Merry Christmas! 2010

Just a quick note to let you know that I will not be posting for the next two weeks. I will be in California celebrating Christmas with the family (and reminding my mother who I am).

After that is New Year's week, so I will be taking the week off just because.

I will be posting a new Art the Wanderer on Sunday the 20th and will start the new year with Art on Sunday the 9th.

Everyone have a safe and happy Christmas!

See you in the new year!

Cheers,
-Jason

I Absolutely Do Not Care

I called my mother last night. I try to do that once a week, just to let her know that I’m alive and thinking about her. She’s always very happy to hear from me, once I remind her that I’m actually one her three sons and my name is ‘Jason.’ Sometime I think she just plays along.

NOTE: I did give her a picture of me one year, just so she would have a constant reminder. She autographed it and handed it back.

Anyway, I called my mom and after establishing my identity, she asked ‘Are you following the Tiger Woods scandal?’

Here is an exact transcript of that conversation:

‘Are you following the Tiger Woods scandal?’

‘I heard there was something going on, but no.’

‘But it’s so fascinating! He’s got fourteen mistresses!’

‘Honestly, I could care less where he’s putting his pee-pee.’

‘Really? But Sports Illustrated named him the Athlete of the Decade?’

‘For what?’

Seriously, that was the exact conversation. And yes, I do say ‘pee-pee’ around my mother. It’s an old habit instilled through several vigorous beatings when I was young. It also explains why I tend to list to the left when I walk.

But yes, I really could care less what or who Tiger Woods is doing. I could also care less about what any celebrity is doing. Their lives do not impact mine in any way shape or form. I just dread having to hear about it on the news for the next month. News should be about missiles and other life threatening things, not who’s putting what into who.

Now obviously if someone’s fooling around gets missiles launched, then it’s new worthy.

Also, as long as I’m here, does golf count as a sport? Now, I’m sure some of you out there are golfers and are ready to take umbrage at this, but my definition of ‘sport’ includes ‘and you sweat when doing it.’

NOTE: An alternate definition of ‘sport’ could be: Does it require steroids? But I decided not to take that tact because children read this (anything is possible) and I don’t want them getting the wrong impression. Stay in school!

For me, cycling is a sport. Speed skating is a sport. Football and basketball are sports. Baseball is sometimes a sport. Ice Skating is like a sport, but since the scoring is completely arbitrary, not really (though they do get sweaty). Golf, not really. Oh, I’m sure it’s difficult, but when its primary players are middle-aged men with bad backs, you gotta question it. So for Sports Illustrated to name Tiger Athlete of the Decade, it seems kinda off.

So, to sum up: I don’t care about Tiger Woods, unless he’s shooting missiles that might kill me.

Cheers,
-Jason

Signage

I happened to be driving home the other night and noticed that the sign on the local KFC had changed. Rather than ‘10pc Bcket $6.99,’ it now read ‘Die Jason Die.’ I was rather flattered.

NOTE: Granted, it’s possible they meant some other Jason. There are several million of us in Redmond alone (which is interesting as the population is only 120,000 or so). However, I was reassured when I noticed the employee holding a sign beneath it that read ‘We mean Jason Janicki. We’re cool with everyone else.’

It then occurred to me that I had never actually seen anyone changing one of those signs.

Seriously.

In all my one hundred and eleven years, I still have no idea how they actually do it. I suppose that the signs themselves could be programmable or something, but I kinda doubt a neighborhood KFC or your average movie theater would have that sort of money. I mean, if they did, they wouldn’t bother actually opening the business and would instead spend their days in a luxurious money bath with nubile maidens pouring cash over their heads and fishing quarters out of inconvenient places.

Which brings me back to my original point (and I did have one). How do they change the signs? I suppose I could simply ask someone or check Wikipedia or something, but that would be proactive. Instead, I will choose to believe they employ . . . you thought I was going to say ninjas weren’t you?

Honestly, people. I can go a whole blog without mentioning ninjas (though I managed to fail spectacularly on that count in this particular blog).
Gnomes. The correct answer is: gnomes.

As far as I can tell (meaning I made it all up), in the old days, the gnomes were enslaved by evil sign builders and were imprisoned in the signs. They were forced at vegetable-point to change the letters and those that refused were severely beaten with some sort of beating-thing.

Eventually, they rose up and after a great battle that left many a buttock bruised and veggie pureed, they won their freedom. However, they eventually realized that they rather enjoyed living in the signs and all that, so they decided to stay and work for day-old popcorn and Pez.

Yes, gnomes are weird little buggers.

So, to sum up: KFC hates me and gnomes live in signs.

Now, some people might claim that the employees simply change the signs with a stick-like tool and ladders. Needless to say, I vastly prefer my version.

Then again, what if the gnomes were also ninjas?

Cheers,
-Jason

San Diego Comic Con! '10

Well, we have been confirmed for the '10 San Diego Comic Con! Yes, you have to register that far in advance to get a table. We had a blast at this year's con, so we're looking forward to next years!

We will also be appearing at Emerald City Comic Con and Stumptown, and plan on attending the next Portland Comic Book Show as well.

In other news, it's still hellishly cold up here in the Northwest. I actually had the heat on this week, despite my usual 14-layers of clothes. I talked to my mom the other night (who lives in California) and she was complaining that it was dropping down to 50 where she was. I then pointed out that it was 17 the other morning up here. She just laughed and told me to move (preferably closer to her).

Look for a new Art the Wanderer this Sunday and the usual bloggy goodness the rest of the week.

Cheers,
-Jason

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Fish-Men

Like many of you, I'm sure, I hate Christmas music. Oh, it's all right once or twice (and I love the Sinead O'Connor version of Silent Night), but by the second week of December, I want take a hammer to the radio.

These, though, are pure gold. It's Christmas music done with a Cthulhu theme. They sound exactly like 'regular' Christmas tunes, but then you listen to the words and bask in the warmth that is the promise of Cthulhu destroying the human race.

It's from the folks at HPLHS Bazaar, makers of many fine, Cthulhu products.

Bonus! I found a video on YouTube:


I also recommend 'It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Fish-Men.'

Cheers,
-Jason

Very Very Not Warm

A strange thing happened this morning. I walked outside, humming a happy tune, fully prepared to go to work and be a productive member of the team. However, as I was locking my door, I noticed something odd.

It was very, very not warm.

“Huh,” I said to myself. “It’s a bit unlike hot.” I then realized that there were icicles already forming on my hair. A closer investigation revealed that it was not just icicles, but a solid layer of ice. In fact, my whole body was covered in a thick layer of the stuff and was rapidly turning blue.

I then made two important discoveries:

1. I had forgotten to towel off after my shower
2. I had forgotten not only pants, but my shirt as well

Moving was becoming difficult, so it took a moment for me to get the key back into the lock and unlock the door. As it swung open, I then noticed a ninja above my doorway, ninja-to ready to decapitate me. Or rather, he had been ready to decapitate me, as he’d frozen solid to the wall, his black ninja garb proving insufficient against the intense un-heat that the night had produced.

So, being the friendly sort that I am, I snapped him off and carried him inside. I set him by the heater and then sat down next to him to get the worse of the ice off. He twitched a bit as he thawed out and I checked on him periodically as I toweled off and put actual clothes on.

It turns out his name is Taro, which is like the Japanese version of ‘John’ or possibly ‘Humperdink.’ I give him full credit, as he did try to stab me when he had thawed out enough. I was prepared for this, though, and merely stepped out of the way because he hadn’t realized that in my haste to get him inside, I accidentally broken most of his toes off. This caused his lunge to fall far short and send him crashing into the carpet.

We then had a nice little chat about ninja duties and obligations, the idea of creating ‘goretex’ ninja garb, and lastly, how useful toes are when you suddenly don’t have any. However, I still had to go to work, so I asked Taro to let himself out and left for work (though he did politely remind me to put my shoes back on).

Anyway, it is incredibly the reverse of sweltering in the Seattle area and I made a new, albeit toeless friend. I’ll make sure to grab his toes when they finally fall off, as I’m sure he’d appreciate having them back.

Cheers,
-Jason

Rotund and Other Words

Apparently I’m fat.

Seriously.

Whilst in California for Thanksgiving, I ate out with various family members perhaps 8 times. There were roughly four lunches, two dinners, a breakfast, and one ‘random’ meal that just sort of happened when a taco truck crashed into my mother’s backyard.

Anyway, this is not about the food, it’s about the drinks. I always get a regular Coke (Pepsi, whatever). Every single time I got a refill, the waiter/waitress would ask if it was diet. This is pretty much how it went:

Waiter: Want a refill on that?

Me: Sure (hands glass over).

Waiter: That was a diet, right?

Me: Nope. Regular.

Waiter: Okay, I’ll be back with that diet refill in just a moment.

Me: No, regular.

Waiter: Diet.

Me: Regular.

Waiter: Diet.

Me: Reeeeggggggguuuuuulllllllaaaaaaarrrrrrrr.

Waiter: Dddddddiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeetttttt.

Me: Just bring me a water.

Waiter: Toilet water coming right up!

To make matters worse, 1 in 3 times they would still bring me diet. Now, I don’t think I’m that out of shape, but apparently, waiters in California think I am. I didn’t help that my fitness buff brother (he’s approximately 8% body fat) felt the need to point this out.

“Wow,” he would say. “Looks like the waiter’s trying to tell you something!” And then he’d flex and I’d die a little inside.

NOTE: Yes, we’re that mean to each other. It’s how we show affection.

So, I have decided to do something about this. No, I’m not going to exercise more. I’m going to make little stickers that say ‘Regular’ and tape them to the glass when I get it, so the waiter knows what I want.

And maybe stop eating out in California quite so much.

Cheers,
-Jason

Kinda Poopy

Sorry, folks. I'm feeling kinda poopy today, so no blog.

I did try to write one, but I kept coming back to the essential fact that I was wiped. For example:

How about those orcs, eh? They don't even get to go to the prom! I wonder if they ever feel poopy. Seriously. Do orcs get tired and achy? I sure do. I wonder if orcs have Sudafed? I do love Sudafed.

You get the picture.

I'll try and get a full blog up tomorrow, so stay tuned.

Cheers,
-Jason

Guys with One Ear and Raven Haired Temptresses

This blog will require a bit of an explanation. It all started two years ago at Christmas. I was seated at the kiddie table (as usual) and was mercilessly teasing my niece and nephew. I blogged about the experience, titling it: Do Not Believe Me: Parts 1 and 2.

The year after that, I was again seated with my niece and nephew, now a year older (each, not collectively) and I proceeded to tease them about their respective love lives, such as they were. I then told my niece that I would blog about the conversation and made sure she had the URL for where it would appear.

I was all set to blog about it, but then I experienced a strange, unknown sensation. It was kind of like being queasy with a side of torpor. I eventually figured out that it was because I felt a little badly about exposing my niece’s love life to the world at large, so I didn’t do the blog.

Silly me.

This Thanksgiving, I was once again seated with the now 16-year-old niece and her 13-year-old brother. The niece, Christin, then asked why I hadn’t written the blog. She read all my blogs faithfully, waiting to see it appear. When it didn’t, she asked her father why I hated her, as a single, solitary tear rolled down her cheek.

So, here we go. I will now blog about the conversation I had at Thanksgiving dinner with my 16-year-old niece Christin and her brother, 13-year-old Matthew (aka Stinky).

Remember, you asked for it:

Christin has a crush on Alex, who’s not only missing an ear, but is her brother’s best friend. So, to put it mildly, she likes younger men. However, Christin was also ‘dating’ one Ivan (or possibly Igor or Ivar or something), who gave her a necklace for her birthday, only to be dumped two days later.

NOTE: I was going to change the names to protect the innocent, but I couldn’t remember the names anyway, so I just made them up.

Christin is currently single and dreams of going to New York for college before she heads to Montana to pursue her dream of yak herding (see Do Not Believe Me: Part 1 and 2). Alex will, of course, follow her and then they will be wed under the wide Montana sky, to the sounds of yaks lowing and farting. He will leave her, though, for a sultry llama herder named Veronica. Christin’s heart will be broken, but she will find solace in the arms of swarthy truck driver named Ned, who gave up his dreams of being a NASA Engineer for the call of the open road.

Oh, Ned’s also missing an ear. Christin seems to have a thing for one-eared men. I don’t know why.

Matt was understandably coy about his love life, but I managed to drag from him that he had a crush on a girl named Susan. He wouldn’t tell me what happened, thus I am forced to assume he threw up on her (he’s like that).

I then posited that he was in love with a raven haired temptress, whose dark eyes made his voice go all funny. He protested, insisting that he didn’t know what a ‘raven haired temptress’ was. I told him it was a kind of goat. He seemed confused.

I should note that they ASK for me to sit with them.

The conversation meandered after that, but this was the ‘juicy’ bit, so to speak. I advised Christin to pursue some sort of animal husbandry related degree (like Journalism) to give her leg up on her yak herding. I suggested to Matt that he should get a dictionary. Then we had pie and played Wii games.

I won.

Cheers,
-Uncle Jason

Thanksgiving

I initially typed 'Thanksgibing' as the title, which if you played FPSs would be kinda funny.

Anyway, Thanksgiving is next week, so there will be no blogs or Art the Wanderer as I will be in California having food forcefully stuffed into me by my mother. She worries that all I eat is cereal, candy bars, and soda, so she tries to get as many nutrients into me as possible while I'm there.

Just for the record, I do occasionally eat a carrot.

Art the Wanderer will return on the 30th, with the standard blogs following that week.

Please have a fun and safe Thanksgiving. See you in about a week.

Cheers,
-Jason

Mornings

I don’t like mornings. Actually, I should clarify. Mornings are fine. It’s getting out of bed that’s the hard part. I’ve never been what you would call an ‘early riser.’ I have always been more of a ‘meander out of bed at around noon-ish’ type of fellow.

Even in the rare cases that I do get an actual decent night’s sleep, I still have serious problems simply getting out of bed. Once I’m up and moving, I’m fine, but the whole ‘actually moving out from under the covers’ is the hard part. Especially when it’s cold. Or hot. Or any temperature, really.

So, I was lying in bed yesterday morning and watching the clock. I know when I absolutely MUST get up, which is far different from when I SHOULD get up. I was playing the ‘five more minutes’ game, which is what happens when I wake up enough to actually look at the clock. Five minutes turns into ten, with turns into twenty, etcetera.

It occurred to me, as I was lying there, that there really should be some sort of device to get people out of bed. Alarm clocks are nice, but they’re simply too easy to thwart. What we need to some sort of . . . oh . . . dart based system. Preferably involving a monkey.

NOTE: The monkey is superfluous, but it seemed like a really good idea at the time. So, yes, there’s a monkey.

My first idea involved a monkey that lived in a little box above your bed. When the alarm went off, it would be prompted to shoot you in the butt with a dart loaded with Red Bull or some similar drink. The dart would wake you up. The Red Bull would keep you up. Simple, yes?

But monkeys are notoriously bad shots and what if you were sleeping on your back? Would the monkey switch targets? Would it wait for your butt to present itself? Would you really trust a monkey with a dart gun and a grudge from being forced to live in a tiny box?

Frankly, the plan seemed a little flawed. So I modified it. What if the monkey simply dropped a bucket of cold water on you? Aim wouldn’t be important and if you secured the bucket correctly, the monkey couldn’t drop it on you. However, there’s always the problem of the monkey drinking the water or peeing in it. In the first case, there would be no water left. In the second case, you really wouldn’t want it poured on you.

That idea was then nixed. What if the monkey lived under your bed and simply yanked the covers off? The monkey would probably be happier and you wouldn’t get a bucket of monkey urine in the face every morning. This seemed like the perfect plan, save that you’d have a monkey yanking your covers off all night when it was grumpy after drinking too much while playing poker.

Yes, monkeys play poker. Typically Five Card Stud (Texas Hold ‘Em hasn’t really caught on with the monkeys).

At about this time, I was forced to get up or be late for work, so I was unable to come up with anymore ideas. Consciousness does that.

However, what if I combined all three into some sort of monkey dart firing, water throwing, cover pulling mechanism? It could work.

Cheers,
-Jason

Portland Comic Book Show: The Recap

Well, the 31st Portland Comic Book Show went off without a hitch last Sunday. It was a rather dismal day, but the crowd was pretty good and everyone was in a good mood, save for that guy who kept complaining about the pengiuns, but there you go.

NOTE: I'm not sure the penguins were real. I didn't actually see any penguins, but that doesn't mean they weren't there. I've never seen Russia either (or Montana) for that matter and people insist they exist. So, I'm willing to give the guy the benefit of the doubt about the penguins.

The show went really well, even though Leigh couldn't make it. My good friends Laura and Doug went with to provide moral and physical support and they had a good time as well.

I ended up next to Kerry Scribner from Art by Bastett, who was not only a great artist, but also had the patience of a saint. She pretty much drew free sketches all day (nice free sketches at that) and only got up twice the entire day.

Also near me were the gentleman from Bricker-Down Productions who do The Killing Jar. They were very cool and I had a long talk with them about comics and things in general.

Afterwards, a whole group of us went out to dinner, including Jason Metcalf, an excellent artist, Randy Kintz, another great artist, Jason Martin, yet another great artist who's website I don't have. Javier Hernandez (hope I got that right) was also there, though he was out of business cards, so I don't have a website for him either. Brian who-last-name-escapes-me was also there to help out Jason Metcalf. Brian is the regional head of the Hero Initiative, an amazing charity for comic veterans. All in all, a fine bunch of gentleman to go grab dinner and talk comics with.

Anyway, I strongly urge you to go visit their sites and tell them they're marvelous.

So, to sum up: Con good, Penguins potentially bad, hanging out with comic artists good.

Cheers,
-Jason

Portland Comic Book Show

Just a quick announcment: I will be making an appearance at the Portland Comic Book Show this Sunday. Leigh is not coming, due to family obligations. So come on by (or up or down) and say 'hi' or whatever form of greeting you prefer.

This will be our (or my) last public con until the next year, so if you come by, you can totally brag about it.

"Dude, I totally saw Jason at their last show in 2009!"

"Who?"

Anyway, look for a new Art the Wanderer on Monday and the usual blogs the rest of the week.

Cheers,
-Jason

Prophets 0, Niners 21

So, there is a lot of talk about 2012 these days. Everyone from the History Channel to the Disney Channel is doing some sort of special on it. According to the doomsayers, everyone in the prophecy business has predicted that the world will end on 2012. Or, potentially, the world will be covered in fudge. I’m a little unclear on the details.

Apparently, even Nostradamus, the most well known of the prophets, has a quatrain about 2012. It reads, in part ‘nous sommes screwed.’ Which in French translates to ‘We’re screwed.’

I don’t put a lot of stock in the whole 2012 thing. Frankly, the world has been predicted to end so many times (anyone remember the ruckus about the Millenium?) that all the enthusiasm I can muster is a ‘meh.’ Though, of course, if the world does end, I’ll be greatly embarrassed. And probably dead, so no big loss there.

NOTE: I actually bought about $800 dollars worth of Peeps before the Millennium, just to ensure that I would have an adequate supply for the apocalyptic wasteland that would follow. Well, it was more like $80 worth. Or $20. It might’ve been $10 in quarters, I don’t really remember.

Honestly, if the world is going to blow up, I would just as soon not know about it. There’s nothing I can do about it anyway, so I’d rather be happily watching cartoons and eating Peeps up until the big moment than worrying about it for years before hand.

Yeah, I’m a man of simple pleasures.

Frankly, if the prophets were so good, why didn’t they predict useful things, like football scores? The world ends, big deal. The Packers win and there’s rioting in Green Bay. Or who’s going to win on American Idol? These are the issues that we really care about.

I mean, would it have killed them to let me know that Kim from Computer class liked me when I was a Junior in High School? I eventually figured it out, but I was about seven-years too late. Yes, I’m not fast on the uptake.

To sum up: World ending. Not very useful. Me getting a date: very, very useful.

Cheers,
-Jason

Pooping (or not)

Oddly enough, this particular blog is not about me. It’s about my buddy Sean’s three-year-old. Let’s call him James, mainly because that’s his name and I want him to read this when he gets older and be vaguely embarrassed.

Now, James is a typical three-year-old, in that he’s short, hyper, and has the attention span of . . . well . . . a three-year-old. He also refuses to poop. Oh, he can poop, he’s done it hundreds of times already. He just doesn’t want to do it in the toilet.

This led to an interesting evening where several of us went over to Sean’s house for some après dinner conversation and Sean spent the better part of an hour in the bathroom with James trying to get him to go, so to speak.

Sean was eventually tapped out by his lovely wife, Devon, who had as little success. Forget trekking across Middle Earth to destroy the One Ring. Forget defeating Voldemort. You want a real Epic-quest? Get the kid to poop.

NOTE: Hypothetically speaking, I wonder how many xp it would be worth? And what would be the reward?

It says something about humanity that a small child has the willpower to defy many times his weight in adult and refuse to do something he desperately needs to do at the same time. I think it mostly says that it was a miracle that we survived at all.

I am pleased to report, though, that James eventually pooped about two hours after we left, making it about three in the morning. This means that they spent about five hours with the lad in the bathroom before he finally acquiesced and everybody could go to bed.

Now, the only question is: how long will it take the next time? For Sean and Devon’s sake, I hope not too long.

Cheers,
-Jason

Omni-Directional

Some of you may have noticed that there was no blog yesterday, for which I apologize. I was otherwise occupied by fluids exploding out of my body in almost every direction.

In layman's terms, I was sick in a really horrible, liquid-intensive way. And now, before someone points this out, I don't think it was connected to the green slug of snot on my hoodie from the last blog. For one thing, the snot was green and nothing that came out of me was green. It was a medly of orange and white.

It was almost festive.

Anyway, I'm going to bed early, so I can go into work and deal with the roughly 3k emails that are now sitting in my inbox.

Look for another installment of Art the Wanderer (and this next chapter's a doozy, if I do say so myself) and the usual blogness the rest of the week.

Cheers,
-Jason

Snot

So, I was typing away this morning at work and while pausing to consider whether or not a Pink Ponysaur could defeat a Silver Snakeatops, I noticed that there was a humungous glob of . . . something stuck to my chest.

NOTE: Yes, a Pink Ponysaur could take a Silver Snakeatops. They not only have the power of Heart, but the power of a Thompson Submachine gun.

It was green and globby and rather voluminous. It looked like something that would come out of an orc’s nose. It wasn’t particularly dry, either, which made it all the more disturbing.

The question is, of course, where did it come from? I’m pretty sure it didn’t come out of me, as I think I would have remembered that. I mean, the sheer volume alone suggested that no mere human could have generated this thing. Honestly (and I’m not trying to be gross here), we’re talking slug-sized here.

And the other question is when did it get on me? I didn’t walk past any goats or horses or rabid hippos all weekend, so at what point did this thing land? Which brings up another question: how did I not notice when this thing made contact? And more importantly, how long had it been there?

Anyway, I cleaned it off with a couple paper towels (I would have preferred a flamethrower) and I deposited the hoodie directly into the washing machine once I got home, so hopefully it’s taken care of.

I quizzed the ninjas about it, but they denied any knowledge. I tend to believe them, as their tastes run more to swords and humorous flatulence devices.

This suggests I may have a new enemy, one who deals in slime and ichor. I had best be on my guard, lest I fall into another mucous-y ambush.

I’ll keep you updated.

Cheers,
-Jason

Almost Halloween!

If you've been paying any attention to anything lately, you'd notice that it's almost Halloween again. This means that not only are the stores loaded with candy, they're also starting to put out their Christmas decorations.

I kid you not.

Last night, whilst grabbing a few odds and ends (a shovel, flashlight, a box of garbage bags, a surgical mask, and some rubber gloves - don't ask) at Fred Meyer (a local, Target-esque store), I went by the Halloween display.

And there, just at the edge, were a bunch of artificial Christmas trees with ornaments and all the trimmings. Honestly, I could care less, but at least let Thanksgiving get out of the way before putting up Christmas decorations. It's just . . . rude.

In other news, we're having a decorating contest at work. The company is divided up into three sections and whichever section is judged to be the best gets a special prize (of unknown nature). We've spent about four hours decorating our section, so I'm fairly confident of winning. Of course, if we don't win, there will be bloody, bloody vengeance.

Anyway, please have a safe Halloween and come back next Monday for a new episode of Art the Wanderer and the usual bloggy goodness the rest of the week.

Cheers,
-Jason

Ghost FIGHTER!: Part 2

Granted, I really doubt that I’ll get to fight any ghosts. I mean, they’re hard enough to photograph, I kinda doubt I’ll be able to get one to engage in fisticuffs (ghosticuffs?) with me.

But this is beside the point.

The draw of the show will be in the spectacle of me talking trash at an ill-defined shadow in the corner, as I try to get it mad enough to take a swing at me. It would go something like this:

Bambi (the state-mandated ludicrously hot girl): Ummm, I think it’s in the room to your right.

Me: I don’t see anything.

Bambi: No, your other right.

Me: Still don’t see anything.

Bambi: No! Your OTHER right!

Me: I only have two choices here, Bambi. One has to be correct.

Bambi: Well, just look at the window!

Me: Okay.

Bambi: Wait a sec –in sotto voice- shake the tree!

Me: Your mike’s still on, Bambi.

Bambi: What?

Me: Nevermind. –assuming manly, announcer voice - Okay, there appears to be a wavering shadow outside the window. The uninitiated might presume it to merely be a tree branch, but we know better! - deep breath – All right! You! Outside the window! I don’t know why you’re haunting this abandoned hospital turned insane asylum and prison that was built on a Civil War Battlefield that also happened to be a Native American graveyard, but your days are numbered! I’m Jason Janicki, the Ghost FIGHTER!!! –some sort of metal chord plays- and I’m calling you out here and now! I’ll kick your ethereal behind so hard you’ll come back to life! And then I’ll kick your butt a second time! I’ll hurt you so bad, you won’t be able to haunt a litter box! I’m gonna grab ya and smack ya and-

Bambi: OH MY GOD!

Me: Good, aren’t I?

Bambi: Turn around! Turn the #@#$#$ AROUND!

Me: Hey! Kids watch this show!

Eldritch Horror that Feasts on the Screams of Men: Glaaaaargh!

Me: Well, catnuts!

I would then be the first person to get his butt kicked by a malevolent, otherworldly entity on camera. Needless to say, the ratings would be through the roof.

Cheers,
-Jason

Ghost FIGHTER!: Part 1

Last I checked, there seem to be about 1500 different Ghost Hunter –type shows on television. I’ve watched a few of them and they all have the same basic format.

1. Each team consists of two or three heavy-set guys with names like ‘Vinny’ and one ludicrously hot girl.
2. They have a ton of fancy equipment that they set up in a very serious manner.
3. They travel to haunted places, set up said equipment, and then hang out, waiting for something to happen.
4. The hot girl can be counted on to scream at least once. Occasionally, one of the guys will scream as well. Sometimes there’s running involved.
5. The viewer will be shown several fuzzy images at the end of the show and the team will comment on how this was the most amazing haunting they’ve ever been to.

I just have one question: How do I get this job?

Seriously.

I am wildly qualified for this. I have a degree, can operate a video camera, and when needed, can wax poetic about what just happened.

Other shows: “Yeah, there was a weird shadow at 12:33 on the tape. It kinda looked like a dog.”

My show: “My god! What crawling, eldritch horror is this? It looks as if it were vomited forth from the very mouth of Hell! What is it? What mission of evil has sent it lurching into our realm? Do not look, I beg you! Your very MIND is at stake!

Yeah, I can do this.

But I’ll need a gimmick. Something that’ll make me stand out from the 1.5 billion other ghost hunter shows out there. So, instead of just hunting ghosts, I’ll actually try and fight them. That’s right, my show will be Ghost FIGHTER!!!

Tomorrow: Part 2

Portland Comic Show

So, we're pretty certain that we will be appearing at the Portland Comic Show on the 15th of November. I say 'pretty certain' as the check has been cashed, but we haven't had a confirmation.

This will be your last chance in 2009 to come meet us and comment negatively on our wardrobes. Granted, these will most likely be the same wardrobes in 2010, but there you go.

We are always delighted to meet fans, so come on by and say 'hi.'

Look for a new Art the Wanderer on Monday and the usual blogs during the rest of the week.

Cheers,
-Jason

Epicenter of Infidelity: The Yelling Strikes Back

Some of you longtime readers may remember a blog post entitled ‘Epicenter of Infidelity’ where I talked about being woken up in the middle of the night by a truly epic shouting match.

To recap: Joe was called a ‘bastard’ at earsplitting decibels at around 4:30 am by Sue. They continued back and forth in this vein for about five minutes. They woke me up, scared my cat and made me grumpy (and tired) the next day.

This performance, I’m sad to say, has been topped.

Last night, there was screaming again at about 4:30 am.

NOTE: I don’t know what it is about 4:30 am, but all the really big fights seem to happen at that time. It is, coincidentally, right in the middle of when I go to bed and get up, so it’s strategically positioned to irritate me the most. I may start referring to it as the ‘bitching hour.’

Anyway, I was awoken by a ‘get away from me!’ followed by a word that rhymes with ‘anothertucker.’ Words that rhyme with ‘sucker,’ ‘fit,’ ‘orangutan,’ and ‘punt’ were also used (I’m not using the real words because I’m afraid that an impressionable youth might repeat them and then his mother would beat me up).

Then, in the moment that elevates this incident from all other, someone (presumably a police officer) yelled ‘STOP! POLICE!’ directly outside my window.

Needless to say, this scared the absolute poop out of me.

Now fully awake, I then got to listen to someone getting arrested and the conversations this entailed. So, while I wasn’t happy about getting woken up, it was nice to know that someone’s day was going to be worse than mine.

Cheers,
-Jason

Alien Probe

Right off the bat, no, I wasn’t probed by aliens. I’m not sure why not. I mean, I’ve gone to bed early, left out cookies, cleaned the fireplace . . . oh, wait, that’s Santa Claus. Never mind.

So, I was watching a Discovery Channel show about the Humbolt Squid. The Humbolt, for those of you not in the know, are semi-intelligent, carnivorous, pack-feeding squid that have been expanding rapidly up the California coast. They can be rather aggressive and have been known to attack divers and swimmers and have killed and eaten a few people. They seem to be the squid version of a 1950’s movie street gang and I’m sure they will soon be dragging themselves onto land to acquire leather jackets, take up smoking, and ride around on motorcycles in no time. Small town sheriffs will need to be notified.

Anyway, on this show, a ‘reputable’ scientist (and I put ‘reputable’ in quotes for the behavior I’m about to subscribe) decided to catch a Humbolt and stick a probe in it while it was still alive.

NOTE: Humbolt’s can only survive a few hours out of the water. The scientists on the show were mystified by this, but it’s seemed pretty miraculous to me. After all, we can only survive a minute or two underwater, so a few hours is pretty damn impressive.

This scientist proceeded to catch a Humbolt, tossed it into a tank and then without an introduction, stuck a probe in it and started, well, probing. This seemed to upset the squid, which I can fully understand, and after a few minutes, the scientist threw it back into the water promising to call it later.
While fascinating to watch, the only thing I could think of was ‘this is how alien probe stories get started.’

Think about it.

This squid (whom we’ll call Billy) was just swimming around, thinking about riding a motorcycle, when it was grabbed, yanked out of its environment, immobilized and then had a large metal instrument stuck into what was probably an embarrassing place for a squid. Said instrument was waved around awhile and then whipped out and poor Billy was tossed unceremoniously back into the ocean.

Yes, his name is Billy the Squid. I’m inordinately pleased about that.

The following conversation then took place:

Billy: Great squid gods! You’ll never believe what happened to me!

Another Squid: What?

Billy: I just got yanked out of the water and some giant, hideous creature with only two arms stuck a thingie up my tookus!

NOTE: ‘tookus’ is the medical term for a squid’s butt

Another Squid: No way!

Billy: Way!

Another Squid: Pshaw! – swims away-

Billy: Why won’t anyone believe me!

Yet Another Squid That Looks Suspiciously Like David Duchovny: I believe you.

Simply put: We just seriously messed with that poor squid’s entire belief system and possibly started the first squid conspiracy theory. I wouldn’t be surprised if that area of the ocean was later called ‘Area 51’ in Squid-ese.

And when they start dragging themselves onto land armed with switchblades, we’ll wonder why.

Cheers,
-Jason

Jury Duty: Day 2

Well, I'm done with Jury Duty. 2nd day went about the same as the first, though I managed not to get lost and actually caught the bus on time.

All in all, they only called two sets of jurors over the two days, so most of us never really did anything. In all honesty, it wasn't too bad and the burgers in the canteen were pretty good, all things considered.

That being said, I would prefer not to be called for a while, say 2080.

Anyway, it's back to work tomorrow, where I will tell an exciting tale about being on a jury for a murder trial and having to subdue (repeatedly) the defendant when he tried to take the improbably hot District Attorney hostage with a Fruit Roll-Up.

Look for another episode of Art the Wanderer on Monday and the usual blogs throughout the week.

Cheers,
-Jason

Jury Duty: Day 1

I have to say, without the slightest reservation, that jury duty rocks.

Seriously.

I rode the bus to get there. Not exactly thrilling, but it was quick and easy and because I was the only one on the bus for a while, the driver told me some really funny stories about stuff that’d happened on his bus.

The bus dropped me off within spitting distance of court, I sign in, sit down, relax, and start reading a Terry Pratchett novel (Making Money).

Fifteen minutes later, this gorgeous woman sits down next to me, notices I’m reading a Pratchett book and starts talking about it. Turns out she’s a huge Pratchett fan and even likes the same ones I do. Her name’s Anna and we end up going out to lunch to this really nice Chinese place and had a fantastic conversation. She’s in Marketing and minored in English, and frankly, she’s practically perfect.

Neither one of us were called to court, so we talked all day and she gave me her number. She’s on IM right now and I’m talking to her and writing the blog at the same time.

Jury duty turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me!

NOTE: Jason is a big, fat liar. None of the above actually.

My day was actually fairly ‘blah’. I got lost because I got off on the wrong stop in the morning and it took me thirty minutes to find the courthouse. Once in, it wasn’t too bad. I never got called and basically sat on my butt all day, though I did read Making Money all the way through.

Anna does exist, though. She’s a grandmother and yes, she did sit next to me. She was very nice.

Going home provided yet one more adventure. It turns out that the bus stop I got off at isn’t actually the one I used to get back on to go home. Why it’s this way, I don’t know, but someone needs to be beaten for this, as I spent an hour standing on a street corner waiting for a bus that was actually going by a street over.

A guy did offer me fifty bucks to ‘jump the fence.’ No, I didn’t do it, as I don’t know what that means.

It took a while for me to puzzle this out and get to the proper stop, though the ensuing ride home was uneventful.

So, Day 1 was pretty boring, bookended with frustration. I have high hopes for Day 2 (boring, without the frustrations).

Cheers,
-Jason

Halloween Pun-ishment

Halloween is almost upon us and I have one simple request: Please stop with the puns already.

So far, I have heard, in no particular order:

Spooktacular
Guys and Ghouls
Go and ask your Mummy
[You’ll] werewolf it down
Frightastic
A howling good time
A ghost of a chance
‘Bite’ being used by a vampire

Seriously, they’re just dumb. I mean, I like a pun as much as the next guy, but these are only funny if you’re four and then, not very. And it’s not like they come up with new ones either. I heard this on the morning news cast as I was eating my breakfast:

Drab Male Newscaster: Looks like they’re going to have a frightfully good time!

Hot Female Newscaster: -laughs- I’m sure they’ll go running to their mummys!

Hot Female Weatherperson: Please stop.

Drab Male Newscaster: -chuckles- Spooktacular, one might say.

Hot Female Weatherperson: Look, I’m asking nicely here.

Hot Female Newscaster: -laughs some more- It’s not going to be dead out there on Halloween!

Hot Female Weatherperson: Seriously.

Drab Male Newscaster: -makes some noise approximating mirth- You said it. Or can I say ‘Boo’ said it!

Hot Female Weatherperson: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh! Runs onto the set with a machete and begins to chase them around the desk.

NOTE: That didn’t actually happen, though they did use ‘spooktacular’ and ‘frightfully’ in sentences.

This doesn’t seem to happen with the other holidays. I can’t think of a single Christmas or Thanksgiving pun off the top of my head. Easter, Labor Day, Memorial Day, St. Fructus’ Day, Arbor Day, Elbow Day, Pipe Fitting Day, all of these get to go by without comment. Halloween, for whatever reason, is rife with puns.

I honestly don’t know what to do about it. I suppose some sort of fine might work. Beatings, though fun, would get tiresome after a while. I dunno. Thoughts?

Cheers,
-Jason

J-Day, Next Week

So, I'm getting mentally prepared to go to Jury Duty next week. Like I said, I'm happy to serve on a Jury, I just don't relish having to go to downtown Seattle in the morning.

The good news is that it's an easy bus ride in and out. The bus stop is literally five minutes from my house and five minutes from the Courthouse.

The bad news is that I have to be out there by 6:30am and I'll reach the Courthouse at around 7:00am, a full hour before I'm supposed to appear.

Needless to say, I'm bringing books. Lots of books.

In other news, I just sneezed on my new keyboard. Not that interesting I know, but that's all I have to work with.

Anyway, look for a new Art the Wanderer on Monday and the usual blog silliness the rest of the week.

Cheers,
-Jason

Keyboards: Part 2

Initially, I was unimpressed. The keyboard was cold, mushy, and vaguely sticky. Also, it smelled. I then realized I’d forgotten to remove the boneless chicken breast. After tossing the chicken back into the refrigerator (hey, chicken ain’t cheap!), I wiped off my hands and sat down again.

The new keyboard worked pretty well. The keys had nice ‘clunk’ when I hit them, though the vowels made a tiny scream instead. I practiced a bit, typing random bits of sentences, which is how most of my blogs start coincidentally, and then growing bored with that, I turned my attention to the special keys.

One set seemed to be the standard audio controls (Play, Fast Forward, Mutilate, etc). There was a Calculator button, a Zoom toggle, a Favorites button, two Mute buttons (a regular one and one with an icon that suggested a tongue being ripped out). All in all, fairly standard fair.

Then there was a field of buttons on the far left. There were thirteen of them and they had what looked like little ‘eldritch-y’ icons, as if Cthulhu had been their UI guy. I couldn’t figure out what any of them did at a glance and I didn’t recall reading about them in the manual, so I did what any sane, rational person would do: I started pressing them at random.

One made a cow noise. Literally. It was just like those toys where you put the pointer on the picture of the animal and then pull the string. “The cow says ‘Moooooo.’” Granted, the cow noise the button made was a little different. It went ‘Moooooaaah! Thwack! My eye! Dear sweet-aaaah!’ It continued on like this for a while.

NOTE: Yeah, ‘cow noise’ wasn’t really a good description.

Another made the keyboard exude some sort of greenish snot from the bottom of the keyboard. It didn’t seem to do anything, but tasted like Fruit Loops.

One of the new buttons didn’t seem to do anything, but then I noticed some new text on-screen.

I live.

“That’s nice,” I said. Sometimes, I talk out loud to myself. It makes me feel like I have friends and that I’m not really an aging, pants-less bachelor who talks to himself.

Soon the world will be mine!

“That’s rather melodramatic.”

It is my destiny! Whahahahahaha!

“How’s that?”

I was created to rule the mortal realm! And soon, I shall!

“But you’re a keyboard I bought at Staples. You’re one of probably a million or so identical keyboards. If you’re all the same, how are all of you going to rule the world?”

Ummmmmm

“Somebody didn’t think this through,” I said, as I took another bite of the green ichor.

Apparently not.

“Will you be my friend?”

Maybe.

“Cool! Wanna play WoW?”

-sigh- Sure.

“By the way, what’s this green stuff I’m eating?”

You don’t want to know.

Cheers,
-Jason

Keyboards: Part 1

Okay, here's a new blog, but first, a message about the comic:

We got the technical issues fixed (hurray!), but Leigh’s non-comic schedule is not currently leaving him time to work on new pages at the moment. He estimates that it will be a few weeks before he has time again. We will keep you posted and include new info as it becomes available in the News Section at the top of the page and in the forums.

We apologize for the lack of updates, but Leigh's been busy and I have the attention span of a hyperactive five-year-old on a sugar high.

And now, the blog:

--------------------

I had to buy a new keyboard.

Well, ‘had’ is a fairly strong word. I didn’t have to, it’s just that my old keyboard wasn’t bothering to type a couple letters anymore, including ‘j.’ Though not a popular letter by any means, I kind of need ‘j,’ seeing as how both my first and last name make use of it. Obviously, I could just change my name, but it’s on all my checks, so there you go.

Anyway, this Saturday I ventured into the local Staples, intent on purchasing a new keyboard and mouse to go with it. What can I say, I was feeling extravagant.

I fiddled with the keyboards and really liked a top-of-the-line one. I’d used cheap keyboards for a long time and this one was all ergonomic and had lots of flashy, non-letter related buttons. Seriously, the keyboard looks like it belongs in a giant robot (one of the ones piloted by a five person ninja science team, not one of the ones controlled by a kid in short pants).

NOTE: Yes, I did just make a reference to Gatchaman. Blame my buddy, Sean. It’s his fault.

Anyway, I decided to go with the fancy keyboard. I purchased it, took it home, stripped away the cardboard box and read the installation instructions carefully. Yes, I read manuals (even for games). I’m weird that way.

The instructions were a bit confusing, but I followed them carefully. They went like this:

1. Remove the keyboard from its box.
a. Already done.

2. Remove all the wire twisty thingies.
a. Easily done.

3. Hook up your keyboard to the USB port on your computer.
a. Still pretty straightforward.

4. Insert the Installation Disk into the computer’s DVD or CD Drive and when it asks ‘Open Connection to Underworld?’ click ‘Yes.’
a. Okay.

5. Chant the following lines while dribbling the blood from a freshly slain rooster upon the keys.
a. Riiiiiight. I didn’t have a rooster nor any way to get one. Instead, I got a boneless chicken breast from the refrigerator and just sort of dropped it on the keyboard. It went ‘splat.’ I also said the lines, but wasn’t sure how to pronounce all of the words (Is it ‘HethPARgorl’ or ‘HethparGORL?’).

And with that, the keys on the keyboard started to glow and outside, dogs began to howl. The day grew dark and a shrill wind clawed at my windows. My new keyboard began to expand and contract in a strange rhythm, almost as if it were breathing. I shivered, mostly because I forgot to put my pants on, and sat down to try my new keyboard out.

Tomorrow: Part 2

Why Did I Do That?

So, I turned on my computer, went off to clean some ninja blood off the porch (I found a tooth!), and then came back to check my mail and do all the usual things.

However, when I clicked on the 'Start' button, instead of clicking on the 'Outlook' button, I instead hit the 'Turn Off Computer' button and then 'Shut-Down.'

I then looked at my computer and said 'Why the hell are you shutting down.' I paused for a moment as I realized I'd told it to and then said 'Why the hell did I do that?'

Obviously, I managed to turn the computer back on, but 'wow.'

The scary thing is that they let me drive a car. On the road. By myself.

In other news, our site is still messed up. Leigh is handling it, but somehow, some bit got wired to some other bit and now, after working fine for several years, it decided to go 'kablooey.' We have people working on it and we should (hopefully) be able to update again soon.

Look for a new episode of Art the Wanderer on Monday and the usual blogs throughout the week.

Now to put that ninja tooth under the pillow. Hopefully, the tooth-fairy won't care that it isn't actually mine.

Cheers,
-Jason

Do Your Duty: Part 2

The plan is a simple one: To get out of Jury Duty, you’d just need to pay a fee of say . . . $200. Not too much, but not inconsequential. You would then be free to go back to your regular life, trying to run over squirrels with a monster truck.

“But wait!” some of you are shouting, scaring the people next to you. “Though I love your blog and am secretly stalking you, hoping to bear your children, what about the poor people? They can’t afford to pay $200 to get out of Jury Duty! Your plan is discriminatory! And please shift the copy of the ‘Making Money’ by Terry Pratchett on the third shelf of the bookshelf in your bedroom. It’s blocking my video feed.”

Good point, but I thought of that. Use the $200 fee to pay the jurors who DO show up! Look at it this way. Most people will pay the fee. Let’s say that 1000 people are called and 900 decide to pay the fee instead. That’s . . . crap, math . . . ummmm . . . carry the two . . . divide by pie . . . lemur something . . . about 50 bucks.

Wait, let me get a calculator. That’s actually $180,000 dollars. You could easily pay $200 bucks a day to the jurors that showed up and still have money left over. And considering you need jurors every month that would be $180,000 per month for $2,160,000 bucks a year. Bigger cities would probably make even more.

Frankly, poor people would WANT to get jury duty. People would volunteer for long cases, simply because they’d make 2k a month while doing it.

Of all the phenomenal ideas I’ve ever had, this is easily the best one. Even better than the ‘Trout Gun.’

Anyone know how to get a bill into the State Legislator?

Cheers,
-Jason

Do Your Duty: Part 1

I got my mail the other day. I try not to do that too often, as there’s a high percentage chance that there will be something unpleasant there, like a bill or a really upset King Cobra. Quick word of advice: if your mailbox is actively hissing, open it away from your body.

Well, I received neither a bill nor a snake, but something arguably more dire: a summons to Jury Duty.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against doing Jury Duty. I’ve done it before and it’s an important part of our judiciary system. It’s just that its, well, getting there is a pain in the butt. The court is in Seattle, so I have to get up early and drive across the bridge, find parking, avoid the urban gorillas (Seattle’s rife with ‘em), and make it to the courthouse on time. And then, do all that backwards to get home at the end of the day.

NOTE: Seattle traffic sucks. I mean ‘commit murder’ sucks.

Now, like I said, I don’t mind the actual ‘jury’ part of jury duty. It’s actually kind of interesting. I don’t even mind waiting around to get called. I get to read and practice talking to myself (‘No! I said no muffin! Don’t you-! Get away from there! I said no muffin! And put down the ostrich!’). I’m just really dreading the drive over.

So, whilst contemplating this, I said to myself “Rutherford (which is how I address myself), there really ought to be a legally acceptable way to get out of jury duty.”

And then it hit me: what if you could pay to get out of jury duty?

Tomorrow: Part 2

My Body Hates Me

Last night, I didn't have insomnia.

Seriously.

I was out like a light. I was makin’ ‘Zs.’ I was (probably) snoring like a lactose intolerant were-boar who’d just eaten an entire pizza.

I would like to say it was marvelous, but I don’t recall any of it.

So, of course, my body decided that just wouldn’t do, so I awoke at 5:17 am with a full body cramp.

Literally, my entire body went ‘crap!’ and just knotted it up. Needless to say, I woke up. I actually had to get up and walk around for a bit until things loosened up. This, of course, woke me up even more, so I didn’t really fall back asleep before getting up at 7:15 to work out.

This has led me to one conclusion: my body hates me.

I don’t know why or how, but there you go. Maybe I mistreated it in the past. Maybe I forgot to buy it flowers on our anniversary. I dunno. All I do know is that it’s bound and determined to never let me actually get a full night’s sleep.

I guess I shouldn’t complain too much. Most of the blogs come from me staring at the ceiling at 3 am thinking about things like 'Mordor’s Idol,' which would be a talent show where orcs sang. Other orcs would vote by throwing things at them, like axes and severed heads.

Needless to say, I’m going to be early tonight.

Anyway, look for a new chunk of Art the Wanderer next Sunday and the usual silliness the rest of the week. And please vote! Often! With extreme prejudice!

Cheers,
-Jason

Yoga!

I tried yoga the other day. It was difficult in a way that was completely foreign to me. I mean, I didn’t really feel like I was doing anything, but I was still sweating like a pig staring at a ham.

B y-the-by, this was not live yoga with other people. It was a DVD yoga lesson, so I got to pause and rewind as needed. I did this liberally, mainly because the two girls in the video had magnificent butts.

Anyway, I spent a good portion of the time watching other people pull themselves into weird postures and then trying it myself. I managed to do several that I was pretty sure I couldn’t. There were a handful that I completely couldn’t do and one that I just looked at and went ‘nah.’

Now, I didn’t say ‘nah’ just because the position looked humanly impossible, but because I was alone and if I seriously hurt myself, I’d end up starving to death on my living room floor with my spine jutting out at weird angles. Granted, it wouldn’t be all bad, as I would be able to watch the girl’s bums a lot, but there’s that whole ‘death’ thing.

So, the guy on the video spent a lot of time explaining the different postures and basically doing them effortlessly and I did my best to watch as I slowly twisted my body into a variety of anatomically incorrect positions. It occurred to me though, as I watched the TV through my legs while trying to touch my left hand to my right big toe and simultaneously put my right hand on blue (a little Twister joke there), that if they wanted to market yoga to nerds, they would need a totally different approach.

And I had yet another staggeringly good idea. Yoda Yoga. This would be a series of Yoga videos where you’re being taught by Yoda while a bevy of hot Twi-lek girls (the blue or green ones with the head tendrils) do the moves.

“Assume Downward Dog you must,” Yoda would say, as the Twi-lek’s stretched on screen. “Think not on the girls. On yourself you must concentrate.”

Other characters could make cameos. Luke could demonstrate Jedi Pose. Han could do the Smuggler Stretch. Chewbacca could . . . bellow, I guess.

Anyway, now all I need to do is get George Lucas’ phone number. This could spawn a whole new world of Star Wars Workouts, like Padme's Pilates or Leia's Legs and Butt or Ewok Bashing or something.

Cheers,
-Jason

Rock-Jackhammer-Scissors

I’m assuming you’re familiar with Rock-Paper-Scissors (aka Jan-Ken-Pon or Rochambeau). If you’re not, it’s a simple game where you acquire two of each object (a rock, a piece of paper, and a scissors), give one set to each person, and then when the whistle blows, you attempt to kill your opponent with one of the objects. Scissors scores one point, as it’s the easiest to kill with. Rock scores two points, and Paper scores ten points, as it’s really hard to kill someone with a single sheet of paper. No one really knows why they bother keeping score, I suppose it’s because very few people would otherwise pick Paper.

Note: Obviously, the preceding paragraph is completely false. Strangely enough, most of what I write is completely false. This paragraph itself is also likely false. It’s like a Zen koan of stupidity.

However, why Rock, Paper, and Scissors? Why those three objects? Rock and Scissors are kinda dangerous, so okay. Why Paper though? Obviously, it’s because Scissors can cut Paper, but Scissors can cut lots of thing. It could have been Rock, String, Scissors’ or ‘Rock, Pants, Scissors’ or ‘Rock, Hairball, Scissors.’

And yes, I’ve cut a hairball with scissors.

I’m just curious as to why those three things were picked. They just seem so random.

It was like some guy thought ‘Hey, I need three things that are diametrically opposed’ and glancing around his room, picked out three things completely at random. It could have been ‘Spitoon, Blunderbuss, Panties.’

Personally, I would have gone for ‘Nose, Finger, Booger.’ Obviously, Finger picks Nose, Nose blows out Booger, and Booger sticks to Finger.

It has a certain symmetry.

Cheers,
-Jason

Another One Bites the Dust

Well, it's Friday, meaning yet one more week has slipped into oblivion. It managed to be both a fast week and a long one, as the hours went quickly, but the days felt long.

I realize that doesn't make any sense.

We're staying busy over here at Wayfarer's Moon, working tirelessly to bring you the quality comic you've come to love or at least, adore. Like, maybe?

Anyhow, please remember to vote and be sure to tune in next Monday for the latest installment of Art the Wanderer!

Cheers,
-Jason

Cthulhu Brie Fhtagn!

Okay, this one is going to take a bit of explanation.

This morning at about 5:30 am, I was lying awake in bed, an unfortunate, but common occurrence. I’d been drifting in and out of sleep for a while, my brain bumping against a variety of subjects, many of which were stupid. Okay, most of which were stupid. I have no idea why celery man and a carrot man would need to fight.

I also recall thinking about whether Batman ever goes through a drive through in the Batmobile. I mean, it’s late, he’s been fighting crime all night and he’s probably hungry. He could call Alfred and have him prepare a snack, but Alfred’s roughly 700-years old and probably needs his sleep. Batman could just whip through Taco Bell and grab a burrito or something. I dunno, I would certainly do it.

Anyway, back to the stupidity at hand.

I was then struck by a thought. Not literally, of course, as that would be weird. The thought was, and I kid you not: The Cheese of Cthulhu.

Seriously. The Cheese of Cthulhu. Does Cthulhu even eat? Does he like cheese? Is great Cthulhu lactose intolerant? Does dairy give him gas (which would explain a few eruptions throughout history – I’m looking at you, Vesuvius)?

These thoughts were enough to more or less wake me up and I lay there, watching the sunlight slowly grow on the wall, thinking about them. The great question, of course, was what kind of cheese would Cthulhu eat? I knew immediately: brie.

I just don’t like brie. I prefer a nice cheddar or jack. Boring, I know, but that what we ate when I was a kid, so there you go. The first time I saw brie, I thought there was something wrong with it. Cheese, as far as I knew, should not ooze.

But enough about me, Cthulhu (and probably many of you) likes brie.

Wow, that was probably the most random blog I’ve ever written.

Cheers,
-Jason

Dental Deficiencies

I have a small announcement. It has lately come to my attention that I am a complete failure as a human being and as a man. I am, it hurts me to say, a completely useless individual, lower than even an amoeba’s poop. I hereby apologize to my friends, siblings, parents, and ancestors and to the entire world in general for my total . . . er, I need another word for ‘failure.’

Ummm, inadequacies? Deficiency? Yes, that’s it. I hereby apologize to my friends, siblings, parents, and ancestors and to the entire world in general for my absolute and irredeemable deficiencies.

You see, my teeth aren’t perfectly white.

Oh, they’re not yellow-ochre or anything. They’re a bit dark and there are some spots from a dental procedure gone bad, but it’s not like they’re so black light can’t escape from my mouth.

NOTE: That was a weird mental image.

It’s just that all the commercials I’ve seen suggest that if your teeth aren’t perfectly white, you will never be able to get a date, buy a home, have good credit, get a promotion or raise, or even be considered for evacuation in event of a massive urban crisis.

I suppose I’m just lucky that I don’t have to carry a staff with a bell on it and shout ‘Bad Teeth!’ to any who might come near.

So, if you happen to see me at a comic convention, at the store, or y’know, anywhere, feel free to shun me like you would someone wearing half a raccoon on their head. I will totally understand.

Cheers,
-Jason

Thugs

I happened to watch an old Jackie Chan film the other day. It’s known as either The Big Brawl or Battle Creek Brawl and basically, Jackie beats up thugs in 1930s-ish Chicago.

NOTE: The film has a rather involved plot (for a kung-fu movie), but it’s basically an excuse to watch Jackie Chan beat up people in period costumes. Arguably, plots in kung-fu movies are largely there for show, as you don’t watch them for the story or acting, but to see men and women acrobatically hurt each other with various parts of their anatomies and occasionally, swords and/or sticks.

Now it’s not just that Jackie spends his time beating up thugs, it’s that he beats up the same thugs repeatedly. He fights the same group of guys three or four times and they always lose. For plot-related reasons, they can’t just shoot him and be done with it. No, they endeavor to return the favor with fists, the occasional bat, and at one point, a Chevy.

NOTE: Might’ve been a Ford. I didn’t really notice.

They were pummeled so frequently, I actually started to feel bad for them. Here they are, your average, work-a-day thugs, trying to make ends meet with a variety of protection rackets, bootlegging, smuggling, and good ol’ fashioned mugging, and instead of making any sort of profit, they spend their time being fed into the human wood chipper that is Jackie Chan.

It got me thinking. What was going through their heads as they went up against Jackie, time and time again?

Moe: Hey, it’s that Chinese kid! Let’s go rough ‘em up!

Jimmy the Amusing Nickname: What, you mean that guy? Ain’t he the guy that beat us up yesterday? And twice on Tuesday?

Moe: Yeah, we got’s to get our revenge!

Jimmy the Amusing Nickname: But ain’t he just gonna beat beat us up again? I mean, I’m all for a vicious beatin’, but that kid ain’t human!

Moe: What’re you, scared?

Jimmy the Amusing Nickname: Nah, but, we jumped him with seven guys yesterday and he took us all. Little Nicky needs a machine to help him pee now.

Moe: So? See this? We got an edge – heh.

Jimmy the Amusing Nickname: But he beat us up with an old sock stuffed with dryer lint and three marbles! No knife is gonna even them odds!

Moe: But today’s Thursday! We got +2 to morale!

Jimmy the Amusing Nickname: Oh, well why didn’t ya say so!

A merciless beating (theirs) commences.

Cheers,
-Jason

Poop(ed) The Second

Sorry, but I had a really long day at work and the mere thought of being at a computer makes my hands cramp, which is why I'm typing this with my nose.

Seriously.

I will post something funny tomorrow, promise!

Hint: It will either be about Jackie Chan movies or online dating.

Cheers,
-Jason

A ‘Situation’

For some reason, I seem to get into what I call ‘situations.’ A ‘situation’ is defined as something that is amazingly improbable, but happens regardless. Needless to say, situations seem to happen to me all the time.

For example: I was walking across my family’s deck when I was sixteen or so and my shoelace caught on a protruding nail, causing me to fall almost, but not quite, on my face. The reason I didn’t completely fall on my face is because I managed to mostly stop myself with my left arm. The reason I didn’t use both arms is that I had a load of 2x4s on my right shoulder and was trying to keep them from collapsing on me as I fell.

Needless to say, my dad, who was ten feet in front of me, thought this was hilarious.

NOTE: Physical pain was the source for much amusement at my house.

After picking myself up, I noticed the nail that my shoelace caught on and looked around. It was the sole, solitary nail that was sticking up. Seriously. Out of the many hundreds of nails in a 500’ square deck (yes, it was huge and I helped build it. The up and downside of having a contractor for a father), I managed to trip on the ONLY one that was sticking up.

I did get my revenge, as I pulled the offending nail and replaced it with a screw. I’m sure that taught it a lesson.

Anyway, why I am blathering on about this? Well, this morning, after showering, I was pulling on a hooded sweatshirt when my glasses somehow caught on the inside of the sweater, right as I was pulling it over my head, leaving me in an awkward position where I couldn’t see and with my arms jutted out at odd angles.

“So,” I can hear you thinking. “Just disentangle yourself!”

But it’s not that simple. You see, I had just finished a fantastic bicep workout that morning and my arms were literally exhausted. I was therefore stuck with them over my head, almost powerless to move them, with my sweater pulling my eyeglasses down across my nose in a rather awkward way.

I actually stood there for a few seconds, as I processed why I could neither see nor move my arms. “Well, shit.” I finally said, before beginning the slow, weirdly painful process of pulling the sweater off without inadvertently smashing my glasses.

The culprit? The screw holding the right eyeglass arm had come loose and (you guessed it), got caught in the seam of the sweatshirt. I found my eyeglasses kit and tightened the screw and then successfully managed to finish dressing myself.

So there you go. I managed to entrap myself in my own sweater, all because I worked out and a screw came loose. I guess that’ll teach me to try to stay fit and correct my vision.

Cheers,
-Jason

#48

Well, we've made it back down to #48 on Top Web comics. Thank you all very much for voting. Now we just need to continue slowly going down until we reach #1 and world domination . . .

On the bright side, it will be Labor Day weekend! I have zero plans, besides my usual game-playing, comic-writing, ninja-fighting ones. I am considering getting the ninjas into WoW. It will give them something to do when I'm not home and will distract them sufficiently for some satisfying ambushing.

In other news . . . well, there really isn't that much other news. We're busy as usual. We've already applied to next year's Emerald City and San Diego Comic-Cons, so make your plans / reservations now.

Anyway, have a fun and safe Labor Day weekend and please remember to vote!

Cheers,
-Jason

The Smear Fairy

I was about 10-years old and sitting in the backseat of a car with my friend Alex Monto. His mother was driving us somewhere at night and I noticed a large, glowy thingie, possibly a sign. Indicating said glowie thingy and hoping it would turn out to be a UFO, I asked what it was. Alex turned to me and said ‘You can’t read that? Man, you need glasses!’

It was a K-Mart sign. A huge K-Mart sign.

So, I got glasses. I don’t mind them, though I did wear contacts for a number of years. I switched back to glasses when I realized the ninjas were less likely to punch me in the face whilst I was wearing them. This led to a (brief) experimentation with glasses-based clothing, but I digress.

And the point of all this (and there is one, trust me)? Where in the hell do all the smears on my glasses come from?

I mean, I don’t touch the lenses. I’m very careful about how I handle them, as I’m prone to damaging small things if I don’t pay attention. Leigh keeps trying to keep me from touching his miniatures for exactly that reason (honestly, you flick one mini over and he has a heart attack. It did actually become airborne and lodge into the wall, so I guess he has something there).

Anyway, my glasses, for no readily apparent reason, are constantly smeared with oil, grease, blood, holy water, and the occasional whole McNugget. I will wash them and an hour later, notice a huge smear across the lenses.

I’m either subconsciously taking off my glasses, licking them, and putting them back on or my eyeballs are capable of spraying a fine mist of grease on both sides of the lenses. Either way, I probably need help.

NOTE: Notice that I did not choose to blame ninjas. I have realized after many hours of soul-searching and extremely expensive psychotherapy that ninjas are not the sole reason for every calamity in my life. I have accepted the fact that blaming ninjas was merely a scapegoating tactic I used to justify my paranoia. Ninjas are not real. They are not out to destroy my life. The men who constantly ambush me are probably just innocent bystanders who happen to be wearing black. Their frequent attacks are merely a response to seeing a large, 225 pound, shaggy-haired Yeti-thing (me) bearing down on them while screaming incoherently (singing).

I honestly don’t get it. It’s like my glasses attract stray grease atoms. The only other option would be some sort of Smear Fairy, who spends her time flitting about with a wand and a can of lard, liberally applying grease to every lens she finds.

Either that or ninj-

Crap. Now I have to call Dr. Shinobi.

Cheers,
-Jason

Disney and Marvel: A Team-Up!

Well, if you’re like me (ie, a nerd), you’ve already heard that Disney is buying Marvel for a hundred kajillion dollars (or something). I was sent this information by no less than seven different people, including my mother and a Viking Jarl named Hrothgar who died in the ‘800s.

Big Disney fans, those Vikings.

Anyway, there was an immediate hue and cry from the internet, with many people complaining bitterly about how Disney was going to ruin Marvel. Apparently, Mickey would teach the Hulk about anger management, Pluto was going to poop on Captain America’s head, and Wolverine would be appearing on Sesame Street to sponsor the letter ‘X.’

Note: Wolverine appearing on Sesame Street would completely rock.

Now, the internet is basically one giant, technologically advanced platform for complaining, so I’m not too surprised at the overwhelming negativity. However, what is missing is the counterpoint: Think of all the cool things that Disney and Marvel could team up on, much like the ‘Wolverine on Sesame Street’ previously mentioned.
Therefore, in the spirit of optimism, here are some cool things that could/will come from the Disney / Marvel team-up:

1. Women in super-hero costumes at Disneyland. Forget getting your picture with Mickey when you could get your picture taken with Rogue (or Storm, or the Scarlet Witch, etc).
2. The Hair-Trigger Trio! Cookie Monster, Animal from the Muppet Show, and the Hulk in their own book. Granted, they would probably end up destroying the world.
3. Daffy Duck vs. Wolverine. ‘Nuff said.
4. The Marvel characters get included in the next Kingdom Hearts game.
5. Ultimate Mouse. Mickey gets revised as a tough-as-nails hero with a penchant for strippers and a willingness to let his fists do the talking.
6. The Sorcerer Supreme’s Apprentice. Dr Strange teaches Mickey about the ways of magic, grooming him to become the next Sorcerer Supreme.
7. Goofy joins the Great Lakes Initiative.
8. A Civil War event in the Disney universe.
9. Ariel, the Little Mermaid, fights Namor for the crown of Atlantis.

Cheers,
-Jason

Welcome to Romania!

Hey all!

It's an important day in Wayfarer's Moon: We have our first foreign translation!

Some time ago, we were contacted by a Romanian group who wanted to start the first Romanian language webcomics portal and wanted to feature Wayfarer's Moon as one of their first titles.

Well, today the site went live. You can now go to WEBCOMICS.ro to read WM in Romanian.

So, a big hello to all our new fans in Romania!

To celebrate, we have a completely unrelated video featuring a motorized unicycle:


Frankly, I just thought it was cool.

Cheers,
-Jason

Disaster!

No, I didn't forget to put on pants this morning before going to work. I've only done that once. In Washington. This month. Honestly.

The disaster I'm referring to is the fact that Wayfarer's Moon has slipped to #58 on Top Web Comics! So, please, vote! When you're through reading the comic or a blog, just hit the vote button before navigating away.

The more votes we get, the lower our standing. The lower our standing, the more likely we are to be noticed by a big-time comics publisher who will offer us butt-loads of money to publish Wayfarer's Moon. This, in turn, will allow me to get that harem full of super-models I've always wanted.

So, obviously, voting is incredibly important!

As incentive, if you happen to meet me at a con or in public and tell me you vote regularly, I will not only write you a sentence, I will DRAW A PICTURE TO GO ALONG WITH IT!

Think of it! When I'm a famous writer and appearing on talk shows around the world, you can turn to a friend and say 'See that guy? He wrote a sentence just for me once. And he drew a . . . thing . . . next to it. I'm not really sure what it is. It could be a horse. Or a squid. Maybe a velocirator. I dunno, but he drew it just for me.'

You will be the envy of . . . someone. Maybe.

Anyhow, please vote. It will make us happy.

Cheers,
-Jason

Eat This: Part 2

I mean, take acorns. If my memories of 5th Grade Biology serve me correctly, acorns are pretty toxic. Yet Native Americans figured out how to leach the toxins out, a long and involved process that went like this:

1. Gather acorns
2. Tie acorns up in a sack and then beat the sack with a stick
3. When tired or the stick breaks, get another stick
4. Scratch between your shoulder blades with the second stick and then discard it
5. Put the smashed acorns in a pot
6. Give the pot to a mime and have him pretend to stir it over a fire for an hour
7. Kill the mime
8. Bury the pot for seventeen days
9. Unearth the pot and then set it at the top of the tallest tree you can find
10. Wait for lightning to strike the pot
11. Retrieve the pot
12. Remove the acorn pulp from the pot and then put it into a different pot
13. Bury the first pot with full military honors
14. Cook the acorns overnight
15. Serve with crackers and a hearty Zinfandel

Actually, in all honesty, the Native Americans just rinsed the acorns repeatedly until the water didn’t turn brown. This is because they actually wanted to eat the acorns, as opposed to writing a humor blog about the process.

Another question: why would anyone take the time to figure out which bits were edible and which weren’t? Well, I imagine it’s because they were starving and ‘potential death’ versus ‘inescapable death’ seemed like a pretty good bet. If survival shows have taught me anything, it’s that your definition of ‘edible’ changes radically when you haven’t eaten in a couple days.

So, back to the fugu. In all probability, some Japanese fishermen were having a bad season and decided to give the funny looking fish a try. A couple of them died, but the rest were okay. Some judicious trial and error, also probably during a slow season, probably taught them which bits were good and which should be reserved for your mother-in-law. All the weird stuff we eat probably springs from that sort of situation.

I mean, beer is water and yeast that gets heated the right way (yes, that’s a massive oversimplification), but to my knowledge, every civilization we know came up with it at one time or another.

Ancient Egyptian Woman: Thutmos, what happened to that mix of grain and water I left on the window sill?

Thutmos: I was really thirsty, so I drank it!

Ancient Egyptian Woman: But, I was going to use that to clean out the privy!

Thutmos: Y’know, you’re gorgeous when you’re angry! C’mere.

Ancient Egyptian Woman: Hmmmm, I seem to have stumbled onto a magic formula that makes men stupid! And pliable! I’ll rule the world! (maniacal laughter).

Or something like that.

Cheers,
-Jason

Eat This: Part 1

Some of my coworkers were talking about going out to sushi the other day. I don’t care much for sushi, seeing as I don’t like fish. This pretty much leaves me with maybe three options at the sushi place and one of them involves eyeballs.

NOTE: Yes, I know there are more than three non-fish options. Also, to my knowledge, there are no eyeballs involved in sushi. Granted, there may very well be some sort of eyeball sushi, but I probably wouldn’t eat that either. Well, maybe I would. It would depend. I have eaten escargot. It would probably come down to whether or not there were attractive women present who might be impressed if I ate an eyeball (a definite ‘maybe’).

Anyway, one coworker, whom I’ll call Viknar the Ravager (because it’s more interesting than ‘Phil’), mentioned a desire to try fugu fish. This prompted a lively debate between Viknar, Martok, and Wortan as to whether or not this was a good idea (and yes, I changed the other names too).

This got me thinking.

How, exactly, did they figure out which parts of the fugu were safe to eat? And to broaden the scope of the article, how did anyone ever figure out which parts of the plant/animal/fish/rock/alien were safe to eat?

Tomorrow: Part 2

Date My Avatar

I ran across this the other day and thought it was quite amusing.

Felicia Day and the cast of The Guild in: Do You Want to Date My Avatar



I was impressed, Felicia can really sing. I first saw her in Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog and yeah, obviously she can sing, but she boots this one out of the park.

I've heard of The Guild, but haven't watched any episodes yet. After this, I think I need to tune in . . .

Cheers,
-Jason

Wayfarer’s Moon: Behind the Magic: Part 2

I already have a commercial already written, narrated by Mike Rowe from Dirty Jobs, who’s now the go-to-guy for reality show narration.

Deep in the northwest, two men, nay, two nerds, create a fair-to-middlin’ webcomic. It’s called: Wayfarer’s Moon.

Watch them work!

Shot of Leigh and Jason in a living room
Jason: So, baboon guys?
Leigh: Definitely.

Watch them live!

Shot of Leigh rolling a die, as Jason watches from behind a DM’s screen.
Leigh: A 10! With my bonuses, that makes a 14!
Jason: You miss.
Leigh: Wait! I forgot to add in the +2 from my Hip-Waders of Ultimate Angling! That makes a 16!
Jason: Fine. You hit. Congratulations, the goldfish is dead.
Leigh: Whoooot!
Jason: You do realize it was a regular, ordinary goldfish. In a bowl.
Leigh: Who cares? I loot the corpse!

Watch them go to cons!

Shot of Leigh and Jason at their booth. Leigh is sitting there, sketching. Jason is standing, his arms folded. Jason shifts position. Leigh coughs. Nothing else happens.

Watch them FIGHT!

Leigh: For the last time! Stop putting holes in the walls!
Jason: But there might be ninjas in there!
Leigh: Doing what? Stealing our insulation?
Jason: Maybe.

Join us every Tuesday at 8:00 and see the magic that is . . . Wayfarer’s Moon!
Music swells.

I would totally watch this.

Cheers,
-Jason

Wayfarer’s Moon: Behind the Magic: Part 1

The other day I noticed there was yet another new fishing reality show on. It’s called Swords: Live the Life or something (possibly: Swords: Damn, They’re Huge or Swords: Fish of Doom or Swords: Our Next Stab At a Profitable Reality Show).

Now, don’t get me wrong: I totally respect the people that go out there and do these amazingly dangerous jobs. My dad was a contractor and I grew up on construction sites and dug a LOT of trenches over the years. I know exactly what hard, manual labor is like. I just don’t think we necessarily need a new reality show about fish.

Then I had a marvelous idea: They should do a reality show about Wayfarer’s Moon! Cameras would follow us around, recording our every move, our every argument, our every passing reference to bodily functions.

It would, I most humbly assert, rock.

Possible titles could include:

Wayfarer’s Moon: Behind the Magic, Such As It Is
Wayfarer’s Moon: What’s That Smell?
Wayfarer’s Moon: Scraping the Bottom of the Barrel for Possible Reality Show Hooks
Wayfarer’s Moon: The Clash of Titans! (I particularly like this one)
Wayfarer’s Moon: Bows, Boobs, and Blood
Wayfarer’s Moon: Two Nerds. One Comic. Zero Calories.
Wayfarer’s Moon: Wow, I Have No Idea What the Execs Were Smoking
Wayfarer’s Moon: More Fun Than Dental Torture!

Tomorrow: Part 2

1st Annual St. Fructus' Day

Unfortunately, the 1st St. Fructus' Day was not quite the hit I imagined it would be. I shouted 'Happy St. Fructus' Day' at several co-workers, but they all appeared more startled and scared than joyous. This may have been do to the fact that I leapt out of a closet at them whilst waving a sword, but I digress.

The good news is that many people in my office are now at least aware of the holiday, though some will always equate it with wetting themselves (see the sword incident above).

I was not given any candy, though I was offered a tortilla chip. I take that as a win.

So, for next year, I'm going to plant the seed at least a week earlier to give people more time to warm up. I've already mocked up a few greeting cards, which I will share next year.

In a slight segue, I've posted the photos from the San Diego Comic Con up on our Facebook page. Actually, I posted them last week, but because I'm not very bright, I completely neglected to tell anyone.

Look for a new installment of Art the Wanderer on Monday!

Cheers,
-Jason

Tomorrow Is St. Fructus’ Day!

First off, if you’re a long-time reader of the blog, let me apologize for, well, the blog. Secondly, if you’re a long-time reader you might remember that way back in February, I proposed St. Fructus’ Day as a singles’ alternative to St. Valentine’s Day.

I declared that next August 13th (tomorrow) would be the first celebration of St. Fructus’ Day. And a grand St. Fructus’ Day we shall have!

This begs the question: What does one do on St. Fructus’ Day?

Well, here is the list of traditions that I just made up:
1. Say ‘Happy St. Fructus’ Day’ to people.
2. Explain what St. Fructus’ Day is to the aforementioned people.
3. If you’re single, tell your married friends (or those in a relationship) that they have to give you candy as part of the traditional St. Fructus’ Day Celebration.
a. Eat said candy
4. Watch a St. Fructus’ Day Parade on television.
a. If you manage to locate a parade, please let me know.
5. Wear something . . . I dunno . . .blue, as blue is now the official color of St. Fructus’ Day.
6. Punch a ninja.
7. Vote for Wayfarer’s Moon, as Wayfarer’s Moon is the official comic of St. Fructus’ Day.
a. If you’ve already voted today, spend some time in the archives or in the forum
8. Pet an animal.
a. Preferably, one that is tame
b. Bonus points if you happen to punch a ninja at the same time as you pet an animal
c. Double bonus points if you get the animal to bite the ninja

Okay, I’m out of traditions. If you can think of one that you think should be added to the body of lore concerning St. Fructus’ Day, please let me know. Triple bonus points if it concerns harming a ninja.

And have a fantastic St. Fructus’ Day!

Cheers,
-Jason

Parking

A long time ago, I wrote a blog about people insisting on parking their huge trucks backwards in stalls. This trend, oddly enough, has become more common and I often see soccer moms, little old ladies, men in suits, and the homeless backing their vehicles into parking stalls (the homeless just tend to walk backwards into the stall while making ‘beep beep’ noises).

Honestly, I could care less. Park frontwards, backwards, sideways, upside down, I really don’t care. If it makes you happy, then by all means.

However, I would like to suggest that you practice a bit first. It’s kind of sad watching someone trying to back into a stall and completely missing, then pulling out and going back in. Out and in, in and out, over and over, faster and faster, until finally, they make it in and come to a halt with a shudder. And then they have a cigarette.

NOTE: Yeah, it’s been a while.

And now, the true story that inspired this blog:

Last Sunday, I was running errands and was trying to exit a small strip mall. The entrance to the parking area was a long, narrow, two-way road with parking stalls along one side. The street was narrow enough that anyone pulling in or out of a stall needed both lanes clear. I was parked at the far end, furthest into the mall, and having finished my business, got into my car and started out.

Now, a large black SUV had just entered the parking lot and the driver, a middle-aged man, decided to back into the only available stall in the middle of the strip. This stall happened to already have two, large black SUVs on either side, so it was a tight fit. The driver proceeded to spend an entire song (Great Northern’s Houses), about four minutes, attempting to get his gigantic vehicle into the tiny little space.

By the time he actually got it in, a line had formed on both sides with cars trying to get both in and out. A few people had begun beeping at him.

NOTE: This is Redmond, Washington. We have some of the most courteous drivers in the world. Things that would get you shot and/or stabbed by Amish people in carriages merely warrant a few polite beeps here.

So, with the SUV finally in the stall, traffic began to move again. Being the first car exiting, I passed by and glanced over at the driver.

And here’s the punch line: There was not enough actual room for him to open his door. I am not kidding. His parking gymnastics were for naught as he couldn’t actually exit his vehicle.

I laughed and said to myself: “There’s Wednesday’s blog.”

Once again: If you must back your car into the stall, please,please please, practice first. Any maybe, measure your car.

Cheers,
-Jason

Nothing

Normally, I would post a YouTube video of something fun and/or interesting. However, today, I have nothing.

Zip. Zilch. Nada. Rien.

I'm not sure why. Usually, something gets sent out at work that's amusing (and clean enough to post), but not lately. I don't know why not.

Anyway, I had a thought (yes, I was surprised as well). To prevent days like this, go ahead and send me links to anything you think would be amusing to post, just as long as it's on YouTube and is PG-13-ish.

You can send suggestions to mail@wayfarersmoon.com.

Oh, and before I forget: Please Vote! Everyday! It Will Make Us Happy! And Then I Can Stop Capitalizing Every Word In These Sentences! Seriously! It's A Pain! And I'm a Horrible Typist! In College, I Once Typed An Entire Page With My Nose, Just To See If I Could Do It! It Was Almost As Fast As My Normal Typing! My Hands Are Starting To Hurt! Please, Make It Stop!

Cheers,
-Jason

I Am Pleased

Last week, I asked you all to vote for Wayfarer's Moon on Top Web Comics. We were at #82.

One week later, we are now at . . .


#49!


This was a jump of 33! Huzzah! Thanks to everyone who voted. You've made a simple writer very happy. However, our work is not yet done. We need to crack the Top 10, so please, vote as many days as you can.

If you happen to be browsing the web, stop by and vote. If you happen to be working on your Mom's computer, please vote. If you happen to be the head of a large military industrial complex, order your workers to vote for us as well. If you happen to be a Super Model with a penchant for simple writers, please, send me your phone number (and vote).

Thanks again and remember: vote!

Cheers,
-Jason

Pink Eye

I woke up this morning and discovered that my right eye had been welded shut. I initially suspected ninjas, but then realized they were all still on vacation (Australia, some sort of ‘poison tour’). I eventually figured out that my eyelid was not welded, but merely encrusted by a good ½ inch of goop (which may or may not be better).

So, after prying my eye open, I discovered that the actual eyeball resembled . . . err . . . something really red. Honestly, I can’t think of an appropriately funny metaphor.

Thinking, thinking, thinking . . .

Wait! The Eye of Sauron! Yes. I discovered my eyeball resembled the Eye of Sauron, as it was all flame-y and I had a weird desire to kill hobbits (more so than usual, at least) and could control orcs. Yeah.

Anyway, I ended up going to work. I realize this was bad, but I honestly didn’t clue in that it might be Pink Eye ‘till about noon, at which point it was a bit too late. You see, my brain doesn’t really start to function until about 11:30, wherein ‘function’ is defined as ‘firing on at least half the available cylinders.’ This is why I avoid actual human contact until about that time, as I end up agreeing to help people move, buying insurance, and clicking on pop-ups.

I do wonder where it came from though. I mean, I always wash my hands after handling eyeballs and I haven’t had any direct eyeball-to-eyeball contact in a while. Granted, it could be some vast conspiracy consisting of the California DMV, the League of Left-Handed Elvis Impersonators, that guy at the bus stop, the elephants at the zoo, and some sand, whose sole goal was mildly inconveniencing me, but I kind of doubt it.

Then again, maybe that’s what they want me to think . . .

Cheers,
-Jason

Think of the Australians

I watched yet another Discovery Channel show that cemented my plan of never, ever, ever actually going to Australia. This is because (and this is a direct quote from the show) Australia is the most poisonous place on Earth.

Now, I’m not saying that everything is poisonous, that would be ludicrous. I’m just saying that every other thing is poisonous. Frankly, there are spiders there that, if they ever got organized, could wipe out humanity.

These shows are full of stories like: “I was walking along, minding my own business, when a spider bit me and then my leg fell off. And then, as I was lying there, unable to call for help because my tongue had swollen to the size of a grungaloo and my ears were melting off, the spider stole my wallet.”

NOTE: A ‘grungaloo’ is a kind of squash native to Australia.

NOTE: Actually, I just made ‘grungaloo’ up.

So, you can see how I would be reluctant to visit, even if they let me stay in a tank the whole time.

Anyway, I can’t help but feel badly for the Australians. Their world is a nightmare wasteland of venom, where even everyday activities are fraught with danger. Every shoe, every garbage can, every box of pre-moistened towelettes is potentially a home for a dangerous, vicious insect who’s only desire is to sting you on the nose.

Australians have only once choice: they need to become venomous themselves. Fight fire with fire, I always say. Give the little buggers a taste of their own medicine. Once a few spiders start dying horribly after a random bite, they’ll start to mind their own business.

I don’t know how to do it. I don’t even know if it’s possible. However, I do know that if the Australian government gives me a lot of money, I’ll work on it with the same passion and zeal with which I level a character in WoW.

Well, maybe not with quite that much passion (or zeal). I mean, this is WoW we’re talking about.

Cheers,
-Jason