Posted under dave's blog, eric's blog
This post was written by Dave on September 30, 2009
MMPodcast #27
MMPodcast episode #27 “A Blackifyer Machine”
In which our heroes discuss Tony Isabella (pictured below), los babygirls, and the sads
Posted under Podcast, eric's blog
This post was written by Eric on September 28, 2009
“Horrible Little People” Sneak Peak
Penciles & inks by: Baker
Colors by: Montgomery
Posted under eric's blog
This post was written by Eric on September 23, 2009
Podcast 26, nephew.
you should go and listen to Podcast 26
Posted under Podcast
This post was written by Dave on September 21, 2009
Sadness as an Aphrodisiac
Mod Squad: I introduce to you Angela Montgomery.
Angela is one of the new additions we’ve made to the Modern Mythological Menagerie, and we couldn’t be more thrilled to have her (except for Dave, who almost killed himself in jealousy when she turned in her first batch of pencils. He has since come around, though. Poor little guy).
It blows my mind that so much talent is physically able to cram itself in such a fun-sized frame. My Goodness, people.
Stay tuned for more mini comix, by the way. I recently coerced a whole fistful of art-types to translate scripts of mine into pretty, pretty pictures, and I’m going to try and roll out a new one every Wednesday, for at least the next month or two.
All for you, babygirls.
All for you.
Posted under eric's blog
This post was written by Eric on September 19, 2009
MMP PODCAST 25, SON!
I fucking hate you, Pretty Girl At The Coffee Shop With The Tattoo On Your Neck. You are unnecessarily mean, and I’m pretty sure that’s real fur.
“First off, I’m a gay. Do you understand what I’m saying? I like girls”.
She takes a quick hit of her raspberry clove.
Her shoe makes a gentle clanging sound as it taps against the table post.
“And not in some ‘look at me, look at me’, Phi Beta Whatever-Whatever way, either. Not to give your little dick a tingle, or to give you some story to tell your ‘pledge brothers’ (or whatever)”.
I can’t move. I can’t speak.
Oh my God, please don’t let her see my erection.
“And, let’s just be honest with each other here…”
She ashes her cigarette nowhere in particular. A couple of still-burning embers hit me right on the shoe and burn little mementos of this conversation. I’ll throw them out when I get home. Maybe before.
“Even if I wasn’t gay…”
She makes this awful little little hand gesture between us. Heartbreaking.
“Do I really have to spell this out for you? I AM FUCKING ATTRACTIVE”.
She touches my hand for a second, and I freeze. (It doesn’t make any sense, because I’m sweating bullets, but still: chills).
She proceeds to roll up my sleeve.
“Aha! I thought that’s what that was. A fucking “Batman” tattoo? Really? What are you, like…six years old?”
Her eyes roll. (They’re beautiful. Big. Brown. Sad.) .
I mumble. The more I try to keep my voice from rattling the more it quakes and cracks. I open my mouth three times before any sounds escape.
“I…I’m very sorry to…to have bothered you. I just w-wanted to introduce myself”.
I start to gain confidence. Words. I’m good with words. If she’ll just hear me out then maybe she’ll stop insulting me and we can…
No. That’s really all I’m after. I just want her to stop insulting me so that I can leave. There’s a broken piece of me that can’t accept nonacceptance. I need people to like me. I need to please everyone. The more insulted I feel the more panicked I am to turn their opinion around.
The more sure I am that someone would like me if they “just got to know me”, the more wrong I always am.
I’ve spent years in relationships like this.
I’ve spent minutes letting a stranger berate me in public. A crowd is beginning to form. I hadn’t even noticed until just now.
This isn’t even about me. She’s performing.
“What were you going to do, ‘Bat-boy’? Take me back to your ‘Batcave’ like some big, strong superhero? Is that what you call your daddy’s basement, huh? ‘The Batcave’?”
I think to say something about not having a father, and “that’s why I let people like you walk all over me”, but then I realize that it just sounds pathetic. That sort of biting insight is only rewarding when it’s realized at someone else’s expense.
“Get the fuck out of here, you creep”.
Still holding my wrist, she pulls me down to her level, looks me straight in the eyes.
Big.
Brown.
Sad.
“I am not going to let you fuck me. Maybe you’ll have better luck at the Starbucks down the street”.
There’s a quite swell of support for her as I turn and walk away. Like an excited crowd at a golf tournament. Murmuring, subdued clapping, that odd raspy sound.
The youngish man who pours his complementary water on me as I walk past calls me “faggot” and no one says a God damn word.
I hate this town.
Posted under eric's blog, fiction
This post was written by Eric on September 7, 2009
I <3 Gail Simone
Oh my God, Gail Simone called me “handsome”.
Sadly, I have yet to hear back from Robin.
Posted under eric's blog
This post was written by Eric on September 7, 2009
