car 2

lion

condiments

we wish you a very special blog post

Happy New Year, everyone.

Firstly, I want to apologize for not being around, lately. And secondly, I want to apologize for apologizing for that. It seems to me that when people apologize for not keeping up to date on their blog, that apology post is sometimes their last. I assure you that won't be the case, here, even though I've just undermined that sentiment by writing an apology post. Which means this may or not be my last post, although I can give you a guarantee of questionable merit that it won't be.

The third and final order of business is to announce the winner of the latest The Great Shroogly-Dunk Giveaway: it's Missy from Minneapolis, Minnesota, and The [Prefix]iest Thing I Saw Today! As with all but one of the previous Giveaways, the winner was also the sole entrant, proving conclusively that it's almost impossible to lose this contest, so much so that it actually makes me angry at you—yes, all of you—for not winning in the past, and pre-angry at you for not winning in the future. If you are a future winner, please e-mail me at jeff@newmanpictures.com, to let me know if we come out on top in the coming robot war, or if, in a cruel twist, we become servants to the machines that once served us.

fun with mad libs

the brat stop

Yesterday, I drove thirty miles south to Kenosha, Wisconsin to have lunch with Matthew Cordell, an author and illustrator from Gurnee, Illinois, and a fellow contributor to this year's Robert's Snow: For Cancer's Cure, at a place just off Highway 94 called The Brat Stop. As you may or may not be aware, the frequency with which bratwurst is consumed in the upper Midwest is alarming, hence a restaurant named for the sausage, and this picture I took in a gas station parking lot last summer:



But I digress.

Matt and I had a great time talking shop (which I don't get to do nearly enough). You can check out some of his fantastic work here.

pencilchutes

night of the living great shroogly-dunk giveaway

I've been away. We'll get into it later. Or not.

At any rate, I'm back, and I want to give you two Shroogly-Dunks.

What are Shroogly-Dunks, you ask? Well, once upon an altered reality, they were known as Shrinky-Dinks. But there was...an incident, and now they've always been Shroogly-Dunks. It's a long story. All you really need to know is that they're little plastic chips with drawings on them.

In order to receive said Shroogly-Dunks, you must be the first person with a valid mailing address to send an e-mail, with the subject line "dink", to jeff@newmanpictures.com. You must not be someone who could describe my face to a police sketch artist without referring to a photograph, or someone who's won this contest before (thanks for the reminder, Kyle). If this turns out to be you, then two weeks after your email is received (longer if you reside outside the United States), an envelope will arrive at your residence. Whatever you do, do not open this envelope. The following day, another envelope will be delivered. That's the one carrying your Shroogly-Dunks. You'll know you've opened the wrong one if you explode.

Newmanpicturesblog is in no way affiliated with Shroogly-Dunks or K & B Innovations, Inc., and does not account for the aesthetic tastes of any potential entrant when crafting prizes.

vampire

vulture

captain

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."