Doin' nothin'...

...and pilin' it up.

The semi-legendary Bobby Lightfoot has made drive bys to my blog and SuperFiancee's. I wouldn't expect him to be a regular commenter on MY blog... whatthefuk does my miserable geek blogging have to offer to a man of his jaded, cosmopolitan tastes... but he couldn't do any better than to hang around my baby's place a little more. (Nor, for that matter, could any of the rest of you. Eyes slideways, spuds.)

Bobby's a frickin' brilliant writer, so y'all should certainly check out his blog, but go there prepared to experience the fuckin' F word a great deal.

By way of an apology for being so straight up unjustifiably mean to me recently in her comment threads, a certain (entirely justifiably) guilt stricken fangirl blogger has put a couple of links to some of my recent work here at one of her blogs. This has driven a lot of traffic my way, although she now seems to be over it, so this sudden spike of strangers' attention has recently subsided once more. It was nice while it lasted, though, and I appreciated the gesture.

That offer of your ovaries to the guy doing All Star Wonder Woman is still pretty weird, though, Ragnell, and I swear to sweet baby jebus, if you came across a fanboy blogger spraying similar spittle towards Gail Simone, you'd take an axe to his ass in public. "Oh God, Gail Simone, I want to marry you, if you won't marry me, I want to impregnate you with my child, NOW!! NOW!!! NOW!!!" See how creepy it gets when you switch the polarity? Calm down, honeychile. I know you don't like me, but wisdom can come from any direction, even the ones you present your ass to.

Tomorrow is my interweek day off, and while I have some floor maintenance to do at home before the avalanche of SuperKids comes thundering back from the patriarchial abode on Sattiday, I'll still find time to have some more fun with scanned JLA Archives panels. Yay! Eventually I may move on to scanned Werewolf by Night panels, or even scanned Avengers panels, if I get bored enough. You've all been warned.

round here... we're carving out our names...

Swear to GOD, this is the best I can do here. The. BEST. I. Can. Do.

It's sad, I know.

See, I could break out the Paint program and draw something insane that no one would comment on, and that, in fact, would make most of you back slowly away from your CRT, while hoping to God the movements you think you're seeing in the corners of your line of sight are just imaginary, or dust motes, or some shit. But my one supervisor is still here, and will be here for the rest of the day, and when she comes by my cubie and sees me with the Paint program open, she gets all snarky and says "You aren't supposed to be using that". Which is like, "Bitch, it's ON MY COMPUTER, is baby Jesus crying right now because I'm using this?" But I can't say that. And I don't need the hassle. So, I can't do that. So, no insane cartoons for you all today.

Stress is just SO MUCH not saying the things you really NEED to say when some jack ass gets in your shit for no sane purpose whatsoever.

James Wolcott is such a fabulous writer, I don't know what the fuck he's saying more than half the time. But I do love to watch him strut.

But then, at the end of his latest post, after he goes up, down and sideways on Entourage with a chainsaw, he turns right around and slams that kerosene powered baby right through Deadwood's torso! Fucker!

Say what you want about Entourage, but keep your dextrous digits away from my Dave Milch shows, Wolcott. Don't make me come over there.

James Howard Kunstler is someone who's writing I like, and for someone who says he's a liberal, he takes a pretty war-like, pro-Israel stance. After going around the left blogosphere and reading everyone else out there screaming at Israel in regard to all the frickin' Lebanese and Palestinians they keep blowing up, Kunstler's perspective is certainly different, and sometimes, to someone who still likes Israel as much as I want to, a breath of fresh air.

Of course, Kunstler has also declared that conspiracy theories about our government letting 9/11 happen are just paranoid bullshit, and unfortunately, he's stone fuckin' wrong about that. But that doesn't mean he's wrong about the oil running out; it simply means that the wisest and most cogent among us can be willfully blind to the truth when a lie is much more comforting. Man, do I understand that impulse.

Roy Edroso went to London recently (or he's still over there, I dunno) and he's been writing a lot lately about British art and British beer and I don't know what the fuck all else. I wish he'd get back to pulling the wings off rightie bloggers, 'cuz all this high falutin' literary horseshit gives me a case of the ass. But he's a brilliant writer anyway, so check his shit out.

John Rogers is another fabulous writer who simply refuses to kiss my ass, enough, or, really, at all, on his blog. I hate him for that, and for being a better writer than I'll ever be, but I'm a spiteful, spiteful man. (I'm being hyperbolic here. I imagine most of my small audience realized that without the footnotes, but a few of my lurkers ain't so bright. I really admire Mr. Rogers talents greatly, and honestly don't expect him to admire me back, as he don't know me and I have no accomplishments in the writing field -- or any other -- that he or anyone else could possibly acknowledge as admirable. And I'm okay with that. Now we're moving on.)

In his latest post, Rogers is on about pretty dead girls the media is ignoring, mostly because they're soldiers in our military who died in Iraq, and for some reason, our media doesn't like to embarrass the Administration by covering stories like that. I mean, God forbid American citizens, or the American government, should care about its women in uniform getting killed for no fucking reason at all.

Last but not least, over in one of her comment threads, my ex girlfriend Laurie (yeah, so I dated a penguin in college; it was an experimental time for me) admits she's reading my first novel, Universal Maintenance. Let me know if you figure out who the Patron is, Opus. And, say, you didn't actually BUY a frickin' copy, did you? I hope not, that Publish America edition is WAAAAAY overpriced. (I tell this to everyone I think may even be thinking about buying a copy, because it's true and I hate to take advantage of the few friends I have, or let Publish America do it, the cads. Still, I find it enormously flattering when people go ahead and do it anyway.)

And Blogger just did its best to screw me out of this entire post by locking up when I tried to post it, but being wise in the ways of lousy no good free support software, I'd copied the whole thing to a Word doc before I made the attempt. So, Blogger tried to save you from the tedium of reading this nonsense, but it failed miserably, and now you're stuck. Sorry about that.

Hey! Go read SuperFiancee's blog! It's way better than this one.

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