A Rather Embarrassing Situation

Well, it’s been a little while since I’ve written and there’s a perfectly good reason why. ‘Perfectly good’ in that it’s a reasonable excuse, but also rather, how shall we say, stupid.

You see, I was in my bathroom a couple weeks ago with approximately 8,000 of those green plastic army men.  I had been using them to stage mock-battles with my Great Mazinga and Mego Star Trek dolls, but growing tired of that, I decided to glue them into a giant-life sized green plastic army man as I’m rather lonely.

So very lonely.

At any rate, there I was in the bathroom with a lot of green plastic army men and a tub of industrial glue. I was also just wearing my Captain America underwear, which is pertinent, but a tale best saved for later. I had just mixed up the glue when I stepped on one of the little grenade throwing guys and fell over, in the process dropping the glue.

Which I landed in.

I must have also knocked myself out, because when I came to, I discovered I’d more-or-less glued myself face up on the floor. I had one arm free, which came in handy later, but the rest of me was firmly stuck. In hindsight, I should have probably just wrenched myself up before the glue had really set, but at the time I felt that keeping the skin on my back was really, really important.

So, yes, there I was. After a few futile attempts to get up, I resigned myself to chipping slowly away at the glue with one of the bazooka plastic army men. Oh, it wasn’t all bad. I had plenty of green plastic army men to play with and thanks to being near the open cabinet, could detach the water line if I needed a drink.

Sadly though, without food, I was forced into cannibalism.

Yes, I had to eat many of my green plastic army men. I felt badly about it, but I explained to them in great detail that in this situation, the needs of the one (myself) outweighed the needs of the many (them). Oh, there were protests, but in the end they nobly sacrificed themselves so that I could slowly chip my way out of the glue.

I am now fully free and aside from some spectacularly unpleasant (and green) bowel movements, seem to be doing well. I do have a large slab of glue still stuck to my back and my few remaining green plastic army men seem to have mutinied, as I can’t find them.

So there you have it. I have learned my lesson and the next time I decide to play with industrial strength adhesives and green plastic army men, I will wear a helmet. And have food on hand.

Lots and lots of food.

Cheers,

-Jason

Ion Capacitors

I have to take my truck in for repairs soon. I suspect it’s possessed, as something in the glove box screams when I turn on the left blinker and blood sprays out of the vents when I try to use the AC. These things I can deal with, but also it sometimes doesn’t want to start and the steering is a bit wobbly.

So I need a mechanic. And an exorcist, but first things first. Now, I have a problem when I take my truck in for repairs: despite being a reasonably large, hairy man with a diverse and impressive collection of bungie cords, I know nothing about how cars work.

Oh, I can pick out a car pretty well. If you had a line-up consisting of a stegosaurus, a clown, a car, and a Nintendo 64, I would pick out the car an easy 9 times out of 10. And if you happen to open the hood of a car, I can easily identify the engine, the radiator, the battery, the flippy thing, that thing that’s really expensive to fix, and the other thing that’s really, really expensive to fix.

However, you can’t show weakness in front of the mechanic or he’ll think less of you as a man. So, when I go to the mechanic and he presents me with a list of things that are wrong with my truck, I put on my Serious Frowny Face ™ and inspect the list with all the gravity of a General sending soldiers into battle. I will grunt and nod and try to ask questions that don’t sound idiotic.

“What’s this ‘brake light’ listed here?” I’ll say.

“That’s the red light on the back of the truck that lets other people know you’re stopping.”

“And what’s wrong with it?”

“It doesn’t work.”

“Ah.” I will then frown some more and point at something else. “What’s this?”

“Your address.”

“And this?”

“A smudge.”

“Hmmmmm. Okay, I’m on board with the brake light thing, but this here doesn’t make much sense.”

“That’s your name, sir.”

“Good to know. And what’s a Flux Capacitor?”

“That collects and stores the Flux.”

“My truck has one of those?”

 

“Two, actually.”

“Huh. Y’know, I don’t recall ever hearing about that before. I mean, I think I would have noticed a car commercial saying ‘now with a bigger Flux Capacitor or something.’”

“That’s because your truck is old. Newer ones have Ion Capacitors.” 

“That would explain it.”

“Great. Now please give me all of your money.”

Now obviously, they know I don’t know anything about cars. I know it. They know it. Everyone knows it. I just hope that they’re at least semi-honest and don’t bilk me on anything.

Besides, they don’t know Muffin likes to curl up behind the seat. There’s also a small sign that says ‘I have anti-venom. Let’s make a deal.’

Cheers,

-Jason

Joyous Reunions

Well, the good news is that Muffin is back. He showed up at my door this morning with an oddly small Mickey Mouse hat glued on his head and looking sheepish. Though, in hindsight, he may have just eaten a sheep. I don’t know. He is now back in his pen and surely dreaming lovely snake dreams of gallivanting around Disneyland and being allowed to bypass the crowds and get on all the rides first.

Seriously, if you were manning The Pirates of the Caribbean ride and a fifteen foot King Cobra showed up wearing a little Mickey Mouse hat, you’d let him go first, wouldn’t you?

In other news, an Anonymous commenter asked if the comic was ever coming back. And my answer was drum roll please yes.

I currently have an artist toiling away in a secret location in Germany. She’s in Germany because that’s where she lives and it’s a secret because I have no idea what her address is. Or her real name. Or any important details, really. Which might explain why she insists on drawing Lily as a dwarf. And Iri looks suspiciously like Orlando Bloom.

I’ll send her a coded message about that.

However, the bad news is that it will still be awhile before anything goes live (like end of the year-ish, fingers crossed). I would like to not repeat the mistakes of the past and pull the trigger on this before we’re good and ready. I will probably make a whole new set of mistakes, so there’s that. Stay tuned, as they say, for more info as it becomes available.

In other news, I have a few more projects in the works that I can’t talk about yet. These involve artists in other places. So, again, stay tuned.

And does anyone know how to get a hat off a hat that’s been glued to a snake, ‘cause I’m all out of ideas?

Cheers,

-Jason

Not Lost Per Se

I can’t find my cobra.

Now, I haven’t lost it, as I am perfectly aware of where it’s not. It’s not in the trap, under my bed, curled up in the dryer, or sunning by the window. In fact, I’m positive it isn’t in my apartment at all. So, I do know where it is: it’s not here.

That being said, I hope Muffin is okay.

Yes, I named my King Cobra ‘Muffin’ after a dog we used to have. The original Muffin was a ten-pound mongrel who enjoyed chasing cars. This was all well and good until he chased one driven by my dad. From the front. So, we lost Muffin and I decided to name my cobra after him because he likes to chase things too.

NOTE: My father was hard on our dog population. It was either because he was a bad driver or we had a habit of getting really dumb dogs. Or maybe both, I dunno.

I was considering putting up reward notices, but the guy at Kinko’s (yes, it’s now Fed-Ex, but I worked there for five years when it was Kinko’s and I’m too old to change) thought it would be a bad idea to put:

LOST

15’ King Cobra

Answers to Muffin

Reward $20 and

Free Anti-Venom

On a flyer, so I acquiesced.

Instead, I’ve taken to wandering the neighborhood and shouting ‘Here Muffin!’ very loudly. Surprisingly, I’ve met a lot of women this way. Unfortunately, the conversation usually goes like this:

Me: Muffin! Here boy!

Attractive Woman: Oh, you lost your dog! I’ll help you look!

Me: Well, in the interest of full disclosure, I’ve lost my pet, yes.

Attractive Woman: What? What do you mean?

Me: Muffin isn’t actually a dog.

Attractive Woman: Oh, Muffin’s a cat?

Me: No, he’s a 15 foot King Cobra.

Sound of attractive woman running away.

Me: But he’s really cute!

So, as mentioned, Muffin is about 15 feet long and around 15 pounds. He’s trained to attack ninjas, so if you happen across a King Cobra, throw a ninja at it and see if it bites. That is, if the snake bites the ninja. Though, if you found a ninja that bites snakes that’s pretty cool too.

And I should say in case anyone takes me seriously: I do not have a King Cobra nor have I lost a King Cobra. I saw one once at a zoo when I was five, but that was about it. I did cry, but that’s only because my parents left me at the gorilla exhibit.

In all fairness, they thought I was supposed to be there.

Cheers,

-Jason

Mid-Life Crisis(es)

I’ve decided to start planning a mid-life crisis. Now, I know they’re supposed to happen spontaneously, but I live in a dark place with no other people, so if I don’t plan it, no one will know I’m having one.

So, as far as I can tell, having a mid-life crisis involves acting much younger than you actually are in a desperate attempt to recapture the glory of youth. My problem with that is that I still watch cartoons, eat Captain Crunch, drink soda, and wear t-shirts and jeans exclusively. If I act any younger, I’ll have to wander around town in a diaper.

To combat this, I plan on buying a pair of sensible slacks and eating boring cereal with lots of fiber. Then, when I’m feeling adult-ish, I’ll try and have a crisis where I act somewhat older than I normally do. So, technically, I’ll try and act my age so that I can not act my age.

Or something.

Anyway, once I reach the point of actually having the mid-life crisis, I will refer to the handy guide that I’ve outlined below:

Step 1: Get a convertible, preferably red. 

I own a pickup truck that is older than many of the people I work with. It has a hole in the roof that I normally shove a plastic bag into to keep the rain out. Since I cannot afford a sports-car, I will assume that this technically makes my truck a convertible. I don’t want to paint my truck red, however it often has flames coming out of it and flames are cool, so I think that’s okay.

Yes, I really should get that looked at, but the trail of smoke make it easy to find in the parking lot.

Step 2: Get a hairpiece.

I already have plenty of hair, so I think I’ve got this one covered as well. Granted, the vast majority of the hair is not on my head, but I consider that a minor inconvenience.

Step 3: Get an earring

I had an earring in college, mainly because my dad wouldn’t let me get one when I was in high school.  I didn’t really pay much attention to it and kind of forgot about it for a couple years. Eventually the back thingie fell off and I tossed it into a drawer. I suppose I could find it and shove it back in, but that would probably hurt. However, having had an earring, I think I can just check it off the list.

Step 4: Date a much younger woman

This is the tricky one, as I have trouble getting dates with women my own age, much less one who is younger. I mean, I have a truck with a hole in it that belches flame, hair in inappropriate places, and an earring in a drawer. These are not three things conducive to romance, so unless there’s a highly specialized online dating site for old hairy guys with old trucks and closed up holes in their ears who want to meet younger women, I may be out of luck.

Step 5: Don’t bother

Yeah, that’s probably the safe solution. I mean, I want a woman to love me because of who I am, not because I (hypothetically) have a nice car, hair, and facial adornments. Granted, who I am is not much of a catch, so yeah, back to the dark place with no other people.

Unless there’s a dating site for that, which would be cool.

Cheers,

-Jason