I drew a comic!

I drew a comic a few years ago. Personally, I think it a work of art. Something that will last for ages. "Stand the test of time," as they say. After years of seclusion, hidden in an anonymous, lost-then-found notebook, I now present it to you, dear reader. To the facebook peeps- it might be too small on the FB note reader. May have to travel over to my actual blog.

But now that I'm looking at the preview, it may be too small either way. You might have to click on each page individually. Hmm. Maybe I should have paid more attention to my teachers when I was going for that Computer Science degree.

Oh well. Do enjoy!

Little old ladies and their bloodthirsty canines.

First off, I have to sadly report that the Chantix-induced crazy dreams have stopped. And I no longer feel like I'm hallucinating every waking minute. It's quite a shame.

But! It's also been about five weeks since I had a cigarette. Good times.

So over the weekend I decided to ride my bike to the beach (20 miles round trip. Yes, I'm bragging). Near the start of the journey, I saw, off in the distance, a cute, pudgy old woman, maybe 70?, wearing a pink dress and walking her 100-pound dog. She was walking on the sidewalk and I was in the bike lane.

Since I'm fat, I can't go very fast on my bike. Too much strain on the joints, you see. So I slowly approach the old woman and her dog when I see something curious. The woman, upon noticing me, immediately braces herself and grabs the leash with both hands.

Breathing heavily, sweating and lumbering ever closer to the pair, I find that the dog she's holding back is a German Shepard. A large one. And it's staring me down.

After noticing all of this, I could have easily guided my bike tires across the street and literally steered clear of the savage beast. But no. That day, pride beat out intelligence. I was gonna show how unafraid I was of some measly 100 pound German Shepard by riding my bike two feet away from his snarling snout, held back by a frail woman with the strength equivalent of four or five wobbling toddlers.

I'm about ten feet away, and the dog is growling and his head is down like he's gonna pounce. Then I'm seven feet away and he barks and the old woman shouts "No. Don't you think about it!" Then I'm four feet away and the dog is snapping and barking and dragging the old lady over the grass into the street. Then I'm two feet away and the dog is in "I'M GOING TO RIP YOUR FLESH OFF AND EAT IT" mode and the old woman is about to fall over and she's screaming "Stop it! No! No attack!" And I'm thinking 'Don't fucking say 'attack' to that thing,' and then...

The pair is behind me. I brace myself for five seconds, waiting for teeth to sink into my calf, but it never comes. Then I hear the old woman behind me say, "What have I told you? What have I told you?"

Jesus. I know we take away people's licenses when they get too old. Can we add "Walking psycho-killer-attack-machines" to the list as well? I'm just sayin'.

National Shotgun Appreciation Day

Another Chantix dream. And its got everything. Adoring fans. Shootouts. Brenda Warner. Rock Band. Child and animal abuse. Even James Callis aka Gaius Baltar makes a cameo. Good times had by all.

So I was in a band. We didn't play real music, though. We went around to bars, hooked up an Xbox 360, and played Rock Band. I was on guitar. People loved us. The fans brought pens so they could lay on the ground and sign my shoes while I played. They didn't disturb my awesome guitar riffs so I didn't mind.

My friend Brian was there, playing drums. I think Amanda was on bass. I don't remember who sang. I broke down and smoked a cigarette after the show, but only because I saw Amanda smoking one.

Later, Brian and I left. Outside the bar, the area looked like an arctic, post-apocalyptic Venice. Little islands, ice, rivers and barbed wire as far as I could see. We had a long journey to make with no boat, so we jumped into the water and started swimming downstream.

I started bitching. "Dude, Brian. How about we find a boat? The water's fucking freezing."

He scoffed. "We'll be fine."

"Dude, I'm just sayin'. There are tons of shitty boats around here. It'd be easy to steal-"

"Stop being a pussy."

I sighed and we kept swimming.

We stopped for the night and found an abandoned house to squat in. But we needed to make some money. We went out and looked for kids to tutor, like the great pianists and painters did way back when. Except we'd teach kids how to properly manipulate plastic Rock Band controllers.

I came across my old friend Jason from childhood, but I didn't know him in the dream. He was well off, had a big house, and his wife was Brenda Warner (former St. Louis Rams quarterback Kurt Warner's wife. Here she is, doing a mini Crocodile Clap). Jason's a very large, mountain-man type with long blond hair. He had a daughter that he kept locked up in a cage outside his house. She was a cute, chubby little blond girl, and she had a doghouse she slept in, along with a dog food bowl to eat out of. But I didn't ask questions (everything was dreary - life seemed similar to The Road by Cormac McCarthy). For some odd reason, Jason wanted his daughter to learn how to play guitar on Rock Band. He paid me handsomely.

I hung out with the little girl and showed her the basics. She showed me her pet cat. Her cat was scary as fuck. It was completely wrapped up in a faded, rainbow-colored linen cat-suit (ala Little Big Planet).
It was very tight fitting, and was sewn into the cat's skin. It didn't have any holes, either, so the cat couldn't eat or see or poop. But since the fabric was so faded, it seemed like the cat had been wearing it for a long time. I touched the cat and felt the fabric move against its fur within.

After tutoring the girl for a few more days, I got fed up with her conditions. I decided to take out Jason and Brenda Warner, and free the little girl. Suddenly, I remembered that, of course, it was National Shotgun Appreciation Day! Luckily, there were shotguns laying around everywhere. So I picked one up and kicked down Jason's front door.

His place was the post-apocalyptic version of a mansion- very large but rundown. The door opened to a long hallway, about 60 yards, and Jason was at the end of it. He had a shotgun, too.

We opened fire on each other, but since we were so far away, the blasts were barely having any effect on us. The bullets hurt, but they weren't breaking the skin. Then I heard crying or moaning or something from a nearby door. I knew it must have been Brenda Warner. So I cocked the shotgun Schwarzenegger style and opened the door.

Brenda was in there, but so was Gaius Baltar. They were making out, about to have sex.

Then Jason appeared next to us and began to yell at them, with the barrel of his shotgun at Gaius Baltar's temple. Now, despite my small reservations with James Callis, I do think the guy is absolutely fucking awesome, so I had to save him. Right before Jason fired his shotgun, I tipped the barrel of his gun up with my barrel, so the blast went off right above James Callis' head. Then James said something like, "You bitches are crazy" in his little British accent and ran off.

So then I found myself outside, running from Jason, who was now charging at me full speed wielding two shotguns. But he had them pointed in the air, so I had an idea. I'd pull a 180, run straight toward him and get in close before he could get his guns properly pointed, and take his head off. I stopped, turned, let out a war cry and sprinted towards him.

Then my cat stepped on my head, and I woke up.

After throwing Kara across the bed, I thought to myself, what a strange fucking dream. Thank god today is National Shotgun Appreciation Day. And I continued to think that today, seriously, was National Shotgun Appreciation Day for two, two and a half minutes.

Heh. Only two more months of this drug.

Homeless, zombie pedophiles.

Another Chantix dream. Except this one is kinda scary. Some of you may replace 'kinda' with 'real fucking' in that last sentence. This blog usually tries to reside in the comedy arena. Today it won't.

Ahem.

It's the 1930's or thereabouts. I'm this middle-aged guy, skinny, good-hearted. I'm looking over this group of orphans that me and the boss got sellin' papers for us downtown. It's early morning. The paper delivery is about to come. Our headquarters is outside this high rise hotel.

I got about 15 kids working for me. I'm leaning against the wall of the hotel, watching the old cars roll past, half-listening to the kid's conversations.

Then this one kid mentions how he stole something from one of the biggest mob bosses in the city. Now that mob boss is after him. Immediately I think to myself, kid, don't say that out loud.

Then my point of view seamlessly changes from the older guy to the kid. I forget completely that I was the older guy. Now I'm thinking, why did I just announce to a bunch of surly, seedy orphans that a major player in the city wants my ass?

These two gargantuans approach me. Twins. They look like huge Samoan bouncers, but they're only 12 years-old. They're wearing suits and ties. One says something akin to, "We're gonna take you to that guy and he's gonna give us money for it." The other says something akin to, "Good idea, bro."

So then it's like I'm in a game of football, and I got two defensive linemen to beat. I fake one out easily. The other one clotheslines me, but I grab his suit and keep my footing, duck under his arm, and keep running.

They're right after me. I'm forced to run inside the parking structure of this hotel, so I think I'm trapped with the two Samoans behind me. But then I see an exit. It's this little aluminum fence about 100 yards away, leading to the alley behind the hotel.

Looking over my shoulder, I see if anyone can help. Behind the two Samoan kids, I see my boss (who I started the dream as). I think maybe he can help, but I didn't know him well enough. Maybe he'd give me up, too.

I'm running as fast as I can to the fence, putting a good distance between me and the two Samoan kids. Everything's looking up.

But then there's this old man I run past. He seemed harmless at first, limping along aimlessly. But then I get a better look at him. He's dirty, smelly. His arms are outstretched, like a zombie, like he's grabbing for something. Suddenly, I notice kids are all around me. And this old man, over and over he keeps saying-

"Kids."

"Kids."

Like a homeless guy would mumble "Change? Got any change?"

Then he says-

"Pervert."

"Pervert."

"Hungry pervert, here."

"Kids."

Then it's a frenzy. Me and all the kids around me, our new goal is to get the fuck away from this crazy asshole as soon as possible. Everyone scatters, and I keep running toward the aluminum fence.

The homeless pervert is moving pretty slow, and I make it to that gate pretty damn fast. I'm about to leap onto it, when I hear the old man shriek-

"Why are you running away, when I need to FUCKING EEEEEEAT"

EEEEEEEAT was high-pitched and loud, like one of the aliens from Aliens screamed it. Then his hand grabs the back of my shirt and I'm being lifted into the air, just out of reach of the fence,

And then I woke up. Sweating. And I said to my brain,

Homeless, zombie pedophiles? Really brain? Really?

This drug. Wow.

My subconscious is topical and makes fun of me.

Another dream, short one.

I'm in this house, taking a piss. Not into a toilet, mind you, but a mini-pool, out in the open (it was where everyone peed, I think we were poor and wanted to collect our urine).

Anyway, this short, homely redhead walks up to me, pulls out a camera, and takes a picture of my penis. I say something like, "What the! Bitch!" while attempting to get myself back into my jeans, and wetting myself in the process. She runs away.

But then she stops suddenly, like she's got an idea, and calmly walks back. I sit and wait, arms crossed, curious as to what this girl's gotta say and how big her balls are.

"Pull out your penis again, I want to take more pictures."

"Are you high?"

"It's for a website. Please?"

"Fuck you. No. What website?"

"It's an anti-healthcare reform site. We'd use your picture like, 'this is what would happen if we had socialized medicine.'"

"...please go away."

And then I woke up. My subconscious is an asshole.

Chantix makes your dreams funny.

If you know me at all, you know that I've been smoking since I was three years-old. There were a lot of reasons I started. I thought I looked cool as hell- especially in my Michael Jackson zipper jacket and diamond studded hat. It calmed my nerves between games of Donkey Kong and Pong. Plus I was able to pull mad amounts of bitches.

But even back then, I told myself I'd quit when I was 30, if not before. It's a good age to get healthy. You're not yet past the point of no return.

So for the past couple years I've tried to quit a few times. Fourteen or fifteen.

It's the same every time. After the first couple hours I text Amanda and I'm all "I CAN'T BELIEVE IT. I FEEL FINE. THIS WILL BE EASY HA HA. I'LL BE FINE DON'T YOU WORRY HA HA."

Next thing I know I'm naked and screaming, holding a .22 to my temple and Amanda's locked herself in the bathroom, shaking, trying to slide a five dollar bill under the door so I can go buy a pack.

Every god damn time.

But no more. I was able to get my grubby little nubs on some Chantix, a smoking cessation drug.

So far, I'm glad to report that my withdrawal symptoms are a fraction of what they've been during previous attempts. I haven't reached for the gun, nor have I had overwhelming urges to kill strangers. Oh, and smoking a cigarette doesn't sound all that appealing, either.

Oh, and my dreams are fucking nuts.

For instance, my first dream-

I found myself in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by aliens. I began to mutate and changed into one of them. We looked like blue, humanoid dolphins. Then, me and my new pack, we started flying through the water like it was air, hundreds of miles per hour. It felt a-m-a-z-i-n-g. Our bodies, filled with ecstasy, healed the ocean, turning it from a dark green to a light blue as we flew.

That one was pretty sweet, I must say.

In another dream, we got a visit from one of Amanda's ex-boyfriends. One I didn't know about. He was at least 6"2, and had a long, scraggly beard. From Pakistan, I think. Oh, he was also a freakin' SUICIDE BOMBER. He just wanted to see how Amanda was doing. I spent my night in bed feeling nervous and awkward (if I hear any 'doesn't sound like it was different from any other night you spend in bed' jokes, you can't come to my wedding). (Ass).

There's two more so far, but I'll give those separate posts. If they keep up like this, this'll be quite fun.

Oh, also, there's an abnormally high rate of suicides on this drug. Something about a correlation between taking this drug and being prone to psychotic behavior and major paranoia and blah blah blah.

I've been on this drug two weeks now. I'll just say: it's kinda weak. Think I'll be all right. But just to push this even further, I'm gonna read the entire series run of The Sandman by Neil Gaiman. What better thing to do, when you're on a drug that messes with your sleep and gives you crazy-ass dreams, than to read about the god of sleep and dreams as he visits pedophiles, mass murderers and Satan?

Yeah. Ten of these books flowin' through my synapses and my brain will be on a one-way train to Happyville. Might hit Fluffy-Bunny Town afterwards.

I'll see you on the other side, Ray.

I Drink For a Reason by David Cross

I like me some David Cross. He reminds me of friends from childhood, the guys that were huge dicks but for some reason, be it pity or fear or just the fact that they found you cool, they were never a dick to you. And you got to laugh alongside them as they ridiculed the world.

But this ain't about David Cross, this is about his book. I'll make this simple. His book scares me.

Why, you ask?

Cause he writes just like me.

I Drink For a Reason is a collection of essays. Oh, and I gotta get this out of the way, I read the advance reading copy that came out months ago. Just one of the many benefits of having a fiancee working at a major book retailer. Anyway, I have no idea what changed between this copy and what was released a few days ago. Usually it's not much.

So. Essays. About 50 of them. Real short. And all incredibly, incredibly absurd.

Here's my main problem. I feel that if I wrote my own book of 50 wacky essays, it'd be quite similar to this. A lot of it would be fabricated (for entertainment value, of course), it'd be crass, pretty damn funny at times, all that.

But there is no way I'd get something like this published. I'm pretty sure he got published because, well, he's David fucking Cross.

A lot of the stories are like Family Guy episodes. They start in one place, they introduce a situation, then, suddenly, that situation is completely forgotten after a long tangent, and then bam, on to the next essay.

But they're all still funny. He's got an intense hatred of Jim Belushi (or The Belush, as I believe he calls him). There's 3 or 4 entries just on him that merit some laughter. He also gets his digs in on Whoopi Goldberg. They're funny, if not a little easy.

My small gripes aside, this was a decent foray into the book world. I've never been a hardcore DC fan- I never got into Mr. Show. But I have seen the series run of Arrested Development about 5 times. He rocked in that. After this book, I may think about throwin' Mr. Show up on Netflix. Or seeing his tour. Or buying one of his comedy albums. Or nomin' on his johnson cause he likes to read random blogs about himsel-OH MY GODS I LOVE YOU DAVID EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Okay I'm done. Ugh. Reviewing books is boring. What a horrible idea-maker I am.