pumpkin

sesame strip 2

pickle with powers

With a heavy heart, Newmanpicturesblog presents the final part of the most exhaustive collection of stories about dogs and pickles and t-shirts ever commited to paper, then commited to Photoshop, then commited to the Internet. It's been real...or has it? Kaden's "Pickle With Powers" has me wondering...

graveyard

my new favorite song

"Still Alive", by Jonathan Coulton, from Valve Corporation's recently released video game, Portal. I'm being so sincere right now.

a year of reading

So, about my Robert's Snow snowflake...actually, all about it, along with some little known facts about the origin of Hippo! No, Rhino, a plot description of The Boys, and even a word or two about my hairstyle fixation, can be found today at A Year of Reading! Many thanks to Franki for hosting me, and for the very, very complimentary words about my work.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and tell myself I'm worthless for the next hour, just to even things out.

van

"you don't ever do that!"

A couple of Halloweens ago, my then-girlfriend asked me if I wanted to go to a haunted house with her. I agreed, but with reservations. Haunted houses, and we're talking about the temporary kind that advertise in the local paper around Halloween, scare me. They might even scare me more than actual haunted houses, because, unlike ghosts in an actual haunted house, the residents of "Mister McFright's Terror Mansion," are paid (or, much worse, volunteer) to freak you out. I told her as much.

"Don't worry," she said. "I promise to protect you."

And foolishly, I believed her.

It was only a week later, while being stalked by fake monsters in a formerly abandoned South Milwaukee office building, that I realized her promise meant squat. Not only did she fail to intercept any incoming frights, but she eventually got tired of me trying to use her as a human shield, and ditched me in a dark hallway all by my lonesome.

The hallway was little more than two enormous pieces of plywood propped on their sides, and a third, smaller piece of wood, about five feet square, that had been grafted onto the left wall at the far end of the hallway. I was under no illusion that it was anything other than a trap, that should I walk by that makeshift door (and I was certain that it was a door), it would burst open, and a surgeon with a bloody, rubber saw would pounce on me. But I had come too far to go back. I had to go on. So, I did what any half-insane, borderline feral man-child would do. I ran to the door as fast as I could and slammed my entire body up against it.

I immediately felt someone (or something?) push at the door from the other side. I didn't budge. The longer I held the door in place, the more insistent the pushing became. Still, I held my ground. I was not going to let this happen. I was not going to allow whatever wanted to get out, to get out.

Then came the sounds: a muffled roar of fury, followed by shrieks and curses the likes of which have seldom been uttered this side of Hell. The pushing gave way to a pounding. The door creaked under the onslaught of beating fists (or hooves?). I stood, paralyzed with fear, desperately wanting to run, but unwilling to move lest the terror behind the wall escape.

Suddenly, and at great odds to my current predicament, a calm swept over me, which I understand now to be the sense of peace that coincides with one's acceptance of inevitability. No matter what choice I made, I was doomed. I was just one man. I couldn't hold out forever.

Wearily, I peeled my sweaty back from the door, and turned to face my executioner.

The door exploded outward, revealing, as I'd expected, a pitch-black cavern that undoubtedly led to the Fiery Chasm itself. And from its depths marched a four and a half foot, sobbing teenage boy in a plastic demon mask and a brown velour track suit. He raised a shaking finger at me.

And this is what he said:

"You don't EVER do that!"

The next day, I broke up with my girlfriend.

amazing dog

We've reached the penultimate chapter in the dog-pickle-t-shirt anthology, Auralea's "Amazing Dog". Or as I like to call it, "Merely Helpful Dog Without a Pickle or a T-Shirt as Should Have Been Included as per the Assignment Parameters."

ghost

the cat voice

I'm not a traditional blogger, in the sense that I don't use this blog as a personal diary. The reason for that is because I find my day-to-day experiences mostly dull, with the occasional weird moment thrown in to keep me from hanging myself in the shower (sorry, kids). So, I try to stick to making new things (drawings, stories, so on) based on my experiences, rather than reliving them blow by blow.

Since the beginning of October, as you may have noticed, I have not produced a single post. That's because real life has been happening way too much. For instance, last Wednesday:

Which got me wondering a) how long I could live on my savings, b) how I could possibly find such a sweet job stuffing envelopes ever again, and c) if the five-second rule applies to a hamburger dropped in a garbage can. But I didn't want to write about that, because how is that interesting in any way, and why the hell would I want to dwell on it?

And then, the next day:



For the record, this wasn't for anything felony-related. I was two days late with a tax installment payment. Apparently, this grants the government the authority to kill you.

Fortunately, I cried and got them to take pity on me. Unfortunately, I didn't stop crying for three days, and that made it difficult to want to do anything except watch Beauty and the Geek and eat Bugles and talk to the cat in the cat voice.

But I'm feeling much better, now.