Worst Week Ever

Astute readers might have noticed that there was no update last night. I spent a couple of hours doing the layouts and punch-up writing for All Part of the Master Plan: The Best of the ISB, and by the end of it I was pretty sick of my own writing. And you can be sick of it too when you shell out two bucks for thirty-two pages of recycled fun at this year's HeroesCon!

Not that you missed much from me taking the night off. Let's face it, I haven't exactly been the font of comedy that I usually am, but hey: I've had a lot to deal with this week.

Wolverine's pathetic outbursts aside, this has probably been the worst week I've had in quite a while (and here begins the obligatory Whiny-Blog).

I was sick, for one thing, which is never fun. It was so bad that I called in to work only to spend the day covered in fleas.

That's right, I said covered in fleas. Due to a combination of recent heavy rainfall in this drained swamp I call the SMT, my mother's dog running out of anti-flea medication, and the fact that she's also taken to feeding these three stray cats, my humble abode has been infested. I've set off a total of four flea bombs in here, but like a poor marksman I just keep missing the target. So if I really want to kill them, I'm going to have to go down there... I'm going to have to go down there...

FLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAS!

Sorry. Got lost in a Shatnerism there. Anyway, it's rough.

Then on Thursday, first thing in the morning, the register broke at work so I had to record everyone's purchases on a legal pad. It wasn't hard, just time-consuming, and I had to deal with Dr. and Mrs. Obvious all day asking if the register was broken. Eventually I just told them that we were having a drill to test whether or not we'd be able to still supply comics after the impending Apocalypse.

But then, yesterday, the whole thing came to a head with a new chapter in the ongoing saga of Cockeye McGee--or as the inimitable B. Flake suggests we refer to him henceforth, "The Cap'n."

Now I know you're tired of hearing about this guy, but trust me: Every time I see him it's some fresh horror. If it's not a lecture about Jedi self control or the Napoleonic wars, it's a cowboy hat two sizes too small for his head, or in Saturday's case, the worst shirt ever.

This thing was so bad that EVERYBODY was asking me about it. Phil, MG3, Felecia, they all came to me, because a lesser man would've allowed it to drive him insane.

Picture, if you will, a flesh-colored polo shirt made out of some sort of stretchable terrycloth. And brother, it was stretched. It was pulled so tight across his considerable girth that the v-neck made by all three unbuttoned buttons (yes, all three unbuttoned) stretched all the way to the top of his stomach, revealing a veritable forest of chest hair that I'm pretty sure was the source of his power.

In fact, when he was at the register ("Do you have anything that will put things together?" "... You mean glue?" "Yeah, hah-hah, that's the stuff!"), I was so distracted by the Forest of Power that I couldn't even make eye contact.

Not that Eye Contact is a treat, mind you.

And yes. Flesh-colored. And as Phil said, whenever you caught sight of him from the corner of your eye, you thought he had taken his shirt off.

But on the bright side, I think it scared my sinus infection away.