In a Good Old-Fashioned Christmas, I would be reading you and your immediate family precious stories from an overly illustrated hardback with psychedelic colors so loud; they made the bald eagle extinct.

I remember that Christmas. My dog, Skippy, died that Christmas.

Funny how it sticks out like a thorn in my memory, ready to latch hold of any thread of thought that comes near enough to pinch.

A cold night in December is a ways away. It is, however, a September to Remember.”

blocko: timmah, do you want my toast?
me: no, no i don’t
blocko: jesus christ, timmah.
me: yes, i am. and you should be proud, i made elephants for you.
blocko: made them in your image?

ah, but that brings me back memories of last summer’s trip when me and robert embarked on such a tedious journey. of course. that is my excuse for not updating for a year, i was searching for a criminal mastermind that has superior weaponry and brain-deducing powers that she uses in clever ploys to steal remarkable artifacts such as the statue of liberty, the pacific ocean, and half of france (no one cares about france, anyhow). where does she hide it all? i know for a fact her coat (and all that’s within) is NOT that big.

on this world tour of crime prevention, robert and i lodged at a small hostel in germany. i had taken karate and robert carried a pistol, so i felt safe enough to slumber. and slumber we did. that movie was totally wrong.

however, that morning brought about violent fits of PCP-induced rage, and robert junior had stolen a katana from the dojo across the street (hitler’s training facility, no doubt), killing several spirits and a few barn swallows as he foamed at the mouth. i, of course, grabbed him by the neck and snapped his collar on, snuggly. we continued on our search for glory.

after 3 long months empty handed, we were outright forced by the censors to put our on pants again. we then called for reinforcements to aid us. enter, scruff mcgruff.

ol’ scruff was looking a bit winded for his age, the gray hair poking through underneath his bad dye jobs. but he agreed as long as we would cook him a home-cooked meal. and dogs don’t know it’s not bacon. but i was too busy trying to figure out how he was trained to stand on his haunches; robert junior could benefit from that with all the walking he does for me.

and while we’re on the subject, who made a tiny trench coat for him to wear? he looks more damn suspicious than the two bits he locks away. assuming he locks them away. he has no thumbs, and i assume he is unable to operate the locking mechanism.

despite the outstanding nose on officer mcgruff, the weeks tore by like a mercedes in detroit. scruff was beginning to get a bit heavy handed in the alcohol. dipping out more than his fair share of the flavoraid. a drinking problem that was driving us to drink.

that night, we put mcgruff down; old outhouse with a shotgun. he went peacefully, despite the sheer look of horror on his twisted man-dog face. a man-dog face with a mission. and that genetically altered man-dog failed his mission.

and so have we.

wherever the women in the red coat is, she’s not here. but perhaps we were stumbling too far into the rabbit hole just yet. clues come from everywhere, you might think its miss purple with the pipe wrench in the library, but you were just one room off.

you…were just one room off.

but, this is because i have launched a new sister site to my requiem, futilefrenzy.com

all comics will be of course posted there, but do not worry, foul heathens; for i shall continue to update my requiem, and before you start yelling, yes i agree it needs an update quite fiercely.

i’m working on it.

but in the meantime, catch up on the cumbersome collection of comics for your enjoyment.

i won’t forget, not you.

you see it’s been over a month since robert was kidnapped. a month of regret, sadness, and desperation. i have been beating myself black and blue, constantly checking the door at any and all noises, anxiously expecting him to cheerfully break through the hinges to greet me. to lose a son is to lose your own life.

i eat another gummy and throw the packaging to the pile, building a tower of cholesterol to wallow in my pity.

what do you do?

turn on the tv

go to the front door

Natedog: dude, the lolcats have taken me over…. can’t help it, i’m a fan. a FUCKING fan
Timmah!: aww damn it…not you…NOT YOU
Timmah!: ~sighs…clicks ignore~
Timmah!: you were a good dog
Timmah!: had to put you down

lolcats are terrible. new requiem coming within the next day or two, hopefully before the fourth

if you are coming from myspace and have never heard of my requiem. a lil backstory is needed. click HERE to start from the beginning. that way you will be caught up on characters, plot outlines, shenanigans, soup recipes, and action scenes.

or of course, if you want to continue anyways, robert jr. is my invisible friend’s son who died in a freakish escalator fire-flight accident. i then continued to raise the boy on my own and a many of hair-raising adventures were born out of sheer boredom, luck, determination, and narcotics. in season four we will learn that robert jr. is actually the illegitimate son of me and angelina jolie. but we have a few seasons to go before you guys learn that hilariously awkward plot twist. awesome.

i also want to take this time to address the people who will potentially complain about the lack of color on my website (you know who you are, helen keller). i have a solution for you…PRINT OUT THE FOLLOWING:

follow the directions and then place upon your head. ta da. i also get about 8 bucks every time one of you put them on your face, due to the wonderful corporate sponsorship.

me and robert junior robert junior and i enjoy sitting around the house on saturday mornings, catching up on pokemon, watching chain reaxion tv, and knitting. unfortunately, us being at home also gives us a probable reason to answer the door when the local johovah witness comes to spread his faith of love.

we’re way too kind spirited to tell the young man to go away, we are not interested in his particular doctrine at this time, to come back later when his rates are cheaper. regardless, he comes in, sits down, and i spend the next hour contemplating how long i could gnaw on his arm before he starts screaming…i think we have room under the house for one more body. so he usually chats us up for about an hour and always leaves a small “newsletter” with us to read if we cannot hold our enthusiasm until his next visit. as a result, we have built up quite the collection of the fliers around the house over the last few months.

now while i do find it funny that they are considered “newsletters” when they are based off of a book that was written 2000 years ago (how much news could there be?), i find the idea of their usefulness even funnier. and so robert junior and i decided to create something constructive from the overabundance of good faith that was stacked across our living room.

after growing bored with the plan after building the seventh couch, we finally used the last newsletter to fix the hole in the manifold of robert junior’s volkswagen. and since the project only killed about 10 minutes, we were left there with nothing more than an overabundance of paper sofas and a broken spirit.

flabbergasted, robert kicked over his box of honeycomb and stormed into his room, slamming the door on his fingers. without a word, he sewed back on his pinky, popped his thumb back into place, and continued along his path.

several minutes pass, and i’m still trying to lick the honeycomb crumbs out of the carpet, but robert junior strolls out, all dressed and smelling faintly of tag ® body spray. of course i’m not the only one who catches a scent of the sharp-dressed man, and is instantly tackled by hordes of women, just like the commercials.

ok, i made that last part up.

nonetheless, robert insists on embarking on a saturday morning road trip. i concur.

i do a dukes of hazzard slide into his volkswagen, obtaining a slight concussion in doing so. “damnit,” i say under my peppermint schnapps riddled breathe. drinking starts early on saturdays.

after robert stops my profuse bleeding, we lose the manifold patch, and we push the car fifteen miles flintstone style; we arrive in the desert district of americus. both of us in a sweat, we share the last bit of gasoline to tide us over until we get to the chevron. left for dead, we gaze into the distance where we can see the cretins cloning and feeding in the supermarket parking lot.

casually, we make our way over to gather information and visual determining skills, and directions. all set to continue on to disney world, robert and i steal the nearest shopping cart, except robert was gone.

in a panic i look back just in time to see the same cretins throw the hogtied robert into the back of their s.u.v.

robert junior was kidnapped…

it’s been a long and interesting month. i’ve had a little whore try to get me fired at work (she thought calling my cell phone would get me fired, i laughed, then gave her number to the sumpter police department officer who was on guard duty, i found it funny that little bitches that have nothing to do with anything at all continue to bug me, maybe it’s their need for a new diaper or their total lack of friends). great times, great times. new tool single out, vicarious. listen and enjoy.

but the one thing i almost enjoy more than listening to tool, is spicy meatballs. so, on a weekly trip to little italy (it’s right next to the windsor, down the dark alley, across from the drug dealer, two bullet holes down on the right) i randomly happened to be walking out of riga-tony’s meatball eporium, when i randomly happened to spot my childhood film hero.

steven segal.

so of course i got his autograph (there’s no story, just thought i’d let you guys know).

this morning, just before the usual green eggs and ham cooked by none other than robert junior (he learned from alfred, the butler), i sat down to read the local paper. as i was catching up on the latest garfield, the ad on the next page caught my eye…

TWO WELL FED SIBERIAN WHITE TIGERS FOR SALE OR RENT. CALL 937-5975 FOR DETAILS.

astonished, i ran to the phone in a panic, hoping to cash in on this tremendous deal with hopes that one day, i too can be the next seigfried and roy (except not gay, and with better clothes). the phone rang twice and was picked up by a man with a burly voice who sounded as if he had smoked a whole seven eleven (not just the cigarettes, he just stood outside and lit the bitch on fire and began to puff) and had so much hair covering his body, he could stunt double for chewbacca. i inquired about the tigers and were assured that they were still available. i then gave him the credit card number that i stole from my neighbor hellen keller when i gave her a sponge bath last week. the transaction was complete, the phones disconnected, and i swear that somewhere, i heard chewbacca eating a whole chicken alive.

i made my way to the door to collect my prize, but as i opened it, i noticed a large package already made its home upon my doormat. unable to lift the package myself, i threw robert junior against a nearby wall, hoping to anger him and trigger an incredible hulk like transformation. alas, it was in vain, for all lil robert junior managed to acheive was the ability to stop moving and to bleed from the head (quite profusely i might add). i thought to myself “he better not get any blood on them new shoes he got from my christmas campaign, and i hope he wakes up in time to cook the steak for dinner.” somehow, in the midst of this mockery, the contents of the box (which i found out two seconds later, were actually the tigers i ordered) gnawed through without haste, and within seconds had the scent of poor lil robert juniors blood in their mighty nostrils and began tearing his highly unconscious body apart

i watched in horror as they broke the wishbone (the tiger on the left of course won) and made their way toward me. in a quick heroic manuver, i rushed to the kitchen pantry and threw a fresh gary coleman (2 for one sale at win dixie) at them to distract them. i then, ran for my life.

unfortunately i can run almost as well as dick cheney can aim for birds. the tigers finished off the tattered 2′4″ actor sooner than i thought (in retrospect i should have grabbed the sumo-wrestler, one shelf down) and i had barely made it out the door when they began their approach for me. digging through my pockets for the keys to my car, i then notice a large can of family size spam lodged in my shoe (good thing too, because my car was actually hit WHILE IT WAS PARKED. true story, happened friday night, by none other than marc weathersby). i then performed an nba-style jump for the roof as i threw the can of spam at the angered felines.

unfortunately, i can jump almost as well mr. t can sew a dress and maybe got two inches of air. however, cut my wrist and call me emo, upon hitting the ground, the sam’s club size spam exploded in an extraordinary display of meat. apparently, mystery meat has a acidic compound to tigers, and they spontaneously combusted as soon as it touched them. relieved, i climbed off the roof and finished what was left of my green eggs. i heard the cat lady from down the street cry at the sight of the tigers in flames. well, partly because they were burning, also partly because she tried to feed them and also burst into flames.

exhausted after the events of the day, i sat down on the couch to watch a little tv. i was halfway through an episode of laguna beach when i looked around, and realized that wasn’t my house. wasn’t even my town. must have been one hell of a party last night.

happy chrismahanukwanzakah. hell even merry jesusmas. it’s the holiday season, the season for giving, the season for joy. the festiveness has even got to little robert junior, he drew a picture of the old saint nick himself. unfortunately, i can’t show you the picture, partly because it sucked (his motor skills have gone downhill after his recent “fall” out the window), but mostly because his doghouse went up in flames due to the recent dry spell we were having. insurance wont cover it, they say a $2 loss isn’t enough to warrant reparations.

angered, i kidnapped santa clause and am presently holding him hostage until the pure-hearted insurance company breaks down and builds lil robert junior a mansion. for all those who get tube socks this year, i’m sorry in advance. and although robert junior may not be the cutest baby on board (the crawling in circles due a severed leg and the fact that the third degree burns on the right side of his face form a picture of leonardo da vinci don’t help his status), he still has a soul, and every sole…needs a shoe.

so as my chinese water torture device attached to the insurance ceo drips away his sorrow and pain, i started a new non-profit charity organization…

shoes for jews. just drop off your brand new christmas morning shoes (complete with new shoe smell) into our special bins located at any salvation air force. my special army of golden robots (thank you bill gates) collect the shoes, and i then sell them for twice the retail msrb price. i then use said money to buy lil poor robert junior a shoe for christmas. i would buy two, but i’m still not sure where the dog drug his other foot off to.

~ding~ well robert junior’s christmas meal is ready so it looks like our time is up children (he’s having rat again, that cream corn eating bastard)…

[ insert cheap mister rogers piano loop here and cue the changing of sweaters from blue to red ]
the time has come to realize, what you are. what you’ve done inside
the time has come, we’ll have something to talk about
i. will. too.