 Art by Marty D. Ison |
No one looks good in brown. That's why women never watch westerns. Now, if a guy dresses like a firefighter, we're good to go.
Last issue, it was a stapled monkey. This time, it's a dead goldfish. Are you worried about the animal rights people hunting you down?
Nah. The plant people are after me now. You see, they heard about my plans to murder my Christmas tree. Each year, just after Yule, I withhold all food and water until the Douglas Fir dies of starvation. Using a saw with a wicked 12-inch blade, I rip open its bone-hard torso. Then I dump the individual body parts on the curb and wait for the city to become my unwitting accomplice by recycling the tree into mulch.
How do you get over writer's block?
First I take back the key to my apartment. Then I throw his crappy pages out the window and burn his rejection letters.
Read anything since last issue that just dazzled you?
"Portrait of a Killer" by Patricia Cornwell. Now I know who the real Jack the Ripper was — and you don't. Ha Ha!
What brought you to Seattle?
I had a sudden craving for grunge rock, depressing weather and those yummy cinnamon donuts they sell at Pike.
Finally, what possessed you to start the Blog of Death?
The spirit of Rudolph Von Weingartner. He felt his online obits left something to be desired and literally ordered me to start The Blog of Death. My Magic 8 Ball agreed. And c'mon, who doesn't listen to their Magic 8 Ball?
Read Must Sign for Delivery.
