PeterDavid.net

The bright glow from the mystic Onion Ring shone brightly in the room. Vlad cried his protests as Bela faded from everybody’s sight. Fig attempted to shield his eyes as Woeisme dashed forward to try and join her increasingly translucent mother.

“What have you done?” hissed Jakob as he hefted the Impeeler to eye level. He demanded that the spud tell him what happened to Bela.

Vlad clawed at Jakob’s hands demanding to be released. “Release me,” he demanded, “and I will tell you all I know.” (more…)

Aaaaand…discuss!

PAD

“That’s got to be the stupidest plan I’ve ever heard,” Woeisme said as Jakob appeared crestfallen. “First of all, the logistics are messed up. Where are we going to get a 10-gallon drum of marmalade, an industrial strength garden hose, five pairs of left-handed scissors, a bootlegged videocassette of the first season of Mr. Belvedere, a pair of Batman Underoos, a dented lobster pot and a slightly randy Chihuahua?” (more…)

The President of Honduras was flown out of the country on an airplane in his pajamas.

How the airplane got into his pajamas, we’ll never know.

PAD

I’m getting reports that X-Factor is getting harder to find at local stores. That’s possibly because Diamond is routinely selling out. Every issue from #39 through #44 has sold out or nearly so. So it might not be a bad idea to take advantage of your retailer’s pull service, presuming they have one.

PAD

IMPORTANT NOTE FROM PAD:  At this point, the total manuscript for “Potato Moon” is at 40,000 words.  In order to allow contributors to have the time to read everything that’s gone before and avoid duplication, and continue the storyline in some sort of coherent manner (stop laughing) I am going to expand the turnaround time from 24 to 36 hours.  Of course, if you can get it in sooner, all the better.

Bela gasped in horror.

“I’ve turned into Ernest Borgnine! And not a young Ernest Borgnine!” (more…)

Jakob blinked in pouty confusion, his limbs akimbo like a Stretch Armstrong doll that had been tied to the back of a car bumper and then stretched until even his formidable powers of stretchiness were exceeded, revealing the viscous corn syrup within.

“What strange mockery is this?” he cried? “Truly I would betray myself if I denied the passing oddity of this transformation!”

“Can other parts of you stretch?” Bela asked with newfound respect. (more…)

Two people who were never connected in life, now connected in death.

I never met Farrah.  I wish I had.  Seeing her in her latter days bereft of her famous mane of hair would seem to reinforce the notion that fate can be ironically cruel.   On the other hand, I did meet Michael Jackson.  Well, “meet” is a bit strong.  “Encounter” would be more accurate, and it was   one of the strangest experiences I’ve had in my rather strange life.

I was walking around Disneyland.  I was by myself, which probably means that it was after the San Diego Comicon.  I was at the far end of Main Street near the Magic Castle, and I saw what looked like the wife of a sultan coming toward me.  Very tall, swathed from head to toe in robes, with only the eyes visible.  She was bracketed by four Disney security guards:  guys dressed in black suits with Disney name tags.  Her gaze was darting around; she looked nervous.  Also, for some reason, the eyes looked vaguely familiar.  And there was just something…odd…about the way she moved.  She didn’t actually seem to walk so much as glide.  The only other part of her body that was visible were her hands.  They looked rather large for a woman, the fingers tapered, the skin pale.

I put it together in about three seconds and, as I passed, I said just loudly enough to be heard, “Nice disguise, Michael.”  Michael Jackson’s head snapped around, the eyes crinkled slightly as we made eye contact, and I heard a very soft chuckle even as he kept going.  Later on I happened to encounter another Disney security guy who wasn’t among the force I’d seen earlier, and I said, “Excuse me…I was just wondering.  Earlier today I saw what appeared to be a robed woman walking around, except was that Michael–?”  “Jackson, yeah, that was him,” said the guard.

My bet is that he could have walked around wearing a t-shirt, jeans, a baseball cap and sunglasses, and people would have thought, “Check out the Michael Jackson impersonator.”

PAD

On the murder of abortion-provider Doctor Tiller:

“I don’t really like to think of it as a murder. It was terminating Tiller in the 203rd trimester.”

She’ll be here all week, ladies and gentleman. Be sure to fight for the life of the veal and shoot your waitress.

PAD

(Oh, and don’t let anyone tell you that too much is being made of Coulter making a bad off-the-cuff joke.  Tiller was 68.  She ran the numbers; 203 is exactly correct.  She actually took the time to research her “joke.”)

So the new issues of X-Factor and Wolverine: First Class are out.  Might be some stuff there worth discussing.

PAD

Just cuz Marvel sent ComicMix the artwork.

And seize them the guards did. The companions were boldly seized as no man–no woman–and no small furry creature from Alpha Centauri–had ever been seized before. Then they were marched down a dark desert highway.

The cool wind was in their hair as the warm smell of colitas rose up through the air. Up ahead in the distance, they saw a shimmering light. The guards herded them toward it.
It was a decidedly sparkly shimmer. As they drew closer, Woeisme exclaimed, “Why it’s an Opal city!”

One of the voles smirked and pointed to the dark desert highway along which they were marching. “Naturally,” he said. “Where else would you think that the Gin-gold brick road would lead?” (more…)

“Cor,” said the pseudo-British Vole. “You ain’t half baked, Guv.” He nibbled again at the Potato Goddess’s feet, which greatly annoyed her while also slightly turning her on.

“Stop that!” she shouted. “I did not construct a flaky, tender mortal form, swathed in butter, sour cream, and just a little bit of chives, so that you mortals could consume it!”

“You’re covered in butter?” said Jakob, who was also now a little turned on, which was a new and troubling sensation for him, given that his new object of fascination was above the legal age of consent. (more…)

But Woeisme failed to notice her, already caught up in selecting her new true love.  For Fig had been dead for nearly thirty seconds.  Her heart and an attention span more in line with small insects or large rocks were insisting that she heroically find the strength to move on, like in one of those Beyonce songs where she sings as that tuff lady.  Callie Savage?  Miami Vicious?

“Ahem!” The Potato Goddess shouted, in a mysterious potato language that was phonetically and alphanumerically identical to English.

“Let’s see,” said Woeisme, counting on her fingers.  “There’s that Jarhead guy back in Rainydale, that kid who fixes my cable, and that man from prison who keeps sending me letters and pictures of dead cats he found.” (more…)

I feel frustrated because I haven’t had the chance to post my thoughts on Barack Obama going Mr. Miyagi on a White House fly during a TV interview.

The first thing that occurred to me is, Wow.  Great reflexes.

The second thing was, What a tragedy that SNL is done for the season.  What the world needs is Will Ferrell as GWB doing an interview and a fly buzzes in and lands on his head, and he knocks himself unconscious.

The third thing was, I can’t wait for PETA and Jeff Goldblum to weigh in on this.    I wish I posted it yesterday, because then I’d look psychic, because PETA bitched about it this morning and Goldblum showed up on Colbert this evening.

Ah well.  Maybe the Ferrell thing will happen somewhere.

PAD