Monday, July 12, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
ZOMBIES VS. VAMPIRES VS. WEREWOLVES VS. SEAMONSTERS VS. ROBOTS VS. ALIENS: Fuck the Fuckin' Dead Cow
Seven shots of tequila.
Debbie should've known better, but she and her friends were at the same bar as some dude's bachelor party--the members of which were all trying to get laid--so obviously the girls're gonna get offered shots. But Debbie doesn't fuck around when she drinks. So she found the chubby-chaser in the group and down went the seven Patrons. If only she hadn't had the chicken nachos beforehand, she wouldn't have needed to go to the bathroom to puke, then she wouldn't have been grabbed and thrown out into the alley behind the bar, and she wouldn't be laying on her back, gurgling tequila, stomach acid and chicken nacho bile.
"Oh. Oh my sweet darling. There's no need to cry. This will be over so soon."
The words didn't comfort Debbie in any meaningful way, mainly because they were spoken by the vampire crouched over her.
"You smell so delicious, my sweet. Do you know that? I'd wager that in the entirety of your life up to now, you've never been told how beautiful you are. Your neck, your veins, your girth. Your form makes me quiver."
She was totally terrified of his fangs and strength, but somewhere in the small portion of her mind that wasn't terrified, she couldn't help wondering why this evil, blood-sucking monster was talking like a...like a pussy.
"P-please dun eat, don't (huh) eat me! I won't tell, I'll-"
"Mmm. Your fear is decadent. A meal is so much the more appreciated when it squirms and struggles for its life. I can remember the first time I-"
The vampire's fey reminiscing was interrupted by the dull THUD of the bar's back door slamming open. Out stumbled a guy in jeans and a "Fuck Condoms" t-shirt. He puked roughly eight pounds of beer and blood before falling on his knees and gasping for air. Then he looked at Debbie and the vampire.
"uhGUDDAMMIT," he burped.
"It would be best for you to return inside, my friend," the vampire atop Debbie said.
"Motherfucker, get the fuck off her. Go fuckin' suck fuckin' cow blood."
The guy struggled to his feet. "Take. Your lady boots. And your gay-ass leather jacket. And fuckin' march to the pasture. And suck cow blood. Then fuckin' fuck the fuckin' dead cow if you fuckin' feel like it."
"I'm only feeling peckish, good man," the vampire said, "This heavy young lass is plenty to sate me. But I'm willing to gorge myself if you continue to pester."
The drunk guy spat more blood, then noticed he'd gotten a little vomit gravy on his "Fuck Condoms" t-shirt.
"Awww. Son of a fuck."
The vampire felt as though he wasn't being taken seriously. NOTHING makes a vampire more upset than when you don't take them seriously (they're very sensitive). So he got off Debbie and slowwwwly crept towards the guy, teeth brandished, fingernails at the ready.
The guy, REALLY GODDAMN FUCKING PISSED that his favorite shirt had shit on it, looked up and saw the vampire doing his whole Interpretive-Dancer-Pretending-To-Be-A-Hungry-Wolf thing that vampires do. He rolled his eyes.
Bullets don't kill vampires, which the guy knew. But bullets distract vampires. So the guy had brandished his gun ("Ass-Cutter") and put nine holes in the vampire while moving towards him. By Bullet #9, he was close enough to grab the vampire, break its arm, and throw it against the wall. The guy didn't have a stake or a blade, so he laid the vampire on its back and began the tedious process of stomping the vampire's neck until its head came off. This took about 90 seconds (he was wearing Asics, not the sharpest of shoes).
Vampire head finally separated from vampire body, the guy stepped back, out of breath. He put two cigarettes in his mouth and lit them. He looked down at his newly-bloodied shoes and got pissed again.
"You good?" he asked Debbie.
Debbie was just finishing a dry heave. She'd made the mistake of watching the neck-stomping episode, which she would NEVER forget for the rest of her life.
"Thang you. Thang you fer safing me."
"Waz that like a real vampirr? Like a rill one?"
The guy would've taken advantage of the situation and had sex with Debbie, but he was still pissed about his shirt and shoes. He just wanted a drink.
"I'm getting a beer. You want anything?"
"Shudn't I call cops?"
"I thing I should call thum."
The guy threw the cigarette butts on the ground.
"Fine. Fuck. Yeah, fine. You're probably gonna need therapy or something. Give 'em a call."
The guy walked towards the end of the alley, thinking of where else he could get a beer.
"Who're yu? Like, d'yu wan me to tell them about yu?"
"Can yu tell me who yu arr?"
He looked Debbie up and down, considering the whole Sex-Because-I-Saved-Her thing again. But that's the 6th-worst kind of sex. Not worth it.
"Like I won' tell thu cops. I just wana know. Like how yu knew how t'like kill a vampirr?" she said.
Neville lit two more cigarettes.
"Because I'm a fucking vampire."
Three hours later, Neville ordered a new "Fuck Condoms" t-shirt online.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
I was born in 1981. Took me 29 years to gain 160 pounds.
HERE ARE THE RULES:
At the beginning of every fight, you release both Val Kilmers 10 miles from each other, naked and unarmed. They've gotta find each other (they can pick up clothes and weapons on the way) and fight to the death.
FIRST FIGHT. From the Pre-1995 Region:
2) ICEMAN vs 7) BATMAN
Monday, June 21, 2010
I don’t sleep well. Ever. I can count on one finger the times I’ve closed my eyes and gone unconscious with ease. It was a problem for a long while, ‘til someone with the same problem suggested I do crosswords in bed. Crosswords keep my mind focused, releasing the day’s struggles with each Down and Across, helping me to surrender to the bed. My grandmother told me about crosswords. She taught me how to sleep.
Her name was Marion Dampeer. Her grandkids called her Mama D. She was the mother hen of my mom’s side of the family, inviting every relative to her house for every holiday (even if the house’s square footage didn’t always allow the amount of bodies she attempted to squeeze in). She added sugar to nearly everything she cooked and a smile to everything she said. She was the sweetest person I have ever known.
Mama D died on June 14th. Her body wasn’t able to take the chemotherapy she’d been receiving for her inoperable pancreatic cancer. But in the months before she left, before she was too weak to take care of herself, it would’ve been hard to notice that she was fighting for her life. Her smile and laugh were the only thing that the god-awful chemo couldn’t touch. It wasn’t like she was trying to hide her anger or fear; I honestly think she didn’t know how to be a negative person.
I flew back home to Columbus, Mississippi to be with my family this past week. I’d lost my other grandmother (Mama C) around the same time last year, so I knew my job at this kind of thing was to not cry while others in my family cried. We stayed upbeat by telling funny stories about Mama D, like how she’d get angry when my granddad would eat full tubs of Cool Whip (which he still does).
We buried Mama D on June 16th, my parents’ 31st wedding anniversary. The funeral home was full of elaborate flower wreaths and bouquets sent from loved ones, but the coffin, Mama D’s coffin, just had a single yellow rose wrapped in silver paper with a white ribbon. Simple, pretty, perfect. Like Mama D.
Right before visitation, my Great-Aunt Bettie Jane said she wanted the rose to be taken out of the paper, so I unwrapped the rose and carefully placed it back on the coffin, pocketing the ribbon. I don’t know what I’m going to do with the ribbon, I just know I need to keep it.
I’m on the plane back to New York as I write this, alone and crying for the first time since she died (whatever, I’m a wuss). And I’m remembering what my mom asked the pastor to say at Mama D’s eulogy: When we were little, Mama D would tell the grandkids cat stories before we went to sleep. The stories were simple, never anything too scary or upsetting, just pleasant little yarns to end the day. To help us sleep.
And so even though I’m not very fond of cats…this one’s for you, Mama D.
I love you. I miss you.
JAKE THE FAKE DOG
by Nathan Cosby
Buttons hated her name. Buttons. What were her humans thinking?
Bad enough she lived in a little house with three humans. Bad enough she had to pee in a box everyday, never being allowed outside. And bad enough that she had to deal with that dadgum dog all the time. On top of all this, every time someone saw her, she had to hear the name Buttons, and know the name was hers.
That’s why Buttons didn’t really see any downside to her escape plan. Best-Case Scenario: Freedom! Worst-Case Scenario: Stay Here With That Dog! There really wasn’t any controversy going on in Buttons’ tiny cat mind.
So Buttons woke up that morning before everyone, before the baby started crying, before the big humans yawned and made their hot black wake juice. She went downstairs and peed in her stupid box (This is the last time, she thought). She went behind the fridge and ate the extra cat food she’d hid yesterday. And then she quietly crept under the couch near the sliding door that led to the unfenced backyard. And waited.
Wonder what my new owners will name me. Something more respectful. Teresa? Nah. Yolanda! That’s totally sophisticated. I kind of look like a Yolanda. Maybe if I-
Buttons’ head slammed into the bottom of the couch, nearly giving her a cat concussion. It was that dang dog.
“Ooh, did that hurt?” the dang dog said.
“Hush! I’m in the middle of an elaborate escape plan!” Buttons hissed.
“Neat! Can I come?”
“Can you—the humans let you out five times a day! You could escape whenever you want!”
“Why would I try to leave? The humans give me food and bones and water and treats and rub my belly and clean my ears and let me run outside and dress me up for Halloween and give me table scraps and—“
“They do that for you,” Buttons said, “They make me stay inside all the time and eat the same nasty wet kitty food everyday.”
“But…you’re a cat. That’s what cats do.”
“Maybe I’m ready to be a cat on my own terms. There’s a whole big world out there, just waiting for me to grab it by the paws and shake the life out of it, like a farm mouse!”
The dog thought about this. “So, you’re leaving?”
“Yes,” Buttons said in that way that she said things to the dog when she knew the dog was trying hard to understand the simplest stuff in the world.
“For good. Get away from the couch, I’ve got to surprise the humans when they open the door for you.”
The dog walked over to the recliner on the other side of the room, jumped up on it, circled twice, sat, and gave a satisfied PHWMPH. He stared at Buttons.
“Can I ask a question, please?” the dog said politely.
“If you’re angry at the humans because they treat you like a cat…then why do you think your new owners will treat you any different? The humans will have changed, but you’ll still be a cat.”
“Grah, you stupid dog, because I…I…”
Oh no, Buttons thought, the dadgum dog just made sense.
“Why don’t you just act like a dog?” the dog offered.
“It’s easy. Just start biting everything and eating your food real fast and sticking your tongue out when you see humans and pee on the rug. They’ll treat you like a dog.”
Buttons considered this. Such a simple plan…but would it work? And could Buttons live with herself after going against the Cat Code established so many centuries ago, which expressly forbade cats from acting loveable and nice?
“Believe me, Buttons. The first time you beg for food at the table and they give you a french fry, it’ll all be worth it.”
Buttons cringed at hearing her name, but knew the dog might be right. And she’d always wanted to try a fry that’d been frenched.
“Would you…help me? With trying to be a dog?” Buttons asked.
“No sweat,” the dog said as he licked his butt.
“Ok. Then I’ll stay for a while, Buttons said. “But can you call me something different? I really hate being called Buttons.”
“Totally! You need a dog name. How about Jake?”
“Jake? That's not a girl name.”
“Who cares? Humans can’t tell what we are unless they look up under us.”
The dog leapt off the recliner, stuck out his paw and said, “Welcome to the dogs, Jake.”
Jake the Fake Dog stuck out her paw and shook the dadgum dog’s paw.
“Nice to be here.”
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
Steve felt around the ground with his one attached hand, trying to figure out if Alicia’s dead body was anywhere near him. He didn’t want her to be dead—he loved her, after all—but if she was dead, and she was around…waste not want not. As he ran his fingers across the soft floor, he realized all of his remaining fingers were broken. He made a mental reminder to tape tongue depressors to his digits once he found his way out of there.
“There’s nothing around you,” a voice from the darkness said, startling Steve enough that he fell on his face and knocked two more teeth out.
“How…d’you know?” Steve asked the darkness.
“I can see in the dark. The next closest guy to you is ten yards away.”
“Oh. Um…who’re you?”
“Are you…did you kidnap me?”
“No. I got captured and put here. You were here before me.”
“Is this like a…concentration camp?”
“For zombies. Like is this where they take us and kill all of us?”
“I’m not a zombie, dipshit. I’m a fucking vampire.”
Steve got a shiver down his spine (the shiver took a while to make it all the way down, because Steve’s spine was broken in at least seven places).
“Please…please don’t kill me.”
“You’re fucking dead, asshole.”
“Yeah, but I…you could suck my blood, couldn’t you?”
“Zombie blood tastes like a septic tank. Even if I sucked your blood, you wouldn’t get any deader than you alrea—goddammit, you fucking zombies are stupid.”
“Sorry, I’m not used to being…I didn’t realize vampires were real. I didn’t know zombies were real either ‘til three days ago, so I shouldn’t be real shocked or nothin’.”
“Just shut the fuck up until I figure out how to get out of here.”
“Can I help?”
“Oh. Then…do you know where my hand is?”
Steve heard a few splashing steps, then silence for a second, then felt a limp hand hit him in the face and land in front of him.
“Thanks,” Steve said as he attached his left hand back to his wrist.
“Please shut the fuck up.”
As he sat quietly in his puddle and listened to more splashes (he assumed “Neville” was looking for a door), Steve thought to himself: Wonder where we BRAINS are. I was BRAINS walking, then I saw BRAINS that light BRAINS and Alicia screamed (wait she was already BRAINSBRAINS screaming before that) then…hey BRAINS wait! I BRAINS have a lighter!
Steve fiddled in his left pocket with his still-tingly-and-not-quite-totally-attached left hand. He pulled out his lighter, then realized none of his fingers were capable of turning on said lighter. So he used his remaining teeth to gnash against the button and turn on the flame. Jazzed by his own resourcefulness, Steve mashed his broken fingers onto the lighter button, smiled, and looked around.
Then he stopped smiling.
And you can’t really blame him, because if you saw a werewolf licking his own bleeding leg while sitting next to a seven-armed blue alien that was secreting glowing mucus, and if it suddenly dawned on you that the “room” you were in looked an awful lot like the inside of a stomach…would you smile?
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
For 11 months, we've put nearly everything on hold (friends, work, dental hygiene, breathing) to focus on the party you're supposed to have before you start discussing topics like "joint taxes" and "children" and "why can't you stop putting your clothes on the goddamn couch ARE YOU ALLERGIC TO THE HAMPER!?!?!?!?"
This kind of party is a "Wedding," or a "Pre-Divorce Gala Celebration."
There's a fun irony in asking all the people you like to come to something they'll hate.
"I get to put on uncomfortable clothes and stare at two people for five hours? Fantastic! Can I get guilted into bringing a gift?"
But I've always liked weddings. Everyone's happy to be there, or at least pretending they're not bored. Little kids dance without parents bugging them, parents dance while kids are bugging them, and old people dance while pretending their hips aren't bugging them. It's fun.
And the funnest thing you can do for your wedding? Follow these simple instructions:
1. Decide you're going to do a surprise hip-hop/Bollywood dance for your new wife.
2. Ask your groomsmen (specifically Marvel Senior Editor Mark Paniccia, Marvel Exclusive Writer Fred Van Lente, Frequent Marvel Artist Dennis Calero, Marvel Business Development Manager Tim Dillon, and Marvel Manager of Sales Communications Arune Singh) to dance with you.
3. Ask Marvel Assistant Editor Sana Amanat to choreograph for you.
4. Practice 3 times.
5. Have Pet Avengers writer Chris Eliopoulos tape it.
6. Serve right after you and wifey's first dance.
I'm the bald guy that comes in after Sugarhill Gang's Apache.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
That's why, no matter what, I stay focused on doodling when I get bored.
For instance, here's a picture of Daffy I drew a minute ago.
And here's a drunk elephant.
Remember, kids. Don't EVER get distracted from not paying attention to what's going on around you.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
For those of you that don't know, I have an English Bulldog. Daffodil Cosby. She's right at three and a half months now, and she has changed my life for the best.
Y'know how you have that one special person in your life, that incredible individual that makes your life complete, and no matter what, they'll always be there for you?
Who the hell cares? They'll never be as cute as my puppy.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
- VISION: WE MUST INSPECT THE PREMISES FOR INFORMATION.
- NOVA: HANG ON, I GOTSTA TWEET WHERE WE ARE.
- VISION: I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHY YOU SHOW SUCH AN OBSESSION TOWARDS YOUR BLACKBERRY.
- NOVA: 'COURSE YOU DON'T FRIGGIN' UNDERSTAND. YOU'RE AN iPAD WITH A CAPE.