STOP READING ME

Brokenjpg has moved. A brand-new, shiny, unlinked-image-themed blog can be found at:

(drum roll please)

brokenjpg.net

Go there now. Shorter URL, same long-ass rants.

Tis the Season

I'm just a humble Jewish boy, so I don't profess to understand much about this "Mistletoe" thing.

But it seems to me a smart man could take advantage of that. Seems to me like maybe people have been hanging that wondrous weed a little too high. Seems like the kinda thing you could fix with a shirt.


Buy one for you and one for your other half. And have yourselves a Very Merry Xmas.

PS- Just make sure not to wear it backwards. Or do. I don't judge.

The Meaning of "True Christmas"

Wife and I saw a movie preview today for that crappy-looking Adam Sandler movie coming out. The plot involves something about him reading stories and them coming true. At the end of the trailer, the words "Coming Christmas Day" appeared. But they showed up like this:

COMING
CHRISTMAS DAY

Then, the word "True" faded in, so it read:

COMING TRUE
CHRISTMAS DAY

Obviously, they intended it to read "Coming true, Christmas day". But I was so focused on the shitty fade effect that I read it as "Coming, true Christmas day".

Which prompted me to lean over to the wife and say "True Christmas? What the hell is True Christmas? Like Easter?". This in turn caused the wife to nearly die of laughter. When she could breathe again she assured me this was the most hilarious- and stupidest- thing I'd said in quite some time.

So of course, I had to tell you.

Fuck Twilight

Let me tell you what I have against this movie. It's making vampires "popular".

Full disclosure: I'm a geek. I don't wear it proudly, per se, but I don't deny it. I never wore a pocket protector, and among my friends I was the most comfortable talking to girls. But I suck horribly at sports (martial arts excluded), and have always had a predilection for using words like, well, predilection. Once or twice I have been accused of rolling dice.

I liked mythology as a kid. Still do. And so along with the Greek and Norse pantheons, I also knew about Vampires. And werewolves. And dragons. And elves. And do you think I ran around talking about them? Do you think I read books about them in school, or bought folders that had them on the cover?

Shit no.

It was a dark secret. Like masturbation was during the 50s, or watching porn before the internet. Even if you did it, you never talked about it. You couldn't talk about it.

But now, the cool kids are watching vampire movies. The popular people. The trendsetters.

No. I simply won't stand for it.

Fuck you people. You're pretty. You're popular. You lost your virginity in 8th grade, and you didn't have to take your cousin to prom. If I'd been caught reading Brahm Stoker's Dracula, I'd have gotten a wedgie. But you read some Dan Steele infused necrophiliac babysitter's club fantasy and claim it's in vogue. Damn you to hell.

I didn't draw the g-damned line, but I stood on my side of it. The Vampires didn't love people, they freaking BIT THEM. So did the damn werewolves. Which, by the way, never bothered fighting the vampires because who gave a shit, they were werewolves. And the elves were awesome because they were elves, not because they were Orlando Bloom. You had your sex life, I had my books, and we knew where everybody stood.

But no. Now, you pervert my secret love. You take this thing, these stories, these myths. You apply your damned Gilmore Girls soap opera plots to them and call them your own. It's Dawson's Fucking Creek with vampires, and now suddenly that's ok. Well it's not ok. Not unless you retroactively start dating me instead of the varsity jock boyfriend you had in 10th grade.

Of course it's been pointed out to me that I want my wife to read these things. Precisely because they're Dan Steele infused necrophiliac babysitter's club fantasy. And aside from the necrophiliac part, I find that a compelling argument. I'm considering buying her the first one for Hannukah.

But I'll still force her to hide it out of sight when there are people around. That's the price of admission, and all the true blood-drinking fans paid it back in the day.

Someone get Satan a scarf

The shirts are selling. People (many of them you guys) are buying them. With money. Thank you.

The only thing more surprising than the fact the shirts are selling, is the fact that I made any shirts at all. It was something I've wanted to do for a while now. It was one of my "projects". The kind that I "am really going to finish this time". Let me share with you, briefly, a few of the "projects" I've started and have not finished:

• Two comic books
• One partially written short story
• Three short stories that I've thought of but have not written
• A plan for an entire anthology of short stories that are thematically connected
  
• A fucking novel
• A story told through twitter
• A story told through a blog
• Another blog
  

And now, by comparison, the projects I have indeed seen through to completion:

• A blog
• Design T-shirts

So, yeah. Would not have bet on those odds. I'm already working on the next round of shirt designs. In the meantime, somebody get Satan a space-heater. That bastard's gotta be freezing.

Seriously guys, thanks.

YES WE DID

Barack Obama is president. Thank you Will.I.Am. Thank you Shepard Fairey. Thank you Chris Hughes. Thank you America.

And thank you Obama, for making it possible for me to look my future children in the eye.

Luxury Bowling is Retarded

I have come to accept that there is no such thing as a good bowling alley any reasonable distance from Miami. Oh, there are several "luxury" bowling alleys. A new one is opening up quite close to my house. Let me tell you why these are shit.

I go bowling to enjoy a cheap night out on the town, engaging in an "athletic" contest that no one is ever really good at. The sole exception being people who were once part of a bowling league, a fact so embarrassingly dorky that everyone makes fun of that person anyway, despite the fact they just bowled double your best score.

What the hell does a bowling alley need to charge for, anyway? There's virtually no recurring cost. Hell, they make me pay to borrow a pair of shoes that I expect to smell like they were pried off a dead hooker. Half the lights in the place aren't lit. You re-use the balls and pins "ad infinum". Please explain to me what part of this experience lends itself to charging 50/hour, and calling it "luxury"?

Don't tell me it's lane upkeep. Any true bowler knows that the average bowling alley lane is shit, and should remain so. Lane 14 has a depression that leads your ball to the left? Then bowl accordingly. That's called home-team advantage people. If you don't like it, we'll go to your alley next week.

Bowling is a blue collar pastime. Like miniature golf, or the zoo. It is an activity not intended to be observed by the upper crust of society. They've got their bottles, VIP rooms, and attractive hookers. Leave me my dank, smelly bowling alley and "in this light I can be almost certain your not a man" prostitutes. It's the least you can do.

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.

Bill, the Ninja Killer

To understand the horror of the following story, all you need to know is this: I once pitched an idea involving ninjas.

The overall campaign was green-lighted, but the ninja's were killed. I recently discovered the method used to murder these silent assassins. And in hope of saving future ninjas, I share it with you.

In the hallways of the client the ninjas waited, silently planning to communicate a simple message to an unsuspecting populace. Then they overheard something like the following conversation:

Suzan: Wow, this ad campaign we got from those guys is great! It's so funny! Hey Bill, check out this ad campaign!
Bill: Wow that's awesome! I really like this stuff! But...why are there terrorists in this ad?

And just like that, the ninjas died.

Just like a zombie movie.

They stood before him, barely moving. He gripped the weed whacker, and fingered the trigger. The sun was hot, and he could smell their cloying stench in the still air.

Nothing to do but go for it.

He pulled the trigger,and the weed whacker spun to life. Whirring noisily, he took a step forward and swiped at the nearest foe. The buzz deepened as the cord bit into rubbery flesh, but it quickly rose to a wine again once it passed through. One down.

Initially, he was cautious. He probed along the edges of the crowd; cutting a few down here, then moving to another part. Never letting himself get too deep in. It was slow going, but at least it was going.

Looking up, he saw the thickest mass of them yet. Shocked, his finger slipped off the trigger. The weed whacker slowed, then stopped. In the sudden silence, neither side moved. Then, almost as one, they swayed towards him.

"To hell with this," he thought. "It's taking too long. I'll get tired. Or the weed whacker will break. Or the twine will run out. Just take them head on."

He stepped into the thickest part and raised his improvised weapon, swinging it in a wide arc. He was wearing gloves, but his arms were bare and he could feel bits of pulp and sticky matter landing on them. He angled the whacker the wrong way and a spray of organic debris arced up into the air, landing on his head, his face, his shoulders. They never made a sound. Whole swaths of them cut down, and not single cry of pain or agony. They went down like grain, like wheat, like...well, like weeds. A sense of wild euphoria gripped him, and he fought the urge to laugh.

Aside from how he'd look doing it, some of that shit might get in his mouth.

There was a faint smell of ozone, like something just on the point of burning. He didn't know if it was the motor in the weed whacker, the friction of the twine against their flesh, or both. It hung in his nostrils, blotting out the sticky sweet aroma that wafted off the remains. Then a fleck landed on his lip, and he could suddenly taste it...

It was the better part of an hour before it was over. By the time he was finished, there was so much on him it looked like he'd rolled around in the remains. But his expression showed a hint of pride as he lifted the whacker to one shoulder and surveyed his handiwork.

"It might not be the easiest way," he said to himself "and it might be messy. But it'll be at least a month before I have to come into the backyard and take care of these weeds again."

Ahoy ye bilge-rats, it be Talk Like A Pirate Day!

Yar, I be lovin this holiday, truly. It be one of the few ideas not pillaged by them chum-sucking, deck-swabs at Hallmark. Be they forever damned to Davy Jones' Locker. All ye be needin to know bout it is here. Yohoho and a bottle o' rum.

If'n ye not be an uber-geek copywriter like mesself, and don't know yer doubloons from yer poopdeck, just drink your fill of rum and add "aaarr" to the beginning/end of everything ye say. And refer to all women as wenches. They love that. The official TLPD site be having more advice.

Getting closer to my flying car

I remember when voice commands first showed up in my cell phone. Thrilled to have a vessel that would obey my unquestioning commands, I eagerly recorded "Jodi" and "Home" into it.

The results were....disappointing. I couldn't just cruise down the road and say "Jodi". No, I had to pitch my voice exactly the same way the phone recorded it. "Jo-di. JO-dee. JO-Dee."

Due to the constant mockery of my wife, (who heard me perform the same ritual for Home) I never bothered recording anymore verbal commands after that.

But yesterday, while driving, I accidentally hit the button on my bluetooth headset. Which asked me to "Say Command". In a mood to perform pointless acts of speech, I blandly said "Jodi".

"Did you say Judita?"

Say WHAT?

I have never programmed this earpiece. It was a cheap, last minute purchase for $14 when I got my phone. It just read my contact list and verbalized a name from it. On it's own. Holy crap. Ok, don't panic. Just do the logical thing- talk back to it.

"No", I said.

"Jimmy?"

It's going down my contact list? "No"

"Jon?"

"No"

After going through a couple Js on my contact list it gave up. Undeterred, I hit the button again and in a perfectly normal voice said: Call home.

My mother picked up the phone.

AWESOME. My unprogrammed $14 POS bluetooth just performed speech-recognition. Man, any day now I'll have a flying car that transforms into an ipod that can also toast and butter my breakfast in the morning. All on the way to work. I should tell someone about this. Like my wife:

"Judita?"

Hmm. Maybe the car won't transform. Let's try it again:

"Joo-ahn?"

Jew who? Oh. Juan. Ha. Clearly this earpiece isn't Spanish. My excitement subsided a bit. It appeared my transportation and toasters would remain earth-bound for the foreseeable future.

Still, I did find a hack. Jodi is #2 on speedial:

"Call 2"

My wife picked up the phone.

Man I can't wait till my car flies. Then I'll poop on birds.