It started out innocently enough. I was at a friend’s birthday party, blithely drinking sodas and debating the merits of the new Thundercats cartoon (meh), when I noticed something. It was as if a light were suddenly switched on. It had been there all along, glaringly obvious, yet subtle and unobtrusive. I speak of a terrible condition, one that has been striking down my male brethren for years, but sadly, has been pushed aside in favor of more marketable, sexier conditions.
I speak of course, of Male Pattern Calf Baldness.
Oh, it starts innocently enough. You might realize one day that you’ve lost some hair around your ankle or mid-way up your calf. You don’t worry about it. “It’s just the socks,” you say. Maybe one or two of your friends has noticed the same thing. You’ll probably just laugh it off. After all, your dad had it and it never bothered him.
But then you realize that the bald patch is growing. It’s slowly taking over your entire calf, like some creeping, ‘taking over’ thing. And by that point, it’s too late. You’ve succumbed to MPCB and there’s no going back. You’re calves are now as smooth and shiny as a fender on a ’55 Buick.
NOTE: I’m assuming ’55 Buicks had big, shiny fenders. I realize that I could probably look it up on the internet or something, but that would take effort.
By my count, three out of seven men will someday have MPCB. I base this number on sound, scientific methodology, ie, I looked at everyone’s legs at the party. Some men were wearing pants and I couldn’t think of a clever way to check. Offering them a dollar to show me was obviously out of the question, as I didn’t have enough money.
At any rate, MPCB is a terrible, terrible scourge, but I’m sure we can conquer it. Normally, I’d suggest that the government devote massive resources so I can lead a team of scientists/super-models to figure out a cure, but we all know the government’s broke. Therefore, I propose that any available scientists/super-models simply show up at my place this Friday at about 8-ish. Bring lab equipment, bikinis, and snacks.
Anyway, I’m sure that with a few years of continuous study, MPCB can be defeated and men all over the world can proudly show their calves once again.
Oh, and just to be clear, female scientists/super-models (I do appreciate the enthusiasm, Brian).
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
So . . .
Funny story. Leigh came over to my place the other week. No, that’s not the funny part, though it is unusual. For some reason, most people only visit me once. They come in, look around, ask why there’s a baseball bat with a bloody tooth embedded in it by the door, and then suddenly remember a pressing engagement elsewhere.
Oh, they also then change their phone number and unfriend me on Facebook, but I digress.
Anyway, Leigh has come over multiple times, so I assumed he remembered the ground rules:
1. Don’t look up.
2. Before opening a door, check for tentacles.
3. If attacked by a ninja, remain calm, point at me, and say ‘No, not me. Him,’ in a forceful tone.
4. The freezer may contain things not normally found in freezers. Or this dimension.
5. If you see a sign that says ‘Caution: Eldritch Evil’ near a pit, don’t look into the pit. If the sign says ‘Naked Ninja Girls,’ then still don’t look (it’s a trap for the ninjas). If the sign simply says ‘Pit,’ feel free to look all you want.
At any rate, Leigh came over to help me move my TV, an old model that weighs around 250 pounds, as I was rearranging my living room furniture to cover over some of the more obvious blood stains.
NOTE: Yeah, I really need a steamer.
Things were progressing smoothly. The TV had been removed from its stand and put to one side, my furniture was shuffled, and we were picking the TV up again when I noticed the cobra.
“Oh,” I said. “I’ll need to grab that. You got the TV?”
Now, I’m 99.9% certain that Leigh replied. “Yes, I can hold your TV up by myself. In fact, I find it a rather pleasant.”
Leigh, however, maintains that all he managed to get out was a “Wha-?”
Needless to say, I let go of my end for a split second to toss the cobra back onto the cobra shelf, only to hear a yell from Leigh as he started to drop my TV. I selflessly leapt back to save my TV and help guide it back onto its stand.
Leigh, much to my surprise, then said some very bad words while holding his arm. It seems that while trying to maintain a grip on my TV, he injured the tendons in his right arm a touch and now has to take anti-inflammatory medication and wear a brace for a few weeks.
So, the comic updates may take a little longer than we had originally planned.
In all seriousness, Leigh did injure his arm and it will be a bit longer before we can begin to update again. I have told Leigh that it’s okay to injure his non-drawing arm or legs as much as he likes, but we really need to keep his head/drawing arm healthy.
We will let you know a hard date on the updates once we have them. In the meantime, please enjoy the blogs.
And don’t look in the pit.
Cheers,
-Jason
Oh, they also then change their phone number and unfriend me on Facebook, but I digress.
Anyway, Leigh has come over multiple times, so I assumed he remembered the ground rules:
1. Don’t look up.
2. Before opening a door, check for tentacles.
3. If attacked by a ninja, remain calm, point at me, and say ‘No, not me. Him,’ in a forceful tone.
4. The freezer may contain things not normally found in freezers. Or this dimension.
5. If you see a sign that says ‘Caution: Eldritch Evil’ near a pit, don’t look into the pit. If the sign says ‘Naked Ninja Girls,’ then still don’t look (it’s a trap for the ninjas). If the sign simply says ‘Pit,’ feel free to look all you want.
At any rate, Leigh came over to help me move my TV, an old model that weighs around 250 pounds, as I was rearranging my living room furniture to cover over some of the more obvious blood stains.
NOTE: Yeah, I really need a steamer.
Things were progressing smoothly. The TV had been removed from its stand and put to one side, my furniture was shuffled, and we were picking the TV up again when I noticed the cobra.
“Oh,” I said. “I’ll need to grab that. You got the TV?”
Now, I’m 99.9% certain that Leigh replied. “Yes, I can hold your TV up by myself. In fact, I find it a rather pleasant.”
Leigh, however, maintains that all he managed to get out was a “Wha-?”
Needless to say, I let go of my end for a split second to toss the cobra back onto the cobra shelf, only to hear a yell from Leigh as he started to drop my TV. I selflessly leapt back to save my TV and help guide it back onto its stand.
Leigh, much to my surprise, then said some very bad words while holding his arm. It seems that while trying to maintain a grip on my TV, he injured the tendons in his right arm a touch and now has to take anti-inflammatory medication and wear a brace for a few weeks.
So, the comic updates may take a little longer than we had originally planned.
In all seriousness, Leigh did injure his arm and it will be a bit longer before we can begin to update again. I have told Leigh that it’s okay to injure his non-drawing arm or legs as much as he likes, but we really need to keep his head/drawing arm healthy.
We will let you know a hard date on the updates once we have them. In the meantime, please enjoy the blogs.
And don’t look in the pit.
Cheers,
-Jason
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Rent-An-Uncle
The other weekend I was invited to the park by my good friends Sean and Devon. They have a 5-year-old son, James and a 1-year-old daughter Leah. So, I spent a merry afternoon playing soccer, throwing a football, running, chasing, throwing Frisbees, playing catch, wrestling, and even occasionally doing all of the above at the same time.
Once the day was done, meaning James was sufficiently tired, we went our separate ways. It then occurred to me, as I was driving to the store to buy food for the week (soda, chips, popcorn, gum, and a banana), that I was a really good uncle.
No, scratch that. I’m a great uncle. In fact, I’m so good at it, I should do it professionally. That’s right: Rent-An-Uncle.
Now, this is not some babysitting service. I don’t care when your kid needs to nap or if they have to eat all their prunes or whatever. At Rent-An-Uncle, we do not care about that sort of thing. We’re here for three reasons:
1. To be able to play until someone vomits
2. To teach them inappropriate language
3. To subtly mess with their heads (ie, telling them boogers are their brains melting)
I am uniquely qualified, in that:
1. I watch all the cartoons (I know who Captain Rex is)
2. I can play any and all games, including all the consoles, outdoor ones, and ones made up on the spot
3. Intellectually speaking, I’m pretty much on their level
NOTE: I will not play Candy Land. This is not a game. It’s more like torture with dice. It’s the only game I’ve played with a niece where after thirty minutes she looked at me and said ‘Do we have to keep playing this?’
Now, obviously, I will respect certain ground rules. If you don’t want me throwing your child into a Pitch Back, let me know so I can do it when you’re not looking.
Also, let me know what level of violence is acceptable, ranging from Simple Roughhousing to Stairs are Indoor Slides to A Little Blood Never Hurt Anyone.
At the end of the day, I’ll hand you back what’s left of your child, you’ll hand me a wad of cash and we’ll part happily.
I think it’s a plan.
Cheers,
-Jason
Once the day was done, meaning James was sufficiently tired, we went our separate ways. It then occurred to me, as I was driving to the store to buy food for the week (soda, chips, popcorn, gum, and a banana), that I was a really good uncle.
No, scratch that. I’m a great uncle. In fact, I’m so good at it, I should do it professionally. That’s right: Rent-An-Uncle.
Now, this is not some babysitting service. I don’t care when your kid needs to nap or if they have to eat all their prunes or whatever. At Rent-An-Uncle, we do not care about that sort of thing. We’re here for three reasons:
1. To be able to play until someone vomits
2. To teach them inappropriate language
3. To subtly mess with their heads (ie, telling them boogers are their brains melting)
I am uniquely qualified, in that:
1. I watch all the cartoons (I know who Captain Rex is)
2. I can play any and all games, including all the consoles, outdoor ones, and ones made up on the spot
3. Intellectually speaking, I’m pretty much on their level
NOTE: I will not play Candy Land. This is not a game. It’s more like torture with dice. It’s the only game I’ve played with a niece where after thirty minutes she looked at me and said ‘Do we have to keep playing this?’
Now, obviously, I will respect certain ground rules. If you don’t want me throwing your child into a Pitch Back, let me know so I can do it when you’re not looking.
Also, let me know what level of violence is acceptable, ranging from Simple Roughhousing to Stairs are Indoor Slides to A Little Blood Never Hurt Anyone.
At the end of the day, I’ll hand you back what’s left of your child, you’ll hand me a wad of cash and we’ll part happily.
I think it’s a plan.
Cheers,
-Jason
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Is This Thing On?
Hello? Tap-tap-tap. Is this thing on?
Hi again! First things first: I’m back from my blogging hiatus. Some things happened and I just really needed to take a break. Plus, there was that whole thing about waking up in a monastery in Tibet and being tasked with saving the world from evil.
In all honesty, the world wasn’t in all that much peril (an evil organization was hoarding the world’s supply of red M&Ms), but when a couple dozen monks are begging you to save the world, can you really say ‘no?’
Well, I did, but then one of the monks said that his sister was single and he’d put in a good word, etcetera, yadda-yadda and I end up fighting a shark that’s been tied to a bear on top of a bus in Berlin. It didn’t make the papers, as apparently this is not unusual in Germany.
Anyway, long story short, the crisis was averted and the monk lied about having a sister. They did give me a gift-certificate to Borders for my troubles, but then, we know how that worked out.
And before you ask: we should have a date for updating soon. Leigh’s been working 12 and 14 hour days and just hasn’t had the time to get any pages done. It shouldn’t be too much longer and once we have a firm date, we’ll let you know.
I will be resuming my regular blogs, so check back to enjoy my semi-coherent ramblings about things that generally only happen in my head (at least, last I checked).
Anyway, Leigh and I did do the 2011 San Diego Comicon! We were joined by my brother Rick, who volunteered to come help us out. A head wound may have been involved. I did buy him pretzel dogs, so I guess we’re even.
NOTE: He did introduce me to cinnamon pretzels. I would have never guessed that combo would be so good. I literally had one every day and had to keep myself from getting more. I’m actually salivating right now, thinking about them.
We met a ton of people, sold some books, schmoozed, and pretended that we knew what we were doing. I shook Sergio Aragones’ hand and Joss Whedon walked by, but by the time I processed that it was him, he was gone. Leigh actually noticed him and pointed him out.
“Hey,” Leigh said. “There’s Joss Whedon.”
“Huh,” I said, after a moment. “I guess so.”
“You should go say ‘hi.’”
“I suppos–“ and then he was gone.
We also took a ton of pictures, many of which are up on our Facebook page.
So, to sum up: Blogs are back. Updates will be back soon. Red M&Ms now flow like water. And never trust a monk who tells you he has a hot sister.
Cheers,
Jason
Hi again! First things first: I’m back from my blogging hiatus. Some things happened and I just really needed to take a break. Plus, there was that whole thing about waking up in a monastery in Tibet and being tasked with saving the world from evil.
In all honesty, the world wasn’t in all that much peril (an evil organization was hoarding the world’s supply of red M&Ms), but when a couple dozen monks are begging you to save the world, can you really say ‘no?’
Well, I did, but then one of the monks said that his sister was single and he’d put in a good word, etcetera, yadda-yadda and I end up fighting a shark that’s been tied to a bear on top of a bus in Berlin. It didn’t make the papers, as apparently this is not unusual in Germany.
Anyway, long story short, the crisis was averted and the monk lied about having a sister. They did give me a gift-certificate to Borders for my troubles, but then, we know how that worked out.
And before you ask: we should have a date for updating soon. Leigh’s been working 12 and 14 hour days and just hasn’t had the time to get any pages done. It shouldn’t be too much longer and once we have a firm date, we’ll let you know.
I will be resuming my regular blogs, so check back to enjoy my semi-coherent ramblings about things that generally only happen in my head (at least, last I checked).
Anyway, Leigh and I did do the 2011 San Diego Comicon! We were joined by my brother Rick, who volunteered to come help us out. A head wound may have been involved. I did buy him pretzel dogs, so I guess we’re even.
NOTE: He did introduce me to cinnamon pretzels. I would have never guessed that combo would be so good. I literally had one every day and had to keep myself from getting more. I’m actually salivating right now, thinking about them.
We met a ton of people, sold some books, schmoozed, and pretended that we knew what we were doing. I shook Sergio Aragones’ hand and Joss Whedon walked by, but by the time I processed that it was him, he was gone. Leigh actually noticed him and pointed him out.
“Hey,” Leigh said. “There’s Joss Whedon.”
“Huh,” I said, after a moment. “I guess so.”
“You should go say ‘hi.’”
“I suppos–“ and then he was gone.
We also took a ton of pictures, many of which are up on our Facebook page.
So, to sum up: Blogs are back. Updates will be back soon. Red M&Ms now flow like water. And never trust a monk who tells you he has a hot sister.
Cheers,
Jason
Monday, June 13, 2011
Hopefully Not Brains
It’s the middle of Sunday night and I’m craving . . . something. I dunno, it’s just one of those weird things you get from time to time, when you want a particular food, but can’t quite figure out what it is.
I’ve tried everything in my kitchen (mustard, cheese, 3 Musketeers bar, gum, diet root beer, and the bit of the apple that wasn’t moldy) and I still have this craving. I could go to the store and buy more food, but I know I’d just end up with a gallon of chocolate ice-cream and then I’d eat it and still probably not be satisfied.
NOTE: I originally typed a ‘galloon’ of ice-cream, which sounds like it really ought to be a measurement. Like ten gallons makes a galloon. Wait, gallons are on the Imperial system, so it couldn’t be something simple like ten. It would need to be pointlessly complicated like eleven and a half gallons and an egg makes a galloon.
This is just really irritating. I desperately want to eat something specific, but my body can’t figure out how to tell me what it is. I also have this weird sore on my calf. It’s kinda itchy. I have no idea where I got it, though I was at a park today, so it’s possible some critter ran up, bit me on the lower leg, and then scampered away without me noticing.
Okay, so no, that’s not very likely, even for me. It also looks like the sore is getting bigger. It doesn’t hurt. In fact, I wouldn’t have noticed it save for the fact that a chunk of my leg actually fell off. I duct taped it back on, but it didn’t really seem to help.
So, here I am, desperately hungry for something, bits of me falling off, and I’m just kinda shambling around the apartment, occasionally bumping into things.
Oh crap. I think I’m turning into a zombie.
It makes sense. I want to eat something, possibly brains, bits of me are falling off, and I’m slow and rather clumsy. Well, in all honesty, I’m slow and clumsy anyway.
First off, please allow me to apologize for my coming rampage of destruction. I realize that I may be responsible for the destruction of the human race and civilization as we know it, so sorry for that as well.
Though, just to be on the safe side, please don’t shoot me in the head until you’re certain I’ve turned into a zombie and I just don’t have a weird craving for broccoli or something. To do this, ask me (from a safe distance) why I hate reality shows. If I start frothing and making semi-coherent sentences, I’m fine (seriously). If I don’t respond or reply that I love reality shows and that you should come closer, feel free to open fire.
Though, please don’t do this before 11:00 am. I’m really not coherent until then.
Brai . . . errr . . . Cheers,
-Jason
I’ve tried everything in my kitchen (mustard, cheese, 3 Musketeers bar, gum, diet root beer, and the bit of the apple that wasn’t moldy) and I still have this craving. I could go to the store and buy more food, but I know I’d just end up with a gallon of chocolate ice-cream and then I’d eat it and still probably not be satisfied.
NOTE: I originally typed a ‘galloon’ of ice-cream, which sounds like it really ought to be a measurement. Like ten gallons makes a galloon. Wait, gallons are on the Imperial system, so it couldn’t be something simple like ten. It would need to be pointlessly complicated like eleven and a half gallons and an egg makes a galloon.
This is just really irritating. I desperately want to eat something specific, but my body can’t figure out how to tell me what it is. I also have this weird sore on my calf. It’s kinda itchy. I have no idea where I got it, though I was at a park today, so it’s possible some critter ran up, bit me on the lower leg, and then scampered away without me noticing.
Okay, so no, that’s not very likely, even for me. It also looks like the sore is getting bigger. It doesn’t hurt. In fact, I wouldn’t have noticed it save for the fact that a chunk of my leg actually fell off. I duct taped it back on, but it didn’t really seem to help.
So, here I am, desperately hungry for something, bits of me falling off, and I’m just kinda shambling around the apartment, occasionally bumping into things.
Oh crap. I think I’m turning into a zombie.
It makes sense. I want to eat something, possibly brains, bits of me are falling off, and I’m slow and rather clumsy. Well, in all honesty, I’m slow and clumsy anyway.
First off, please allow me to apologize for my coming rampage of destruction. I realize that I may be responsible for the destruction of the human race and civilization as we know it, so sorry for that as well.
Though, just to be on the safe side, please don’t shoot me in the head until you’re certain I’ve turned into a zombie and I just don’t have a weird craving for broccoli or something. To do this, ask me (from a safe distance) why I hate reality shows. If I start frothing and making semi-coherent sentences, I’m fine (seriously). If I don’t respond or reply that I love reality shows and that you should come closer, feel free to open fire.
Though, please don’t do this before 11:00 am. I’m really not coherent until then.
Brai . . . errr . . . Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Iron-On Numbers
A quick note before I start the blog today: a reader from Europe was disappointed that we were not yet being distributed overseas. This is unfortunately true, but those of you across the pond can order the book through our publisher, Creator’s Edge Press.
Also, we would love to be distributed in Europe and Asia, so if you happen to be employed at a publishing house outside the US, let us know and we’ll happily discuss the issue. We’ll be even happier to discuss it if you fly us over for a week or two and pay for our hotel. Hint, hint.
Hope that helps.
And now, on to the blog.
I was in the mall the other day, purchasing comic books, shoe laces, and fried chicken, when I noticed a family walking by. The kids were wearing soccer uniforms, so presumably they were either on their way to or from a game. Though, granted, this is assuming a lot. I mean, I don’t know, maybe the kids hated soccer and were being forced to wear the uniforms as some sort of punishment. Or maybe they were going to some sort of soccer themed party. It’s also possible that they were part of a government assassination squad and their cleats were covered in a deadly neurotoxin made from komodo saliva and ground up Madonna LPs.
But I digress.
Anyway, the kids were wearing full, professional-style soccer uniforms. They had jerseys, those really high socks, and fancy shin guards. Even their shoes matched. I’m assuming this was not a fluke, as both of the kids were dressed identically.
They looked exactly like professional soccer players, save that they were very short and one of them was picking his nose.
NOTE: As far as I know, professional soccer players don’t pick their noses in public. I could be wrong. I am also assuming certain things about the average height of professional soccer players.
Here’s the thing. When I was but a lad, I played Youth Soccer. All the schools in the area had a team and we played each other. I assume there was some sort of trophy for the winner, but I have no idea, seeing as our team always sucked.
Anyway, our uniforms consisted of t-shirts with a number ironed onto the back. Everything else was pretty much left up to us. Half of us didn’t have cleats and the other half didn’t have shin guards, which meant that there was a lot of falling down and writhing in agony, often at the same time.
And the thing was nobody else had anything better. A game consisted of two large mobs of children lunging around the field after the ball, occasionally screaming with delight and/or pain. The ball would bounce along, two sets of kids would converge on it. There would be a frenzy of action and the ball would bounce away. The players would pursue, occasionally leaving a child or two crying on the grass behind them. This, as far as we knew, was normal.
So, half of me is jealous that kids nowadays get all this cool equipment. The other half wonders ‘they’re kids, do they really need all that equipment?’
Yeah, I’m old (and bitter).
It’s just that I think we did pretty well without. Sure, there were some minor injuries and I never did find that tooth, but it was all good. We played (badly) and then we went and had pizza and fought over the Space Invaders game. The uniforms just make it all seem so serious.
At this point, I should probably say something pithy about just letting kids have fun, but honestly, we would have wanted all that cool gear too. While I’m at it, we would have loved to have won a game occasionally as well. I, personally, would have preferred not to get kicked in the face so much (I played goalie). But pretty much, we didn’t care. Soccer would be over in a couple of months and then we’d play Youth Basketball.
And yes, our uniforms were t-shirts with iron-on numbers.
Cheers,
-Jason
Also, we would love to be distributed in Europe and Asia, so if you happen to be employed at a publishing house outside the US, let us know and we’ll happily discuss the issue. We’ll be even happier to discuss it if you fly us over for a week or two and pay for our hotel. Hint, hint.
Hope that helps.
And now, on to the blog.
I was in the mall the other day, purchasing comic books, shoe laces, and fried chicken, when I noticed a family walking by. The kids were wearing soccer uniforms, so presumably they were either on their way to or from a game. Though, granted, this is assuming a lot. I mean, I don’t know, maybe the kids hated soccer and were being forced to wear the uniforms as some sort of punishment. Or maybe they were going to some sort of soccer themed party. It’s also possible that they were part of a government assassination squad and their cleats were covered in a deadly neurotoxin made from komodo saliva and ground up Madonna LPs.
But I digress.
Anyway, the kids were wearing full, professional-style soccer uniforms. They had jerseys, those really high socks, and fancy shin guards. Even their shoes matched. I’m assuming this was not a fluke, as both of the kids were dressed identically.
They looked exactly like professional soccer players, save that they were very short and one of them was picking his nose.
NOTE: As far as I know, professional soccer players don’t pick their noses in public. I could be wrong. I am also assuming certain things about the average height of professional soccer players.
Here’s the thing. When I was but a lad, I played Youth Soccer. All the schools in the area had a team and we played each other. I assume there was some sort of trophy for the winner, but I have no idea, seeing as our team always sucked.
Anyway, our uniforms consisted of t-shirts with a number ironed onto the back. Everything else was pretty much left up to us. Half of us didn’t have cleats and the other half didn’t have shin guards, which meant that there was a lot of falling down and writhing in agony, often at the same time.
And the thing was nobody else had anything better. A game consisted of two large mobs of children lunging around the field after the ball, occasionally screaming with delight and/or pain. The ball would bounce along, two sets of kids would converge on it. There would be a frenzy of action and the ball would bounce away. The players would pursue, occasionally leaving a child or two crying on the grass behind them. This, as far as we knew, was normal.
So, half of me is jealous that kids nowadays get all this cool equipment. The other half wonders ‘they’re kids, do they really need all that equipment?’
Yeah, I’m old (and bitter).
It’s just that I think we did pretty well without. Sure, there were some minor injuries and I never did find that tooth, but it was all good. We played (badly) and then we went and had pizza and fought over the Space Invaders game. The uniforms just make it all seem so serious.
At this point, I should probably say something pithy about just letting kids have fun, but honestly, we would have wanted all that cool gear too. While I’m at it, we would have loved to have won a game occasionally as well. I, personally, would have preferred not to get kicked in the face so much (I played goalie). But pretty much, we didn’t care. Soccer would be over in a couple of months and then we’d play Youth Basketball.
And yes, our uniforms were t-shirts with iron-on numbers.
Cheers,
-Jason
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
A Couple Things
I was going to start this with ‘Good News, Everyone,’ but I’ve already done that at least once.
Heck with it.
Good news, everyone!
The June Diamond Preview Catalog is out and Wayfarer’s Moon: The Road from Southfield is on page 259! We’re also on the Diamond website!
So, now is the time to rush to your local comic book dealer and demand that they order at least 10 copies of our trade. If they refuse, start crying. Just let go, right there in the middle of the shop and keep going until they promise to order the book. Or until you get kicked out, in which case you have our permission to start picketing.
NOTE: Single Edge Studios does not condone any such actions and will not be held liable for any damages, complaints, hickeys, or any other condition that may arise from doing what we suggest.
And that’s just the first bit of good news.
We also just got a great review at Giant Fire Breathing Robot, your stop for quality reviews for anime, movies, games, and other nerdly things, as well as giant, fire-breathing robots. Though, in all honesty, I could not find the page on the site where one could order a giant, fire-breathing robot.
I would even go for a small, minty-breathed robot, but they didn’t have those either.
At any rate, we’re very excited about all of this and we expect to see news reports about people weeping in comic shops by next week, at the latest.
Cheers,
-Jason
Heck with it.
Good news, everyone!
The June Diamond Preview Catalog is out and Wayfarer’s Moon: The Road from Southfield is on page 259! We’re also on the Diamond website!
So, now is the time to rush to your local comic book dealer and demand that they order at least 10 copies of our trade. If they refuse, start crying. Just let go, right there in the middle of the shop and keep going until they promise to order the book. Or until you get kicked out, in which case you have our permission to start picketing.
NOTE: Single Edge Studios does not condone any such actions and will not be held liable for any damages, complaints, hickeys, or any other condition that may arise from doing what we suggest.
And that’s just the first bit of good news.
We also just got a great review at Giant Fire Breathing Robot, your stop for quality reviews for anime, movies, games, and other nerdly things, as well as giant, fire-breathing robots. Though, in all honesty, I could not find the page on the site where one could order a giant, fire-breathing robot.
I would even go for a small, minty-breathed robot, but they didn’t have those either.
At any rate, we’re very excited about all of this and we expect to see news reports about people weeping in comic shops by next week, at the latest.
Cheers,
-Jason
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