package design with the same sickly, faded colors and the same dented paper on numerous sites that had ripped it off, sometimes with site logos and bonus jpeg artifacts, most not bothering to have searched the “all sizes” link and just went with the 280×500 pixel preview. Somebody had even re-uploaded the smaller one to a different flickr page (to make it even flickier). To distinguish my own ripoff from the others I will put it through a really stupid series of filters that I have never once used seriously in a decade of owning Paint Shop Pro 6.

The only way to make this classier would be to scroll the text.

But that is not important. What is important, to me, about Cheez Balls, is that they have Mr. Peanut pictured on the cans. MR. PEANUT CONTAINS NO CHEESE. Neither do cheez balls, but MR. PEANUT ALSO CONTAINS NO CHEEZ. Mr. Peanut is not qualified to act as spokesman for any cheez product, balls or otherwise.

I could make a childish remark about how the most common cheez incarnations are the ball and the doodle, but I wouldn’t be able to commit to it and would present it as a shameful yet courageously suppressed inclination and pretend it was your fault instead. You should work on that.

Cheez is also frequently seen in the form of the -it, about which the less said, the usual.

According to legend, the planters phased out Cheez Balls because they didn’t sell anymore they were unhealthy. You don’t get into the snack business is to sell people cheap to manufacture trash which they don’t need to be eating. Because you’re a nitwit with no head for business matters. But I tell you, there are worse things in this world than cheez.

I give you chiz. And you’re welcome.

In other news, Humpy Dumpy. NEW Humpy Dumpy. Don’t worry, it’s only margarine FLAVOR. This merely creates the impression of having dipped a corn chip directly into a goopy vat of generic butter substitute. Because who has the time these days?

Some people, as in: more than one, talking about cheez balls on the internet, say the balls were discontinued in 2006. Suddenly! A page from 2008 documents a person finding them in a store! Great piggly wiggly! But, you know, they’re CANNED. And the cans are sealed. Those things are probably from 1998. There’s a reason people fill their bomb shelters with cans apart from being lunatics. Even if the balls are NOT fresh you’ll never know because those things will make you sick under any circumstances. Not that one needs the help with this visual accompaniment. I can tell you that if there IS a nuclear war… and the only things in your shelter are cheez balls… then you probably caused the war by hoarding them! I can’t believe you sometimes!

We would like to apologize in advance for the overabundance of exposed pectoral and thereabouts imagery in this moderately mediocre page update, but we went way over-budget on regret last year and the boss has requested that why try to keep that sort of thing to a minimum for now. So watch out. Also, the fiend pictured above is not the boss. It’s not employed, either. Whoever let it in here will soon also not be.



Getting dressed, however, will take another month. This fellow may even have sold his clothing for more abs, as the rack of garments, in addition to his extensive collection of facial expressions seems to have been removed between the two pictures. “Abs” being an abbreviation of “abdominal partitions,” which people wish to have as many of as possible for some reason. I reckon you could get the same effect by tying strings tightly around yourself and not removing them for a year, sort of like when you wear the same sock for too long.

Is there something wrong with me for thinking that sort of grotesque muscling is unpleasant in appearance and almost sort of gross? That guy looks like he has a skin-eating disease. He looks like a xenomorph. It’s not as bad as comic book art, where everything is outlined in black and is visible through all clothing, as if the curious costumes are stapled directly to peoples’ stomachs. That is not a factor in this situation, however, as this man owns no shirts, and we thankfully cannot see his legs.

In some cases, such as with the Bat-Man, special suits can be acquired which are muscular even when they aren’t in use. It is a proprietary technology of Wayne Enterprises which involves use of a special machine that coats the material in miniature tic-tac-toe boards.

Thank me for not showing their whole bodies. Or even better just curse me less for everything else I’ve ever done. No, no, please forget that. I know when I’m asking too much.

I made a brief, futile attempt to figure out, for drawing purposes, how the things work a while back and an alarming number of the exhibits I encountered online featured uniformly stripped away skin but didn’t bother with the eyes, even though tho tho those are organs and not muscles. And you might contribute that it would look more creepy without the eyes, and that I have no reason to assume that other organs are not also included. Why do you insist on making things more difficult for me? This is hard! Maybe if the creeple people didn’t look totally content with the situation I would be less bothered… It almost seems normal for them. Perhaps it’s a “Data from Star Trek” sort of contentment, in the absense of standard emotions, but that’s the most unsettling of all.

The right one looks like Data, I mean.

The left one looks like Deacon “Dave” Batistor of the wuh-whee wrestling federation, whose inarguable use of growth supplements may well indeed have shriveled his testicular units to g-rated muscle chart illustration level visibility, who also only has a limited quantity of facial expressions and is not fond of proper dress, but he doesn’t look as lifelike.

Or maybe it’s “the” Brock Lesnarbert, formerly of the WWE and currently of the Ultimate Fighting Guys-on-ground-not-moving Federation. I think my point is that I wish I didn’t know who either of them were.

This one, while not QUITE as creepy, proves they can be aware of my presence and I fear it may alert the others. Many appear to have hair, also. It’s not Slim Goodbody afro hair, but it still shouldn’t be there. As long as they’re awake and aware of the situations, they ought to put some clothes on. Even the ones with discrete lumps in specific areas rather than uh. Covering their muscular systems may render them unfit to serve as models of muscular systems, but I already implied that I gave up on my attempt to draw it properly (I implied this by uploading artwork in which it was evident I had not bothered to learn anything) that so they should leave me alone. I am a quitter because I’m afraid to be a loser. I decline to comment on how I feel about being a coward. But shark! What’s that I hear?


Ho ho oaf! Santa Claus finally accepted my steroid jelly beans on a plate! I knew if I kept my decorations up for another week something grand would happen! (though you might want to pass on the milk, pharma-culinary tradition aside) You need to put on mass, ya jingly twig!

All I want to do is eat.

HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Yoderhunt.

I’ve witnessed some low and tacky attempts to get people to view a website before, but a newspaper promising the opportunity to watch actual kids die is new to me. Hence why it’s in the news paper, I suppose. And this is the New Haven Register,

but I think it ought to be held to SOME standard, if it wants its demise to actually be lamented when the only thing left is the CNN-style news it’s supposed to be better than. Still, it is, at least, not as bad as West Haven,

whose newspaper is apparently an ad that looks up my ip address to find out what towns I live near but is otherwise oblivious to matters of local interest. I think they should do some fact checking, though, since I am in Madison, and I can’t, anyhow, give much credence to breaking news that is a question. Can I? Get the story straight before you FLASH me, please. However, you see, it MUST phrase the headline/onlyline as a question because it’s trying out for Jeopardy! google actually isn’t Hiring Americans To Work From Home and this, like every ad that’s ever appeared in its own window, is a trap of tricks. Implied untruths and and false representation of your business are a-cocaine, thankfully. I do praise it for finally figuring out what state I’m in;

I was getting annoyed at being associated with those weird, beard, fail-happy Alabama homeowners.

I do find it funny –and oh ho ho, how I laugh!– that WEST HAVEN, among other incorrect guesses, is the town it goes with to appeal to me. West Haven is the trashiest town in Connecticut. EAST Haven, home of the discarded McDonald’s bags and shopping carts-in-marshes, at least has Tweed Airport in it so if you steal enough wallets you may be able to afford a ticket to a real airport from where you can imagine you might go somewhere nice one day. This here… is Chicago, near Midway Airport. I took pictures here specifically because it reminded me of West Haven (despite it being superior by virtue of the exit station). Low buildings with voids behind them, overgrown fenced lots with no apparent function, absence of non-homeless pedestrians because the only active businesses are gas stations… the sort of things that make one glad to only be passing through. I know this is Chicago, though, because I remember seeing lots of billboards for “The Princess and the Frog” while I was there, which no town in Connecticut is worth outbidding creationism enthusiasts for the attention of. No, I don’t have a picture of that, but try driving through Meriden sometime. Considering how they feel about apes, I reckon they wouldn’t cotton to the idea of people evolving from frogs.

Chicagaw, though, and I can’t think why, has ad space to spare. So, anyway, there’s a guy with a purple hat and a gap in his teeth. He is the princess. And so the fat alligator with a trumpet must surely be the frog, because those are the only two characters I recall seeing on the signs.


Here is a sign with a frog, in Connecticut, outside Ocean State Job Lot, which is like the equivalent of a Wal Mart brand Wal Mart. Christmas Tree Shop[s] laugh[s] at Ocean State Job Lot. Job Lot laughs right back, though, since people actually steal from there. Ocean State Job Lot is not to be confused with Big Lots, though I’m sure it wouldn’t mind and neither would notice. Ocean State Job Lot doesn’t have the endorsement of megastars like Coach’s Jerry Van Dyke. Just frogs.


Such an honor! Anyone would feel like a princess.

chase the chuck wagon, Crocs | How to lose a guy in (4) days | !

In my family, there is a traditional act done at the end of a year to ensure good fortune in the next. Only my father insists it be done and he doesn’t know it exactly as historical record (the internet) says it’s actually supposed to be done, but I go along with it anyway. A person must be locked outside the house before the year ends and request to be let in once the arbitrarily designated point in time passes. The person outside must come inside with a bread-based product, a bottle containing an alcoholic substance, and “money in your pocket.” It is imperative that the money be contained within pockets. As anyone in the world can tell, the last few years I have done this, with disastrous results. In fact, I think we might all be better off if I did not do it at all. Yet here I go once more. Enjoy your continued recession and the next installment of livestock inspired illness media hypage.

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In the coming twelve month period I resolve to not draw those poorly planned interior and exterior areas of nipfolm hospitarium dome in my stupid comic any more.
Hey, what do you know, the last time I expect to need them, on Page 35 of this!
But if they are called for in the future, ideally I will be at the point in my artistic growth-regression cycle where I don’t put the accuracy of backgrounds that don’t need to be accurate before every possible other thing, because even when I do, the light sources make no sense and sixish story buildings appear to be one half in size from the outside.

Is it a sign of a psychological disorder on my part that elpse (the green character) seems to switch between having a vaguely masculine and feminine physique at random? Before you answer, I should inform you that yes. However, it is not deliberate; It may well depend on what pose I want to use and how much space there is in the frame. It merely has happened and I have not seen any reason to correct whichever one is inaccurate, now that I’ve noticed; in fact it I think it’s funny. This is good, because I used to fear elpse was being perceived as boring and unlikable, and such weirdness distracts from that. This is of additional benefit to everyone, as according to my script there are pages and pages of just walking and saying stuff coming up.

Oh yes, and happy noigear!


That was so weak, pointless and stupid, 2010 has no CHOICE but to seem like an improvement.

I am not sure what is going on here. It may be a while before I do.

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I have so many messages to write to people, but all I want to do is make love to you. I mean… something else, right? At any rate, whatever it is isn’t productive.

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People who get gifts love to type out detailed descriptions of their gifts. The very idea strikes me as being very tiring. Almost as tiring as it is to read such lists. At least the junk I put here I don’t realize is tiring until I’ve already invested too much into it to not finish it.

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Why should I be impressed by any “future” that still includes manually adjusted neck ties? Where are the giant robot helmets and gauntlets? Where are the silver wetsuits as normal clothing? How about magnetic boots that magically hold your body completely steady and horizontal when you walk up a wall? The only astounding thing on display here is an electric crane that holds what appears to be a chalkboard eraser. Next they should invent a computer that automatically replaces the paper in my typewriter. Or just holds the paper up so that I can grab it and replace it myself. What? You’re kidding!

Well. And as for Conan

he has to be Archie AND Ozark Ike, so I can excuse one dopey endorsement deal.

ONE I said. Yeep. You were off television, for what, three months? Conan, sometimes you just need to take a break.

Like, whatever, man. Why’s Conan talking to THIS rube ovah heeyah?

Wuh whoa! I just realized I’M on tv, too! Woooooo yeah! I got my fake-retro prefaded Ghostbusters shirt and my RED SWEATPANTS on camera! Muh- muh- muh- METAL! Ninja surviiiiiiiiiive!

Eh. I suppose that’s better than KILLING me…

You know what, I hate ninjas.

Ninjas have gone soft. I remember when being a ninja MEANT somehing. A long time ago, in the glory days of ninja. Specifically, the 1980s. When to stop the shadowy killing machine of the east took nothing less than a…

AHHHH, BIRDS! BIRDS! GET THEM AWAY FROM ME! ABBBBBAAAAAAA!!!