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“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

“It all makes sense now!” Woeisme exclaimed. “I wondered why the kids in the Rainydale comics I loved as a six-year-old (two whole weeks ago) never changed, and now I understand! They’re based on you, and you’re all sparklepires. Wow. I feel right at home!”

“Great,” grinned Artie.  He ran a hand through his hair, which flopped back to either side like a freshly split baked potato.  “We like it when people show up unexpectedly and declare that they feel right at home. D’you want to come to chemistry classes with us? They’re ripping good fun! And there’s a potato bake after school!”

“Actually,” Jakob said, “We just need to know–”

“Jaaaakob,” Woeisme interrupted. “I can fulfill my quest all by myself, thankyouverymuch!” (more…)

The photos coming in from Iran with the country erupting over the likely theft of the presidential election are just horrifying.

What concerns me is that President Ahambreakingbad might simply decide to dispose of Mousavi and be done with it. On the other hand, how potent would Mousavi as a martyr be? In jailing or assassinating his rival, he might wind up screwing himself.

PAD

Keeping the timeline unsullied sucks, thought the man who claimed the
title of Doctor. What was supposed to be a romp through the centuries
with his assistant, Captain Jacque Harness, had turned into actual
work, what with having to put Dan Quayle back into his proper place in
the timestream and wiping his memories, as well as replacing the
deceased Dukakis with a laminated cardboard cut out. Now, even his
oldest enemies were somehow drawn to this era. But why?

“There’s a great force gathering in this era, a cosmic anomaly that
warps time and space willy-nilly. And there is a group of people,
well, rather strange people but still people nonetheless at the heart
of this temporal breakdown.” said Doctor Smith to Harness. “I think I
shall have to meet them.” (more…)

I am so desperately going to miss “Pushing Daisies.”

I still remember sitting at dinner with Len Wein during the San Diego con a couple years ago and he was describing this new series he’d just seen the pilot for. He couldn’t be effusive enough about it. He talked about how it was brilliant and funny and quirky and smart. And it all sounded terrific, and I said so and I meant it, but all I could think was, “No way it lasts.”

This has been a brutal season for shows I was enjoying. “Sarah Conner” got terminated. “Eli Stone” was pulverized. “Reaper” was condemned. “Chuck” barely survived, but God knows what the budget cuts are going to do to it. But somehow the worst was the plucking of “Pushing Daisies.” From Jim Dale’s narrative (I’ve started using “the facts were these” in daily speech) to the whimsical scripts (television has little tolerance for whimsy in the one-hour form) to the brilliant balance of the stellar cast, there was virtually nothing like it on the air. And now there is literally nothing like it on the air.

And I can’t even enjoy Kristen Chenowith in “Legally Mad” since NBC passed on it. I wonder if it was whimsical?

PAD

“So what are the three tasks I must complete?” Woeisme asked in a trembling voice. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to happen. Her mother had won over her father by smelling florally and then brooding over her inherent unworthiness for three straight books. Actually doing something in a non-passive, pro-active style really wasn’t in Woeisme’s blood cum venom.
But for Fig, she would do anything. As long as it wasn’t too hard or involving active effort. (more…)

Hollywood film producer Marty Cowen slapped Bela’s script onto his desk like a dead fish onto a newspaper. He breathed a tired sigh and massaged his eyeballs with his thumb and forefinger, in a futile bid to exorcise his stupidity-inspired migraine.

“Let me get this straight,” he said to the borderline-illiterate emo-Goth sitting on the other side of his desk. “You’re just giving up on the whole ‘One Onion Ring’ story arc? Now? And veering off on some kind of lame, YA-romance subplot when you oughtta be setting up your act-three resolution?”

Bela shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the way she might on a hot summer day when her underwear got all scrunched up. “I’m just writing it the way it happened,” she protested. (more…)

Since pacing had never before been high on the list of concerns held
by the various creators of Woeisme and Fig’s universe, it wasn’t much
of a surprise to either of them to discover that they were able to
spend a quiet, uninterrupted evening in a small local restaurant
getting to know each other better. Such scenes were, Woeisme had been
led to understand, her family’s chosen method of seduction for many
generations.

Well, one generation, but her father was old enough that it probably
counted as a plural anyway. (more…)