There was a story yesterday, it was updated late. My hotel’s internet access was down and I wasn’t able to update until after I got back from the base. I decided to change the theme because I was bored writing about football. Yesterday I called this week the “Rogue Gallery” but after some consideration I decided it was more of a “Peanut Gallery”.

Matt Dembiki has a new Small Presser up, read it, it’s really fucking good. It’s about why us comic creators do what we do, a very honest, reflective piece.

As a funny aside I’m down here in Panama City, Florida – panhandle and republican strong-hold. Last night I ate at a restaurant that a) actually had “freedom fries” on the menu b) advertised they served every dressing but French (take that, Kraft!) and c) had Fox News channel on all of their TVs. It was pretty funny in a very sad way. I sent Kevlar vests to two soldiers in Iraq that needed them - but I'm sure they're happy to know the people of Panama City are supporting them by serving Freedom Fries and voting Bush. It's like this restaurant was stuck in 2002.
______________

Sleazy Steve was the kind of guy that you’d bring to a club and he’d cock-block you in the attempt to pull the ass you were trying to get. He was bad. I think that if he were desperate enough he’d tell a girl you had AIDS while you were taking a leak. The kid had no shame and that’s why we loved him.

I actually “double-blined-dated” with him once except I found out later that it wasn’t really a date. He just sort of invited two hot girls over his house and cooked dinner, told me it was a “double-blind-date”. He made ravioli and insisted we ate the salad he made because it will help us digest. I think he put some Spanish Fly (which never works, mind you) in the salad thinking it would work on the lot of us and cause an orgy to erupt. He really was pushing it and we all got sick afterwards. I never get sick off of ravioli and salad. He was probably wearing pheromones as well. Just a bunch of shit you buy off to the internet because it’s supposed to make people horny.

He also hooked up with this girl we all called Slutty Spice. She was everything you would expect out of a slutty sorority chick. A little chunky, low self-esteem. Greasy hair, oily face. Easier than Glass Joe. He was almost embarrassed to tell us about it.

Almost.

But as soon as he got rolling he told us all of the details, from the initial contact to the facial. According to his story a couple of hours lapsed between those two events. I don’t know, it usually takes me a six-pack and knowing a girl for three months before I even say the word “facial” and it’s usually followed by a nervous explanation were I say I was talking about buying her a salon style facial. Sixty bucks later I’m cursing my lack of spine. But not Sleazy Steve – a facial’s a first date for him.

Of course his claim to fame was trying to sabotage mine and Robin’s relationship when we first started getting together. He told Robin that she should “watch out” for me, that I’m a shady guy that’s just going to use her and I have no interest in a relationship. At the same time he was trying to convince me that I don’t really want a relationship, that Robin isn’t the type of girl I’m usually interested in and that she’s kind of slutty and not the kind of girl it’s worth getting involved with. Ah…Steve…my friend…

Cock-blockers are fun to hang around with provided you know that the person is a cock-blocker. Robin didn’t know Steve was a cock-blocker but at the same time his mannerisms forced you to question his motivations. A close talker, always gripped your shoulder, pulled you in and whispered. He kind of talked liked Satan, or how one would expect Satan to talk. But we all knew he was a cock-blocker so we’d take his advice and laugh amongst ourselves. The girls we hung out with would always have some story about how Steve tried to seduce them. It was good times.

There’s never been a cock-blocker like Steve. He’d win a gold in the cock-blocking Olympics and make sure the silver and bronze winners didn’t pull any ass at the after party.