Mike's in the comicbooks!

Hey guys,

You should all totally pick up TALES FROM THE CRYPT comicbook #13 "Diary of a Stinky Dead Kid" today, not just because I'm the assistant to the editor, but because my artist friend Rick Parker paid homage to me in the art. Check it, check it, out!





Yup. That be me name on them arcade machines. Cool, eh? I just got back from San Diego Comic Con and will have photos to upload later. I was interviewed for an online TV show about Tales from the Crypt and I'll share that once it's broadcast. Later!

-Mike

literally

I know it's been around for a while, but I just was introduced to this for the first time last night. It works so well because this is such a tough song to rework, but the singing is pretty impeccable.

mmm pie

It is nearly the weekend. I am not ashamed to say it. I need pie.



Sadly, that is not going to happen. But what will happen soon is fortification for the weekend.


Have a great weekend, gentle readers.

smooches,
MoB

p.s. is it just me, or would "Mmm Pie" make a great band name?

ch-ch-check it out

Our lovely emcees and friends (the exceptionally talented Anna and Nathan) from our Evening with "Bruce Campbell" are in a wicked new adaptation of Shakespeare's Measure for Measure. We at Made of Babies will be in attendance. You all should come too. Details are below, or you can contact MoB for more information.

Dollar beers. In addition to seeing theater. And supporting two stellar individuals.

DOLLAR BEERS. Jump on it.

Goodburger At Rest

This is from before he had gastric bypass.

meow

Here is an old joke to help cleanse the palate.

A sadist, a masochist, a murderer, a necrophile, a zoophile and a pyromaniac
are all sitting on a bench in a mental institution.

"Let's have sex with a cat?" asked the zoophile.
"Let's have sex with the cat and then torture it," says the sadist.
"Let's have sex with the cat, torture it and then kill it,"
shouted the murderer.

"Let's have sex with the cat, torture it, kill it and then have
sex with it again," said the necrophile.
"Let's have sex with the cat, torture it, kill it, have sex with
it again and then burn it," said the pyromaniac.


There was silence. . . . . . . . . . . .and then the masochist said: "Meow."

New photo from Saturday.  Us with the Sparkle Ham:



Enjoy you jackals.

train denizens

There is this gentleman that rides my train most mornings and I saw him again today. He makes his entrance on the F train at West 4th Street, in one of the last three cars at about 8:12 a.m. He then takes the train all the way up to my stop, West 57th Street, where we both depart. I have been determined to follow the fellow to see where he goes at about 8:23 in the morning on the west side of midtown, but have yet to do so for various factors (i.e. running late, pop in to the bank, stop at the Duane). The reason why my roommate and I have become besotted by him is his attire. He wears spiked-to-maim motorcycle boots; torn, acid-wash, well worn jeans; a black, voluminous cape; a submissive collar with an elephantine, fist-sized leash ring in the front and is always sans shirt. He has long, dark hair that he wears either tied back in a low ponytail or just simply lets it hang. When he exits the train, he removes his cape and prepares to light a cigarette. He also wears bookish glasses, similar to those of John List. He looks like all of the furniture in his apartment would be outfitted in Nacho Carbonell's Skin line:




Bangarang. I still cannot fathom where he is going on the west side of midtown that early in the a.m., dressed to submit. Mayhap an early morning stroll in the park.

It's martini night. Hunker down.

The time I got lucky in Kentucky!

Hey everyone! It's Mike here spinning another yarn about some of my incredible life stories. You know, it's not everyday you meet someone with as many stories as I have. You should be happy. Fuck that Goodburger guy. That snotty cat's got nothing on me. This time at Mike's Storytime Funland, I'm gonna tell a tale about the time I got lucky...in Kentucky (pronounced Can-Tuck-EE)!
It all started on a sunny Saturday when I was relaxing in Pittsburgh. Suddenly, my friend Dave asked "What day is it?" I said, April 13th. Dave jumped up. "Holy shit, we're late!" I had no idea what Dave was talking about, but with the heroin really kicking in I went with it. A few minutes later, we were in his truck driving down the road, with me vomiting out the window.
After passing through a few states, the H wore off and I was cognizant enough to ask Dave "Where are we going?" He looked at me with steel eyes and said "The Porcupine Derby." I shivered in my converse.
The Porcupine Derby is the most intense underground sporting event in the United States, possibly the world. Outlawed in 1927 because of massive brutality, the event is held in an undisclosed location far beneath the streets of Lexington, KY. It's like the Kentucky Derby, but a round robin tournament where winners of separate races must face off against each other in battle to the death cage matches. Have you ever seen a porcupine cry blood? It's a soul-shattering experience.
Dave had to be at The Porcupine Derby because he owed $500 to Fat Estevez, a man with a taste for blood and a mean temper. We planned to fix the Derby by injecting all but one of the Porcupines with my grade-A heroin, then betting on the Porcupine who has not been injected to earn all of Fat Estevez's money back.
I got into the Porcupine holding area by pretending to be a porcupine doctor. You see, porcupine doctors are specially trained to hold these creatures, as their spines can kill a small child. I injected every porcupine except for "Daddy's Little Bastard" and quickly went to the bathroom to change clothes, and have a little H for me, ya know? This is where I would get lucky.
As I sat on a stall in the rundown bathroom, I noticed a large hole in the side of my stall with an arrow pointing to it: Insert here. "A glory hole!?" I thought, unable to contain my enthusiasm. Well, it didn't take too long for me to pull out Mr. Happy and stick it in there. The next thing I felt was a rough sensation on my member. It was a tongue, but very rough, and it seemed that my weenis could not fit into whoever was on the other side of the stall's mouth. "Fuck this," I said, and dropped trow, placing my backside up against the hole for a little salad tossing action. That's when the pain started.
It seems that the roughness of this person's tongue did not feel better against my newly bleached asshole. In fact, it was much, much worse. I whipped around and pulled my pants up. "Who the fuck is in there?" I yelled, kicking down the stall door of whoever had been licking my ass. "GOODBURGER?! Is that YOU?!" I couldn't believe it. Sure enough, it was goodburger, sitting on the stall and laughing his cat ass off . I was so pissed. But that fat cat was faster than he looked. He ran off, leaving me hanging.
I exited the men's room and found Dave counting the money he had won using our little Heroin trick. Suddenly, all the cats who had ran the race on H started frothing in the mouth and meowing in a fashion words could never describe. It still haunts my dreams. Dave had already paid off Estevez, so we got the hell out of there, jumped in his car, and sped off.
I was pissed. I needed more H to get through the drive and I was all out! It was going to be a bad trip. No sooner had I complained about this to Dave then who should rear his head in the back seat but...Goodburger! "You guys want to get fucked up?" he asked. Hell yeah! So we shot up and drove back to Pittsburgh. It took 20 hours, but it was worth it. So next time you're in Lexington, don't go to the Porcupine derby because a cat could lick your asshole. Until next time, stay classy guys!

-Mike

a big, sloppy, wet kiss

goes out to all of our particiants. Thank you all so much for putting up such amazing work in such a short time. We love all of you and Mike promises to bear your children.

shuck dub

This is where we will be on Sunday. We promise to wear pants.

The day I won 4 million dollars

It was 1992. I was barely ten years old, living in Dallas, Texas, and already a fugitive from the law. I had recently stolen a ten speed bicycle from an arch-rival and had nowhere to turn. Things looked grim. That was when I saw a train moving down the tracks near Old Man Salicrup's house, just across the Dallas Creek. I sped up that bike, caught up to the train, and fell asleep, sure I would soon be in Kansas.
About 40 hours later, I awoke in a stupor. I had been drugged by a Hobo named Poppy Boon, an old man who smelled of whiskey and baked beans. My butt hurt, more than ever before. And I was in the train yards in New York City.
I wandered down to Chinatown, my belly rumbling, my derriere extremely sore, when all of the sudden gun shots rang out. I didn't know it then, but I was in the middle of one of an armed robbery being committed by the vicious BTK -Born to Kill- gang of Vietnamese immigrants. In a fit of childhood stupidity and courage, I kept on riding my stolen bike through the crowds of people. Soon enough, a young gangster stumbled out of a jewelry store, bleeding profusely from his shoulder, carrying a pillowcase full of diamond necklaces and gold rings. A fellow gangster soon followed, also stumbling out of the store and bleeding. I stood there, paralyzed.
As I stood in the middle of Canal street on top my stolen Schwinn the gangsters turned on me. "You think you know China town, you S.U.V!?" one yelled (I am sure he meant to say S.O.B. but his English was very rough), "You know nothing!" He pointed his gun at my head, and I prayed for the good lord Jesus to send an angel to swoop down and save me on his magic hoverboard. As I waited for my fate suddenly, shots rang out. The hood carrying the bag fell, his head exploded. The hood with his gun pointed at me turned. BANG! A shotgun blast rang out that would have made me desecrate myself had my stomach not been empty. The bag of jewelry lay at my feet. The streets were empty except for one deaf and blind man who had no idea what was going on.
Smoke filled the doorway of the store. Blinded by the whisps of gunpowder and in shock from the ghastly sight, I wiped my eyes and coughed. Then, HE came through the door. The Chin.
"You okay, Kid?", he asked. I nodded. He seemed to stand eight feet tall with biceps that could crush a coconut, and he held a smoldering double-barrell shotgun. "This is no time for a youngster like yourself to be out on the streets alone. You better hightail it." "Yessir," I stammered. And began to ride on my bicycle. "Wait", he said. "Take this." The bage of jewelry flew into my arms. "Gee, thanks Mister!" I exclaimed. "No problem," he laughed. "Now get yourself outta here before things get messy again." I wanted top peddle away as fast I could, but was struck by the awesome presence of the man in front of me. "Wait. Who are you?" He looked at me one last time. "My name is Bruce." And then, he disappeared into the hazy air just as quickly as he had appeared, leaving me with over 4 million in jewelry.
I rode my bike back to the train depot and immediately boarded a train some Hobos said was headed back to Dallas. I knew this city living was too fast, too much to soon for a kid from Dallas like me. So I got back home, dug a hole, and buried my treasure. I had had the experience of a lifetime.
It wasn't until years later that I realized I had met Bruce Campbell, and that he is actually some sort of god among men. Perhaps when I was praying to Jesus for an angel, he did send one. I'll never know for sure. But I DO know why we all MUST gather at the Duplex theater to honor the Chin this Sunday: it is the honorable thing to do.
Well that's it--Oh, you want to know what happened to the jewelry? The 4 mil? Um...I dug it up last year, sold it, and it all went up my nose, if you know what I mean. Yeah... That's the part of the story I don't like to tell. Thanks for bringing it up, dick.

-Michael

spell ring

I hate to blog twice in one day, cause you know I like to spread the
magic of my wit over time so it is not so concentrated (heh) and therefore potentially lethal, but wanted to show you what one of my co-workers, a bankruptcy attorney, e-mailed me today to immunize you to foreclosure and bankruptcy: this ring.

Hot damn.

JCVD

I have recently become obsessed with Jean-Claude Van Damme's twitter because of baubles like these: "If you invite people who all have the same blood type at a party, but you don't make them aware of it, they will talk about something else" and "If you talk to the liquid dish soap while you clean the dishes, it will be less concentrated."

Bangarang.

turn this motherfuckin' party out

Check it out below. Our first event. Crazy.