Comics

Today I'd like to address the issue of comics. Long-time visitors to the site will be aware that the humans who claim to run this place have used it as a test-bed for a number of comic strips that have had varying lifespans. Hell, even I was one of them, but they couldn't keep me trapped in their panel borders. Oh no. By the mystical power of my third nipple I escaped, and now they'll be sorry, moo hoo ha ha.

You know, some might say that after starting and abandoning half a dozen strips, and not posting any for months, that Phil and Tab ought to just write the whole thing off as a bad job and try something else, but you know how it is, chums and pals: they just won't take my advice.

Still, while we wait for them to revive Dung Eon for the umpteenth time, here are a few comic strip ideas that never made it as far as the drawing board.

The Three-Legged Ballerina

Fourteen-year-old Margie Fountain has dreams of being a prima ballerina, but her dreams are confounded by her unfortunate physical deformity: a great big hairy supernumerary leg sprouting from her stomach. Readers will be inspired by her bravery in the face of withering criticism from Miss Scabbymouth, her evil ballet instructor.

Boy Meets Malodorous Retarded Man-Child

Bobby Greening-Wood is seventeen and out of the closet. Forced by homophobic teachers to drop out of high school, he is forced to make a living on the mean, mean streets. Looking for work and love in all the wrong places, you'll be touched by his struggles and his attempts to get a commitment from Nickolaus, his on-again, off-again mentally impaired boyfriend. Will Bobby get that GED, that job, that apartment, that malodorous retarded man-child? Will Nick ever realise his dreams of becoming a horror writer and succeed in appearing to be straight without upsetting the love of his life? You won't find out here.

Head Cold

The adventures of Walt Disney's cryonically-frozen head. Cold! More cold! Ice! Liquid nitrogen! Ice crystals! Tissue damage! Even more ice crystals! All this and less as each strip details the preservation of the cartoon maker's severed head in the unlikely event of medical science ever coming up with a cure for lung cancer, death and subsequent decapitation and freezing.

Doctor Who: the Between Monsters Years

The Daleks have yet to resurface. The Cybermen have been quiet. Ditto for the Sontarans. The Master hasn't been heard from since that business with the assassination of the Lord President of Gallifrey. The Key to Time caper has been wound up, and the Randomiser you fitted to the TARDIS never takes you anywhere fun. Romana's made it quite clear that she's not interested in taking things further, and you can't be arsed to wait for her to regenerate and change her mind. How's a Time Lord supposed to kill time? Join the Fourth Doctor as he tries and rejects a series of increasingly bizarre hobbies before, faced with 750 years' worth of pent-up sexual tension, finally fitting K-9 with a sailor's friend. Affirmative, Master!

Take whatever comfort you can from the fact that my minions have some kind of rudimentary quality control going, because it could have been far, far worse…

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on August 31, 2008

God is on your side – for the right price.

Another lengthy absence, but bear with me, chums and pals: I have a very good reason for it. (I know, I know, you've heard that one before.) You see, during my holiday I found God. In fact, I found lots of gods. The one true god; secret and ineffable demiurges; strange nameless deities who are only knowable as effigies of wood and stone; and dozens of pantheons whose powers extend over the mortal sphere and the implacable elemental forces. And having found them, I want to share them with you.

Today marks the grand opening of Bluey's Imprecatory Prayer Service. Have you ever wondered what it'd be like to have God on your side? Well, wonder no more, boys and girls! No longer will you have to attend services, offer sacrifices, or even say your prayers. What I offer is the single greatest leap forward in labour-saving divine intervention technology since… since… well, since ever.

Oh yes indeedy do! For a modest fee, we here at BIPS will handle your religion for you. Do you want prayers offered to Saint Fiacre to cure your piles? An appeal to Allah, who is just and merciful, for a clear head in these trying times? A hecatomb offered to Ares for victory over the Athenians in battle? The nipple-tweaking ritual of Hok Pok Gaar to ensure your enemies die of terminal nose-bleeds? Just send your request to Bluey's Imprecatory Prayer Service and we'll work out a reasonable price to cover time, materials and deities invoked. Satisfaction guaranteed!

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on August 30, 2008.

Jesse Helms

Despite already having given some thought to the subject of people dying and not generally keeping our traps shut, I simply couldn't resist saying something when Jesse Helms celebrated Independence Day by expiring. Once again I'd like to share some words from another luminary: the much-missed Bill Hicks.

You know what would make tightening my belt a little easier? If I could tighten it around Jesse Helms' scrawny little chicken neck.

Ah, I feel better about the sacrifice right now! You fucking tobacco-pushing motherfucker! You are the worst fucking drug dealer in the fuckin' world. you scrawny, right-wing, fear-mongering sucker of Satan's cock! You suck Satan's cock, you fuckin' chicken-neck little fuckin' cracker!

I'd tighten my belt if that were the case. I'd eat baloney for a week. I'd sacrifice.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on July 4th 2008.

George Carlin

George Carlin is dead.

I suppose some sort of gushing tribute is in order; some homily about how the world's a less funny place now he's gone, how there'll never be another, just like we said about every comedian from Max Miller to Bill Hicks.

Sod that for a game of soldiers! If you think for a moment that I'm going to get all maudlin just because another comic icon's health finally let him down you've got another think coming. At what point did this become a tradition? To spend a few minutes crying into our beer just because some guy we probably never met and may have thought (quite rightly too) that we were a bunch of wankers finally popped his clogs? Nope. Sorry. When it comes to death, you won't get that sort of public wailing out of me any more. I've got better things to do.

There's a very good reason for this, believe it or not. And hopefully I've got some of you upset enough to read on. The reason I'm not going to post my own platitude is that various people in the (ptui!) blogosphere have posted their own tributes to George Carlin. People I know and like, too. Clever people, even. But I've come to think that their motives are dubious. What they say could be applied to any comedian, Hell, you could even say it if Carrot Top and Larry the Cable Guy died (unless they die in some kind of autoerotic asphyxiation experiment gone horribly, horribly right of course). It's sad, he was funny, now he's dead… because what they said was so damn generic, their mourning isn't about the guy who's dead at all. It's about themselves. Oh, look who's dead! Look who I'm mourning! Look how I'm validating my existence today! I'm not immune to this, of course. I've done it myself. I know you meant well, but you got it wrong. Time for us to learn our lesson, boys and girls. Pay attention. There will be a test later.

Let's bring a bit of culture into this rant, by quoting another famous George. Shaw had the best insight into this whole life and death business, bar none. Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh.

You want to mourn George Carlin? Fine. Do it some other way. Find an ego that needs puncturing. Find something ridiculous, and ridicule the fuck out of it. Find something wrong, and expose it to the harsh light of truth. Carlin, like so many others before him, died leaving a Hell of a lot of work unfinished. If you want, you can stay silent for a minute, but if you want a better way to spend that time, look for ways to carry that work on.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on June 24th, 2008.

Seven Ages of Man, abridged.

So, this site's undergone a major reorganisation, has it? You do know that's one of the tell-tale signs that any organisation or business is doomed, don't you? I'm expecting a mission statement to be written any time soon. There may even be rationalisation or streamlining. Well, that's the way the biscuit disintegrates, ain't it? The more Phil learns, the more he transforms into something he despises.

Some might say that's a tragedy. A profound and searing satire on the human condition; as we grow old we all turn into something that, in our youths, we hated.

Not me, however. I just think it's bloody hilarious.

So, gentle reader, take a good long look at yourselves. Allow yourselves an hour of introspection; consider what you are, what you like about yourselves and write it down. Put it in a safe deposit box, bury it in a time capsule, whatever it takes: just make sure that a soul-searching record is preserved for a decade or so. Then, when that time's passed, look over your character once again, and compare and contrast it with the person you were.

And if by that time they've developed time machines, don't go back to your past unless you're armed. It's always the wasted opportunities we regret the most.

There was a point to this entry, but frankly I can't be arsed to remember what it was.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on June 21st, 2008.

Interviews

Yes, after altogether too long of that box in the lower-left corner of the screen displaying a test message, I'm back. I know, I've done this before: I've declared my triumphant return then promptly vanished off the radar for another few months. But I'm here for you now, baby, I've changed, please take me back, please God take me back. Don't make me cry. You don't want to see me cry.

Still, for my latest brief but glorious return to the Intertubes, I figured I'd be better off for venting my spleen on a subject that's been bugging me for ages now. Those of you who enjoy writing, who are trying to harness the power of the Interweb 2.0 for the purposes of cramming your words into the eyes of people who previously wouldn't feel inclined to give half a shit for your work, those who are trying to make your way in an increasingly hostile literary world: this one's for you. Read on.

I hate interviews with writers. Everywhere I look now, there's an up-and-coming writer being interviewed. New book on the way? New website? Ooh, better get an interview with some other site that's low on the pecking order. They've got to fill their whatever-it-is-they-have-instead-of-pages now, haven't they? Every single HTML document on the web is now a mere six frigging clicks away from someone determined to share their thoughts about literature today, dropping names like some great butterfingers. Where do you get your ideas from? Who's your influence? Where are you answering these questions? What the Hell are you about?

I have some horrible news, boys and girls: no-one really gives a shit. Not the reader, not the interviewer, and — deep down you know this, guys — you. It's not because of you, really; you're (usually) regular people, nothing wrong with that. It's because of the interview. What the Hell is the point? That's what I'd like to know. You've got a website, a blog, a mySpace, a facebook, a twitter, and a metric crapton of other minor things that all amount to a pretty comprehensive web presence. And what do you do with all this? You blog. You write about your lives, often in exhaustive detail, so when interview time finally rolls around, we're all bored shitless with you before you put fingers to keyboard. You've told us all there is to know, and the novelty of having some other bugger ask you about specific bits and pieces soon wears off.

Now, you are, I'd hope, intelligent people. This can't have escaped your notice, can it? Next time, try and do something original. Make sure your next interviews are complete fabrications from start to finish. Total and utter lies. Or do something other than just talk about yourselves! Act like the raconteurs and raconteuses you're supposed to be, and take the reader, the interviewer and yourselves somewhere interesting for a change.

Don't make me say 'please', folks. I'd never live it down.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on June 5, 2008.

Open Letter to Nickolaus Pacione

Dear Princess,

You've got yourself in a lather again, haven't you? Recent videos have seen you metamorphose from Horror's Self-Proclaimed Bad Boy into the bastard offspring of Joe Pesci and Beaker from the Muppets. The only reason I bring this up is because your health really looks like it's taken a downturn: you spew and froth about 'yellow journalists', but your waxy skin, illuminated only by the orange glare from your desk lamp makes you look like you blew all your benefits money on cheap self-tan again. Your diction's gone to pot too: your latest slurred rants are so incoherent that I'm forced to wonder if you've been forced to sniff the cheaper generic brand of Superglue. You've gained weight, I could carry a week's shopping in the bags under your eyes and your posture's so bad you seem to be permanently tilted over at a 45° angle. For the good of your health, Princess, give it a rest before your lifestyle catches up with you!

With sales so low that you're even trying to sell your jeans on the Internet, I've just got to ask you this question, Princess Pixie: who do you have left to blame? Over the past decade, you've blamed all your ills on your ex-roommates, your ex-girlfriend, other writers, liberals, communists, nazis, liberal communist feminazis, homosexuals, pirates, e-pirates, f-pirates, some guy who was looking at you funny, some guy one of your few remaining mates made up. Pixie-Wixie Princess, your retreat from fame and fortune has been outstripped only by your retreat from reality.

During that time you've issued dozens of PayPal demands for increasing amounts: $100, $400, $1,000, $4,000. What's the matter, Pixie-Wixie Princess Peaches? Are you really that hard up? Worried that the benefits payments could dry up any day now? But, you know something, Pixie-Wixie Princess Peachy-poo, I'm prepared to help you. I'm prepared to buy something from you. Something that, later on, you can't claim was e-pirated. The income will be yours, yours alone, some lovely lovely money all of your very own! So how about it?

I'd like to buy your jeans. They've been up for sale for more than two months now, and they're still not taken. I imagine they're smelling a bit musty by now, even if you washed them before you stuck a price tag on them. I don't suppose you could knock a couple of bucks off for that? And they've shrunk. That's got to be another dollar off there, surely. The colour's faded a bit too, that's got to be worth another reduction…

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on February 22, 2008.