Happy Holloween

"Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the Zombie Apocalypse was that it never happened. Humanity had been so thorough in saturating their culture with the means to identify and eliminate the zombie threat that it was over nearly before it began.

In fact, it's likely that had it not spawned on Canal Street (a well-known den of drunkards and voodoo where shambling about and moaning is perfectly acceptable behavior) the outbreak would have been stifled in an afternoon. As it was, the whole situation was perfectly contained after only a few days and about 36 victims. And most of those were killed by organized citizens using firearms and barstools. A few were saved for study, and several were bought by a television station and used for a series of rather creative reality shows.

It is impressive to note that despite humanity's hundreds of years of planning and propaganda for a potential Zombie epidemic, they were completely unprepared for the Flu Epidemic that eventually wiped them out."

-Excerpt from the Galactic History Primer of Balthura IV, regarding extinct species

This IS the big announcement

I went to summer camp for a couple years. One of those years Barney the Purple Dinosaur was a big hit with the kiddies (by which I mean, children far younger and less cool than the self-assured, totally wicked, 12-yr old crew of Bunk 9). And on the first day of camp, one kid shows up wearing a shirt that has what looks like Barney roadkill and the headline "All Purple Dinosaurs Must Die".

We all thought it was awesome. When I asked him about the shirt later, he said "Yeah, I always wear it on the first day new places. I could get hit by a car tomorrow, but you'd all remember me as that guy who had the purple dinosaur shirt". 12-yr old me thought that was kinda fucked up. And awesome. With that in mind:

Welcome to the BrokenJPG store. T-shirts people will remember you for. Even if you get run over tomorrow.

I'm a good friend

Still not ready for big announcement. But I thought I'd share this. It came after a half-hour discussion with a friend of mine, concerning a problem he was having.


Yup. I'm the bestest.

$500 to the person who correctly identifies what my buddy icon is. Without googling. Cheaters.

Take that, AAA

My wife called me at 7am on Saturday because she found a flat tire after pulling her first all-nighter ER shift. And who came and fixed that bitch in 5 minutes?

Oh, that was me.

Told you I had one redeeming car-related ability.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to change a headlight. If it goes well, I can claim my ability to fix automotive vehicles has increased 100%.

Big update in the coming days, as soon as I get a second to figure out what day/hour/year it is.

An Inconvenient Poop

Long-time readers know that I do my best to help the environment. That's the reason the wife and I bought those canvas supermarket bags- less plastic in the landfill.

Then we got a dog.

It poops.

Now we can't buy groceries fast enough to keep a positive bags-to-bowels ratio. In fact, we had to go out and buy plastic bags, just to keep up.

If anyone has an environmentally friendly solution to this, let me know. Because apparently the hole in the ozone layer, those category 4 hurricanes, and the impending extinction of the polar bear are all due to an adorable little schnauzer-dachshund mix.

You didn't warn me about that, Al Gore.

Check the hamster, Billy-Jean

I drive a 97 Audi A4 that I do not in any way deserve (it was my father's old car) and I am never likely to own a better vehicle in my life.

I hate it.

I hate that car for the same reason my wife hates watching me sing karaoke. We despise the things that make us feel stupid.

I'm a man. I should secretly yearn for the day my ride breaks down so I can pull it off to the side of the road, raise the hood, and enact automotive surgery shirtless on the side of the freeway, the envy of every male with a still-working mode of transportation.

But every time my car makes a strange noise, or the engine takes an extra second to turn over, or it's time for an oil change, a small voice inside me whines "please dear g-d let it be nothing".

My naivety is staggering. I swear the mechanics can smell it on me. These guys could say anything is wrong with the car, and I'd be forced to believe them, because I have nothing to argue with:

"Whelp, looks like ya burned out yer flux capaciter. They're not really made for 1.22 jigawatts, ya'know."

"Now, whatcha got here is a dead hamster. I can fix it for ya, but I'm gonna have ta get the replacement from Pete's Pet Emporium. May take a few days."

"Son, the issue is yer a damn loser. I can tell just by your radio pre-sets. The car can sense that, y'see, and it just won't run for ya. Now I offer sessions, to try ta get it ta like you. First thing we gotta do though, is get rid of that top 20 countdown shit, ya'understand?"

The fact is, I'm not an idiot. Just automotively deficient. I would love to write something for one of these guys. They could bring me some long copy, and I'd take a long look at it, suck in my breath, shake my head, and go; "now whatcha got here is a dangling participle. Ya gotta attach that to tha subject or you'll never be able to go anywhere with this sentence.

If that don't work, maybe just whack it a few times with a hammer".

Editor's note: the one thing I can do is change a tire like a fucking champion. If tire-changing was an olympic event, I'd at least score a bronze. This is the only upshot to having picked up 6 nails in my tires the four years I've been driving in Florida. I hate cars.

Reading this could save a Ninja

Since I first learned of Bill the Ninja Killer, I've been uneasy. Always has the silent assassin existed at the height of the pseudo-Japanese/anime food chain. But now, with a mere word, Bill and his ilk can upset the balance forever.

In order to protect this cherished order of helpless trained killers, I have compiled quick list of ways in which you can differentiate between a Ninja and a Terrorist. Spread this list far and wide, and perhaps together, we can save a Ninja:

#1:
This is a towel.

This is a ski mask.
Nuff said.

#2:
The terrorists weapons of choice are explosives. You will most likely notice them strapped to the terrorists' chest.

The ninja's weapon of choice is the katana. If you see him wielding one, you will most likely notice it protruding from your chest.

#3
When a terrorist intends to kill you, they will send you a video of themselves. This will mostly involve a lot of screaming, some posturing, and an annoying penchant for making a shrill "LALALALALA" sound right after declaring Jihad on you.

When a ninja is going to kill you, you hear nothing until the deafening silence is broken by the whisper of your last breath leaving your body.

These are a few of the most basic ways to differentiate between the terrorist and the ninja. Feel free to add more in the comments.

Ignorance is no excuse. If you have no idea what sparked this post, start reading here.

Re: Photosynthesis

Dear Lawn-

I see you, you free-loading, photosynthesizing, son of a bitch. I just mowed you two weeks ago. TWO WEEKS. And there you are, smugly waving in the breeze, going "oooh look at me, look how tall I am! Any day now the neighbors will start to complain, guess you better mow me again!"

I'm sorry, did I say "mow"? I can't mow you, can I? Have to use a weed whacker for the entire yard. You're too full of weeds and vines, you miserable excuse for mother nature's doormat. In fact, if there's a complete square inch of grass in this entire 1/1000th of an acre that claims to be my backyard, I'll be amazed.

So you know what? I'm not mowing you. Uh uh. Not this time. You see this industrial size container of Weed-B-Gone here? It's got your name on it. So here's how it's gonna go. You shrink back to a socially acceptable size of undergrowth, or I'm gonna get crazy with this thing.

It's got a "foam" setting, and I'm not afraid to use it.

Stop the War

No, not the war in Iraq. I'm talking about the one where two races live nearly side-by-side, but continue this tradition of aggression that their ancestors taught since the earliest days of history.

I'm talking about the war between cats and dogs. My poor dog, Mia, is as guilty as anyone. We rescued her, so I've no idea what her early years were like. But unless her entire family was slaughtered by felines before her very eyes, her cat-hatred is uncalled for.

Just a few weeks ago, while walking, she sniffed a cat on the other side of a fence. She immediately barked her head off at it: "For the sins of your fathers, you honorless sack of hair! I shall strip your skin from your bones and have you turned into a pair of earmuffs! Which no one will ever buy because we live in FLORIDA!"

At least I assume that's what "bow-wow-wow" meant. I could be off slightly.

The cat, obligingly scared shitless, went screaming up a 10 foot palm tree. Very shortly thereafter it contemplated, as all cats in such situations do, how very much easier it is to get up a tree than to get down one.

Mia pranced. Then sat. Then pranced a bit more. All the while with the smuggest and most self-satisfied look I have ever seen on a dog's face. When I finally dragged her away, she went with the self-assurance that she "Had done her part to preserve the honor of all the generations of canines before me. Enjoy your impending lesson in Newtonian law, sandbox-shitter." Or at least that's what I heard.

I thought that would be the end of it, but today, the counter shot was fired. This post is already long enough, but I'll tell you of the feline treachery later.