Good morning and HAPPY NEW YEAR! Thank you for checking in. I hope you’re reading these lines free of headache and/or remorse. In other words, I’m hoping that you had lots of fun on New Year’s Eve leading to a great start into 2007—the Year of the Pig.

Thank you for the New Year’s wishes from Nova, Selma, and Brandon. And for Selma’s suggestion that 43 is carrying a suitcase full of explosives. That would certainly explain the little grin at the end of the clip.

Schlockading adds Monster 41 to the mix and presents a very convincing, very vivd scenario of a pharmacist, a dentist, and a misunderstood monster in pain. Another fabulous piece, Schlockading. Bringing old 41 into the game is a brilliant idea.

Stephanie submits for your approval the resignation letter or Ronald P. Forty III, soon-to-be-former Roving Office Monkey. Poor Ronald lacks snacks, which is a clear OMSHA violation. And yet, one can’t help but feel sympathy for Ronald’s boss, who’s only trying to keep his world from falling to pieces at the end of the year. We wish both of them the best of luck in their future endeavors.

In the end, Terry T. counts us down into the New Year with the story of P’ntoch, a creature animated by urgent longing and desire, who rushes with splendid cinematic pacing toward one gentle moment of true love. Terry, I don’t think we could’ve closed 2006 on a sweeter note.

Thank you very much to all of you for posting on New Year’s Eve.

Sadly, there is nothing sweet about Monster 45. Monster 45 is a pig. No doubt about that. But is it a nuclear space pig? A hydroelectric boar? A hybrid? A porcine submarine? A fiendish Monster millipede that has merely disguised itself as a pig? I can’t wait to see the first stories of the New Year! Please rest assured that this year 344 LOVES YOU EVEN MORE


  • Stephanie
    1 January 2007 1:26 pm

    They rove the earth in packs of ten or twelve. Hunting and battling, causing terror wherever they go. With ferocious power and the ability to disappear, they dominate over all other creatures. Fueled by an anger at their pink cousins, so called “cute” pigs, they seek to destroy all that is cuddly.
    With razor sharp hooves that make climbing mountains effortless, and a sense of smell that surpasses even bloodhounds, they easily track their prey. With the above mentioned ability to disappear, even the most skilled animal stands no chance.
    The animal kingdom must be on guard at all times, for fear of complete destruction of all that is cuddly.

  • 1 January 2007 1:43 pm

    Appyhay Ewnay Earyay! This ineluctable monster is a latin-chinese love child. While that little piggie went to market, and the other one went to Rome, his cousin’s trotting out the corned beef — THIS one joins #41 dancing wee wee wee all the way home. Too much champagne will do that to a body, even a swiney monster one.
    On the other hand, Porker here could be a pig-in-a-poke……..lots of room in that body to hide the fact that he’s really a robot zombie from Epsilon 9, the Zarblatt squad’s Trojan equivalent come to rob us of all the earth’s truffels and decimate civilization in the doing of it!! Run! Run for your lives!!!
    thanks for helping us all start out the new year with a bang! What have the rest of you monkeys been up to?

  • 1 January 2007 4:17 pm

    Ah yes, the year of the pig (well, boar technically). This one seems to be enjoying himself as he – no, wait a second. That’s no pig, it’s a porcupig! Those spikes can shoot out acids so poisonous that they have a negative pH! They’ll burn your skin off in an instant. Nevertheless, this porc is a friendly one, as you can tell by his transplanted bow-tie legs. After he was run over one too many times, the local surgeon had to come up with quite an intervention, replacing the porc’s legs with bow-ties. I think he likes those a lot better, since he can run that much faster towards his soon-to-be-acidic prey! Muahaha.

  • 1 January 2007 10:16 pm

    A bit of a long one, folks. Put a kettle on.
    J. Peter Malton was retiring today. This was the last run. Nothing crazy. Narton Valley’s best product. Pride of the system. He wasn’t kidding himself, however, it wasn’t one of his normal high-profile deals. Which was good, no one would really concern themselves with a haul of this nature. This shipment would be a breeze — just what a retiring guy, like Malton, wanted.
    The freighter sliced through the Orfeáte Nebula and much of the ships systems had to be shut down, lest they suffer damage. He’d done enough of these kinds of hauls to know what to do. The boat coasted on the low grid. Malton tossed some cards at a cup on the console. He turned up the Ace of Spades and gave it a wink before flicking it away. It spun through the air, gave a tiny arc and dived smack into the center of the cup. “Bullseye!” The proximity alarm blared as the card tapped the bottom.
    Malton shot up in the chair and switched over to manual. His fingers flew across the console getting ready for whatever was clearly too close. Tapping the radar, his eyes flicked from it to the main screen. “Last day…” he sighed. It shot out of an especially thick patch of dust and particles on the right. A small, indescript cruiser. “Well, well. Come to play, have ya?” He rolled the freighter hard to the right. Three times the size of the cruiser, it could take the hit. “I know what you are and you ain’t alone, you sonofa…” The cruiser pulled up sharply, skimming the top of the freighter. It twisted around and then dove sharp into another cloudy patch. “Tricky, tricky. Well, Malty, they’ve found you for sure. Question is, how to get out? Two holds… now wouldn’t that be some good irony.” Malton grinned to himself and thumbed a switch.
    “Charlie-Tango-Seven headed down the pipe, five by five,” came the squack across the receiver. “Confirmed,” was the reply. “I have you now. All units — flight path coordinates are being transmitted. Converge on my mark.” The captain of the interceptor slapped a stiff hand on the ensign’s shoulder, “Been after this bastard for years and God-damned if I haven’t finally caught up with him.” The ensign never wavered from his monitor, “Yes Sir.”
    “Mark 10, please Mr. Yao,” was his cheerful order. “Open a channel, ensign.” A short pause. “Jacob Peter Malton, aka: Malt 40, this is Inspector Davidson. Obviously, I’ve no need for the formalities, the nebula is quite surrounded. Your stolen freighter has nowhere to go. It’s over. I heard it was your last run anyway.”
    “I’ll hand it to ya for trackin’ me, Inspector. But… ain’t no way I’m done here. Not by you.” Malton’s voice was scratchy over the frequency, but Davidson could still hear the smile across Malt’s face.
    “Sir! I got bogeys all over the comm. Must be around 200 of them, easy, swarming all over the place” the ensign shouted, clutching his console.
    The detective’s eyes got wide as he shouted. “Get in there! I want him now.” All the ships burst through the thick of the nebula. “Main screen!” Davidson’s spirits dropped dramatically as the space before his ship came into view on the monitor. Communications from the other units were all the same. They couldn’t track him. Too much interference. Too much “debris”.
    “You clever son of a bitch,” was Davidson’s response as he stared at hundreds of Narton Valley’s best floating; twisted and distorted in front of him. “God damn pigs. He stole a freighter full of pigs.” Malton’s voice cracked over the frequency one last time, “It’s my last day. Breakfasts on me. I smell bacon.”

  • 1 January 2007 10:45 pm

    my parents just happened to be in the room when i was watching this…and they were simply amazed. and that’s alot from people who claim they know nothing about art…
    thanks for always inspiring. happy new year…happy 2007~

  • 1 January 2007 10:45 pm

    Things went haywire one evening on the set of “Space Truckers,” when one of the gaffers decided to have some fun. He thought it would be amusing to feed one of the square pigs an anti-gravity beer to see what would happen. He had no idea it would cause so much damage to the orthogonal swine. It inflated outward like a blowfish, with its razorback coat soaring toward the ceiling. The guilty gaffer was looking at six to eight for animal cruelty, but everything was golden when it was found the pig reformed after the suds passed through its system. Let this be a lesson to you; never fuel foursquare feral pork full of floatable ale. Nothing good can come of it.
    Hope you had a good headache-free New Years day!

  • sue bebie
    18 April 2008 3:44 am

    Schachtlied eines rebellischen Ebers
    Wo sind nur die Schweine hin
    Wo sind sie geblieben
    Metzger packten sie geschwind
    Wursten sie mit Lamm und Rind
    Das ist geschehn…
    Vegetarier aller Länder mehret euch!
    Folgt meinem Eberruf!

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