Coming to a bar with

Coming to a bar with a novelty t-shirt about funny ways to tell people are drunk when youre over 50 is a good sign you should probably stop imo.

It's Like Hackers But With More Swearing

To detail the ordeal I have gone through with my computer over the last few days would require more space than all seven Harry Potter books if you used some sort of biggening ray to make them as tall as skyscrapers.

Sparing you that, I will fast forward to me fervently seeking a Windows XP disc.

I delved into the ancient desk upon which this old computer is keenly perched, its myriad drawers hiding untold wonders that had not been seen since ancient days, waiting in the darkness for the day the dry, rusty light would once again shine onto them.

I found a great many things on my journey. Countless terrible old drawings, intricate character designs and plans for stories long-abandoned, and even more terrible high school grades. There were games long-forgotten, CDs I couldn't even remember. There were many gifted discs as well, shows and songs that friends had insisted I partake. I pulled a few aside, to look at later.

There were relics from the days when this was my mother's, business cards and tokens of collegiate work, as well as tiny treasures like buttons, keychains, pills and things I could not identify.

There was a deck of miniature tarot cards, each one roughly the size of a fingertip. I remember this being mine, but I cannot imagine how I thought it'd be convenient. I recall playing with them, arranging them. There's a book that explains their usage next to them, buried under papers and forms.

I found things I had meant to fill out, things I stuck in there with no intention of filling out. There was a Christmas card from a deceased relative, faded coupons who have no more value, two comics (One Excalibur, one Runaways), the manuals for anything computer-related that I knew I'd never open, a large aesthetically pleasing tray of cotton swabs and balls, the end of a rubber liquid-filled yoyo whose string broke and which, if I recall, began to leak upon use, which I was too enamored with to throw away.

There was baking soda and bandages, a set of Sandman postcards that seemed, when I saw them, to be the most singularly important thing on the planet. There were secret things that I wished I hadn't found, notes I'd written about Japanese phrases to use in Final Fantasy XI when I was one of the only Americans playing, and more small plastic bags than I could hope to justify having stuck in there, rather than the trash can that has sat perennially next to it.

I don't know that it's even necessary to mention I didn't find the CD.

Remembering old things makes me uncomfortable.

5 Things That Make Me Happy

What's shakin', readers?

It has become increasingly apparent that I am projecting, as of late, a dark, shadowy aura of malice and terror, turning all who enter it into quivering masses of blighted flesh.

Yes, it's true, I've become naught more than a husk of a man, all joy and love drained into a swirling void of nothingness from whence there is no return. There have been exactly four days this summer in which I have not worked, three of which were consecutive and one of which was a national holiday on which we were physically closed.

But that's all I'm gonna say about that. Contrary to what I may project there are a few scant things which bring the cold, wet memory of happiness drifting up to the tepid surface of my memory.

Here they are:



5.) Chocolate



I have some form of chocolate damn near every day. I don't have much to say about chocolate other than it is delicious and that it prompts a physical sensation that is nearly unmatched.


4.) Video Games



I don't know why I didn't bring my new (used) X-Box with me when I came home this summer. Perhaps it was a symbolic gesture, a hope I would not need it. How wrong I was. Going and getting it was a pinch-hit victory against the darkness. I played through Prototype, which was insanely cathartic, and am now engaged in Mirror's Edge, which is breathtaking but occasionally unreasonably frustrating. On the whole, though, I find the VGs a good way to pass time and have fun without having to, you know, engage in any social interaction.


3.) Drawing



As I've mentioned before, I draw a humble little manga called Sterile in my spare time (usually between 1-4AM). This is something I enjoy because I get to spend a few hours being creative in an entirely useless context. That is, I'm never gonna get famous for my art, and I have no real desire to. I just do it for kicks.


2.) Hedgehogs



GodDAMN it these things are freaking adorable.



1.) LAMBO







Here's some mood music.



Let's talk about how much I love Lambo.

I.

FREAKING.

LOVE.

LAMBO.

There is nothing on this planet that makes me happier than Lambo.



I mean, look at that. Look how goddamn awesome he is. I don't even know how to describe my transcendant joy.

Lambo is a 5 year old mafia hitman from the Bovino family. His favorite things are grapes, candy, and grenades. He is an idiot cow who is an asshole and his shenanigans are by far the best thing I have in my life right now.




I don't know what else I can say. Here's some more Lambo for you, hopefully he will brighten your day and put a smile on your face.

I know it means well

I know it means well but the word "staycation" fills me with indignant rage. Actually it just rubs me the wrong way but I like to feel extremely.

The First Gay Robot

This is a song I co-wrote with my friend Jerry (nom-de-rock The Internet) last summer.

We came up with the concept, wrote the lyrics, and created the whole song in one day. It is one of only a few songs I have ever done in FL, but it will always be the best.

So for those of you who have never heard it, here is a serious emotional ballad about the First Gay Robot.

The First Gay Robot - DJ PhoRizzle and The Internet

I forget how much I love this sometimes. Jerry and I should join forces more often.

Three Stories

I've got three stories for you tonight, readers. I don't know if they'll be entertaining to any significant degree, but at least I would hope you find some small distraction in them.

---------------

This conversation takes place between myself and a middle-aged woman at the bar where I work. She is a regular but not one I'm very familiar with. As this except begins she is informing me I am very cute.

Her: So, do you have a girlfriend?

Me: Nope.

Her: Why not?

Me: That's a good question! (Stock response because I get this question all the damn time, it's nice because everyone interprets it however they want and I don't have to do any work)

Her: Aw, you just must be shy.

Me: Yeah I guess, haha.

Her: I could pull out your personality...

At this point she turns to a man I have never seen her come in without, I assume it's her husband but it may not be.

Her (quiet, but not much): And something else too!

Since she had not said this to me directly I chose not to respond. This is not an isolated incident.


---------------


This next story didn't happen to me, so I cannot embellish terribly. My friend Jerry was at the bus station in Hartford, when a woman began to speak to him. She was a born-again Christian, and spoke with him for about 20 minutes.

At one point, she explained that a Cuban man had stolen her car. God had, in return, killed 60 Cubans.

There are all sorts of people in the world.


---------------


Sub-story: in preparation for my final story I google image searched a phrase that, unbeknownst to me, is a porn star's name. Not that there's many google searches that don't bring up at least a little porn, but thinking you're going to receive a bunch of pictures of shoes and instead getting several closeup's of one woman's genitals is surprising at best.

I endure a lot for you, readers. This is how much I care.


In any case, I recently decided I wanted new shoes, because as much as I like skater shoes I look ridiculous when I wear them with shorts. You see, I am very picky with shoes, insofar as I hate 90% of them. I need something simple and functional, and this makes my selection limited at best.

Last summer I had a brown pair of pumas, and I enjoyed them immensely. I decided to go with the black ones this time. Let me throw up an image to illustrate:



See, to me, this seems like a really basic shoe. The kind of nondescript default model that a thousand people probably have, completely unextraordinary.

Well, I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Since the minute I put these shoes on, I have become some sort of footwear messiah, whose impeccable taste was crafted in the very heart of Olympus, my feet the divine vessel made to transport these most holy of shoes down to the huddled masses, who have seen none of its kind and will never see so again.

Let me put it in a less Phil way. These shoes are fuckin POPPIN', Y'ALL.

Seriously. I cannot ever begin to explain how much people like these shoes. People who barely even know me stop me to tell me how fly they are. It's not that I don't appreciate compliments, nor that I deny how great I look in them, I just don't get it. I thought these were the most basic possible model, like wearing a plain black t-shirt, but ever since I got them people continue to point them out and dote on them like they were a goddamn rare Pokemon.

The moral of my story, I guess, is that if you want to be more popular go buy these shoes.


---------------


So there you have it, my lovelies. Three harrowing tales of life, love and suede that will leave you questioning everything you believe in.

Actually, they're the only three even moderately interesting things I can think of posting. The endless cosmic joke that is my supposedly flexible work schedule has kept my life from being interesting enough to regail you with my usual tales of shenanigans.

Well, I could talk about Gantz, a manga I read 300 chapters of in 3 nights. But any of you that know what that is know that the people who don't know are probably better off not knowing.

Oh P.S. my right arm has started twitching lately, tune in next time to find out if it stops.

As much as I love

As much as I love british slang, I know I havent the accent for it. Some dude just said cheers after he got his pizza and proved my point.

So, I have the mutant

So, I have the mutant power to make things go stale. Every baked good I touch today, chip cookie and bread alike, is too hard. Watch out crime.

Dissection of a Phil

It's been quiet around here, readers, and your first thought may be, naturally, that I've been busy romancing supermodels in countries you're not VIP enough to have heard of, where wine flows freely from golden fountains and partaking of fruits so breathtakingly delicious that each bite is like living an entire perfect life and dying quietly in your sleep with a smile on your lips.

Well that is almost true, except for all of it, which is false.

With all my BFFs moving away, my days have become pretty much indistinguishable from one another. In fact, with two exceptions every day goes exactly the same for me now:

-Get up around 11 or 12

-Hang out around home, think about not wanting to go to work

-Go to work from 5:30-10 (sometimes I get out early, on Thursdays or Saturdays, but it gets busy later now so the amount of time I get is becoming less and less)

-Come home and play Prototype (this is a new addition that replaced general internet surfing)

-Around 1:30-2:00AM or so, start drawing a comic page, which finishes almost mechanically at 4:30, at which point I curse the light coming over the horizon and try to get to sleep, which usually happens by 5 or 5:30

-Also Saturday and Sunday I work from 12-2

That's how every single day goes, except for the weekend which is characteristically worse in every way.

Not that I'm complaining. I mean I am technically complaining, but I'm not looking for sympathy, rather I get asked constantly what I'm doing with my summer and I'm getting bored with saying "nothing" or "this," because everyone asks me this while I'm at work.

So for any of you that are wondering:

No I'm not goddamn doing anything.

P.S. shakytable.com/sterilecomic

it's almost getting good