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Elektra Assassin

I had fallen asleep after several very long and heavy weekdays. The weekend had gone by quickly and I found myself phasing in and out of sleep, my eyes widening, and slowly shrinking back again. This had gone on all Sunday, all through to the night. And I still wasn’t done. Around nine that night my eyes had finally closed their final time before the next morning. Or so I thought.

It was mid-morning, or twilight, or deep night, I don’t know. Something slowly woke me up in the middle of the night. At first I chose to ignore it. Unfortunately, the tapping became louder and far more regular. I turned over and smothered my face with my pillow hoping to drown out the noise. Still, the tapping continued. My head finally rose and I slowly looked around. The tapping continued. And I knew my sleep would finally be interrupted.

I sat myself up. I searched around the room blindly for a pair of pants to slip on, and possibly a tee-shirt. I knocked several magazines over onto the floor. It was sometime after three in the morning. I could faintly hear my name being called from outside. I peaked out the window, went to the door and walked to the lobby. I opened the door and was hit with a gust of strong cold wind. I looked around. And there he was, my crackhead unkle.

He quickly approached me and told me that he was sorry for waking me. He told me his landlord wouldn’t let him in. He rushed passed me. And what he did next would horrify, anger, and completely confound me for the rest of the day. I stood at the door, which was still halfway open. He walked to my room, sat on my bed, took off his shoes, lifted his legs and laid in my bed, pulled the covers over him, took off his glasses, and told me he was going to sleep. And like I said, I stood there by the door dumbfounded.

This son of a beyotch had come to my house, awaken me, went to my room, and preceded to go to sleep in the bed he had just gotten me out of. And I wondered how much time I would do for the murder I was about to commit. Of course it would be life. And I wasn’t looking forward to tossing salads and having my teeth busted out.

So, I decided to cut on all the lights in the house, followed by the fans, the oven, and some running water in the bathroom. And then I remembered the fight me and my mother had had several nights earlier. Something about keys. Apparently, my mother believed that she had left her brother’s spare keys at my house a week earlier, or she had given them to me for some reason neither of us could remember some weeks earlier. My part of the argument consisted of me reminding my mother how feeble-minded she was, and how she had never given me, or even brought those keys over to my house. I didn’t have them, and I didn’t know where they were, and she was wrong and I was right.

But because of the special circumstance before me I had decided to forego my pride and actually do something unthinkable, actually look for the keys. I searched the tables, under the couch, in the couch, behind the couch, behind the stove, in my drawers, behind the drawers, hell, even around the bar. Yeah. I know I don’t drink, but everybody needs a bar. I eventually decided to look in the box my mother used to throw all my crap into when she was trying to clean my place up recently. And underneath some old newspapers and some wet magazines (don’t ask), there they were, his keys.

I quickly ran to my room and told him that I had found his keys. He was shocked. He began questioning me about if they really worked, were they old keys? He told me that recently his locks had been changed. And I told him these keys would get him in, even though I really didn’t know for sure. He questioned me again. And I told him to go check them out. I slowly kicked his ass out of my apartment, and I watched him run through the cold gusty wind to parts unknown. And of course, I was happy.

I waited awhile with the lights on. I was fearful he might return. He would call me some thirty minutes later telling me that he had gotten in. And I was happy.

The only problem now was trying to get myself back into sleeping mode. Unfortunately, I failed. And I was pretty tired when it was time to go to work. In fact, it fucked up my whole day because I was having weird muscle spasms all over my body. And now that I’m back home, I can’t go to sleep. And I got a resume that I have to prepare for an interview I’m going to have tomorrow.

And I’m scared as hell, and fucked up, especially since I have no idea if my crackhead unkle will return for another visit.

Holy monkey crap, Batman. Three posts in one day. I’m on fire in this beyotch.

Anyway. Check out the new edition of ImageText. They’re focusing on silver age DC characters and comics. With a nice comic book art exhibit and some decent character and comic book backgrounds. You can even download the catalog of crap in pdf form.

Help is on the Way

I’m out until whenever.

Someone asked me recently why I don’t drink. I pretty much get asked that question alot. Not drinking seems almost as worse as molesting children, or fuckin horses and chickens in the ass. Drinking is a pretty big part of the youth culture. I don’t know how it is when you’re older. But if you’re a young dude who doesn’t drink these days, you might as well lock your ass in a hole and never come out. Because nobody wants a sober person around them when they’re about to act a fool.

I usually answer these people with a I just don’t drink. I really don’t feel like getting into detailed shit with mostly strangers. But to make it clear, me not drinking is pretty similar to good girls going wild. You know the story, when a chick who’s been brought up strict and finally gets a chance to break free, usually in college or some place else, far away from her parents, and goes wild and slutty and drinks and whores herself out to the campus. You know, shit like that. Me, I’m that shit in reverse.

I was brought up with fucked up adults offering little kids sips of beer and wine. You want some beer, Ronny. You wanna sip. Here take a sip. I had older dudes letting me take puffs off of their cigarettes. I had chicks offering me weird shit. You want some titty to go along with that beer. Here take some titties with that beer and cigarettes. I was brought up in bizarro world. Before I was ten I had had beer, weed, titty shots and cigarettes. By the time the pubs hit, the only thing I still really wanted was the titties. Unfortunately, I needed more titties. If I didn’t have these hormones rollin through me, I might have actually been turning down the titties. Weird.

Now you might say after reading that last paragraph that my life was on some ole Michael Jackstone Neverland shit. Well, shit wasn’t that bad. I didn’t have people giving me the bad touch. But I did happen to be acquainted with a lot of slutty young girls, or really fucked up young girls, little women who probably were going through some Jacko shit at home. Sometimes I feel bad because I probably wouldn’t have felt a girl up, or got laid at all if it wasn’t for many of these low self-esteem chicks. Unfortunately, the cities breed these chicks like weeds.

Much like they breed the fucked up adults who raise their kids to get high and talk ebonics and use foul language, sort of like I do. But fortunately, in certain areas, all that shit had an adverse effect. By the time I hit eighteen, I pretty much couldn’t stand alcohol or drugs. Although I still needed titties for some reason. Trying to get me to drink a beer is like Michael Jackson trying to give out the sex.

Lisa Marie. You want me to rock you tonite. All I gotta do is pull my detachable penis outta of the drawer, screw it on, and we’re ready to go. No, Michael, just keep your penis in your pocket or drawer or whatever, I’ll just go it solo tonite. But all I gotta do is screw it on real quick. I said NO you goddamn freak. Now go and play with the kids if you just gotta do something. Okay. hee-hee.

To add in some weird sense of deja vu I also really hate alcoholics. I can’t stand being around drunk people. They annoy the fuck out of me. And I think I can’t stand slutty chicks either, unless I’m really really horny.

So, there you have it, one of the reasons for my fucked up being. Now I’ll never know again the sweet bitter nectar of the alcohol, or the hazed out reality of the drugs. But at least I still have the titties. I’ll always have the titties.

Sigh.

Everybody’s talking about that Coon Picnic song by Nas. I don’t find it all that courageous a song. Yeah. He calls out Kobe Bryant. Everybody calls out Kobe Bryant. Kobe Bryant’s an asshole. That’s the easy target. But what if he said Michael Jordan.

Jordan likes the white women. Wasn’t he being blackmailed by some white chick he had cheated on his fine black woman with so many years before. And hasn’t his shoes been part of the over commercialism of the street culture. One hundred dollar gym shoes. I don’t hear Jordan getting political, talking about that racial injustice. Nope. Nas plays the pussy role and goes after the soft Bounty beyotch Kobe Bryant. And everybody’s hailing it as some big achievement. It’s weak shit to me.

The same for calling out UPN and the WB. Has Nas even looked at the WB lately. How many black people still pop up on that network. Steve Harvey and who else? Right. There ain’t no more black people on the WB. So, when Nas calls them out, he’s late as fuck. And UPN. Doesn’t Eve have a show on UPN. Is she a coon now. Has he even watched half those shows on that network. I haven’t. But the ones I have seen aren’t that offensive. Is Half and Half some retread of Andy and Amos? How about Girlfriends? I wouldn’t say so. They may not be Seinfeld. But what is.

I’m sure Nas is referring to the old shows on the network, like the Parkers, and that old slave show everybody always brings up, and that Homeboys in Outer Space shit, shit from fifteen million years ago. Who knows with Nas. The boy is all over the place, all the time, in his pseudo, ghetto, Jesus Christ pose, looking to save hip-hop from its sins. Only problem is Nas is part the problem.

By the way, what’s the name of that hot big breasted chick on Girlfriends. Not the one that’s supposed to be the hot one, the big lipped one married to the doctor. I’m talking about the chick they always have running around with no bra on with tube tops and tank top shit on. Golden Showers, or something like that. Man, I ain’t gonna lie, that chick is hot. I can’t stand the other three, but that bouncy one kills me all the time. I think I wanna secretly, on some psychic wave shit, impregnant her, like that dude did with that Sheryl Crow chick.

Yeah. I know I lost all credibility there at the end. But I can’t help it. I’m sick.

Check out the 2004 Weblog Awards starting sometime tonight. Of course no one from these parts were nominated.
Filthy bastards!

Remember when your mama used to try to make you believe that that same crappy hamburger she made at home was comparable to a Big Mac. Yeah. I know Eddie Murphy did this shit first. Just that I went to McDonald’s recently. And I couldn’t believe how crappy the food tasted. Was a Big Mac always this filthy nasty, with that vomit tasting special sauce on it. I mean, that burger made me wanna puke. These two dry patties with cheese and stale nasty bread with that god awful sauce. That’s toilet food for me. No wonder I crapped it out two hours later. And that Big N Tasty ain’t much better. Only thing that made it bearable was that cheese they put on it. Trust me. Cheese makes everything taste better.

I normally would go on a tangent about cheese right here, but I won’t. Because I just don’t feel like it. I like cheese, but I really don’t feel like talking about it. I pretty much put cheese on everything, except maybe fries. I don’t put anything on fries, not even ketchup. Why do some people spell ketchup, C-A-T-S-U-P. I always wondered that. Is it a different product than ketchup. It might be. I don’t know. Anyway.

I had a frozen pizza recently. And man did that suck, too. It was this greasy nasty buttery thing on hard rock dough. It was filthy, too. Same goes for hot dogs, all kinds, and hot pockets. I had a cheese steak hot pocket and that shit tasted like bile in pig fat. This was some nasty shit. Unfortunately, I had to have three or four more of those things before I could figure that out.

What the hell is wrong with fast food these days. It used to be that you could stop off at that burger joint and get something decent. These days, nothing these franchise boys sell is comparable. Or maybe it never was. Maybe I just didn’t know what good food tasted like when I was younger. Maybe I had to grow up to figure out what I had been eating all along was crap.

New Download:

Playboy had a nice article about original comic book art. You can download a zipped version of it here. They’re jpegs, and you might have to hit the zoom to read the text. Or rename the zips to cbz and read them with CDisplay.