The Jake Who Jumps
Some things about me and some things about my The Jake that you may not have heard:
1) The Jake recently ate the cordless phone. My fault, really, as when it fell off the arm of the recliner, I didn’t immediately scream “NO!” and launch myself over and on top of the phone creating a soft yet protective “back shield”, the likes of which are most commonly associated with charred remains.
2) The Jake recently stole the sole key to the Nissan. My fault, really; knowing what a tempting treat car keys are in general, I should have put it up in a higher place. I’m going to look into having shelving and cabinetry installed up near the crown molding so that I can hide all the good stuff like keys and safety pins and loose change and cordless phones. Although I
will say that the only thing better than selling a car for less than what it’s worth is paying a hundred clams to have it re-keyed.
3) The Jake will probably be my anonymous undoing here at… whatever this website’s called. Again, this is my fault; although I’ll readily admit that most of the names here (the ones that aren’t initials, anyway) are fictitious, “The Jake” is actually, truly the name of this Creature Who Feeds On Metal And Metal Alloys. When I’m screaming at him to bring back my robe or the phone or that book or my yogurt, I’m screaming “The Jake”. And when
other people scream at him to bring back
their shit, they’re screaming “The Jake”, too. Which makes sense, since “The Jake” is inscribed on his badass nametag. Right above a made-up address. “What’s your point here?” you ask. Just that when someone I know gets bored and Googles “The Jake”, that’s when I get to explain ALL KINDS OF THINGS (see last post) that I never really intended to explain. And then I probably get to start showering for work at the Y. “No, seriously; what’s your point here?” Um. Nothing.
4) The Jake recently jumped out of a four-story window. My fault, really. For assuming that he had some innate sense of self-preservation. My bad.
I’m working under the assumption here that you already know what this Paint contest is in honor of… but in the event that you
aren’t aware, go
here. Because God knows you won’t get a fucking clue from any of these pictures. Seriously. This shit just gets more and more obtuse, I swear to Christ. And I don’t know if some of you are scanning in
actual canvasses, or if maybe your own computer monitors are 8” by 10”, but sometime in the future we need to sit down and have a serious conversation ABOUT SIZE. And not the fun kind.
Okay.
Brooks, this makes me uncomfortable in its ALMOST TOTAL ACCURACY. I mean,
this IS the hallway. Staircase… giant window… silently dropping The Jake... it was even a partly cloudy day! I think. I wasn’t really looking
up, to tell you the truth. The one major discrepancy here is that the window sill is actually MUCH higher than this. Like,
five feet higher. So later, when we have our little talk about injuries, it’ll make more sense. In a wincing way. Hey, see how his little ear tips get all fuzzy-furry? That’s on account of the
falling out a window.
This is nice,
Jen. I like that Jake looks like a cardboard wolf. I wanted to
get a cardboard wolf, but I was outvoted. How did you know that the building was yellow? Or that my hair looked like crap? I didn’t actually look out the window, though. But if I had, my gaping mouth would have been the same color as my hair. I’m having trouble with the fish? Pools? Puddles? Blue cheddar cheese goldfish? Help me. Props for Excellent Rear Leg Musculature . And that blank, stony composure and pointy, pointy head that defines The Jake.
This is the first of two pictures sent to me by Jason, and this is the one that
doesn’t strongly insinuate that he is actually Jackson Pollack. Jason either doesn’t have a website or didn’t want to give me the address… probably because he’s Jackson Pollack and he doesn’t need the extra attention, frankly. Here are some things about this picture that excite me:
1) apparently migratory head
2) heavy black beard
3) tidal wave vs. giant purple mountain debate
4) dirty band-aid hair
5) The Jake
this close to crashing into The Enormous Sun.
Plus pointy ears. Everyone who included pointiness gets an extra point. Everyone who is really Jackson Pollack gets two extra points.
Okay,
Chris. I liked that last List Of Exciting Things, so let’s do that again:
1) I like that Chris evidently thinks I’m Super Giant Condo Resort With Lots Of Electricity Rich. It makes me feel better that, in this Spoiled Fantasy World, The Jake
could have jumped out of the seventy-fifth floor window. So the fantasy glass is fantasy half full.
2) I like that, when I Googled “I am a golden god,” I found that it really
is just the quote from Almost Famous and not the arcane academic reference I was afraid it might be because Chris is one of those hyper-intelligent people that
I like to call, “INTIMIDATING”.
3) I like that The Jake is a cardboard terrier. I seriously should have just flat-ass
insisted on a cardboard pet.
4) I also like that he’s narcissistic and probably all hopped up on speed.
5) Panther. Clearly.
Panther earns us an extra point. The fact that it’s stalky and velvety is worth another nine. I love you , Chris. Sorry I had to bail from Reverse Survivor, the best game in the whole wide world.
Michelle, you don’t think I was referring to
you before when I mentioned GIANT ASS PICTURES, do you? It’s a good thing this reminds me of Miami Sound Machine or I might not have been able to include it. Am I correct in my assumption that this is France, and that’s why the first floor is really on the second floor? I thought so. That ocean is so worthy of the
Sea Creature Showdown, I can’t even tell you; soothing, yet rabid. Genius! That tree looks sticky. Double genius! And if I know my The Jake, he’s totally taking a picture with his new cell phone on the way down. P.S. That has to be
THE BEST Elvis hair I’ve
ever seen in Microsoft Paint. And that’s saying something.
Emily brings us the most paradoxical drawing— the one with the stickest stick people and flattest… stuff, combined with the cutest, snuggliest, plumpest, roundest widdle puppy I’ve ever seen. If I had a choice of saving
this The Jake or the
real The Jake,
this The Jake gets to ride in my pocket. Alive. Cheers for making the sidewalk and subsequent ground and subsequent grass and subsequent ocean all very Atari. I just spent forty seconds absently stroking this The Jake and now my screen is sweaty. Extra points for the sweaty screen, clearly.
OH MY GOD,
PANAJANE, I can’t believe that, with a picture so completely fucking enormous that it just ate my entire template, you ONLY MANAGED TO DRAW
TWO FLOORS. I’m a little stunned. You’re forgiven, though, because I really like that tube top. How did you know that my hair is secretly attached to pipe cleaners? One thing, though… I’ve actually never
been to a beach where giant redwood trees flourish seaside. Maybe this is the fairytale version. The Jake actually
does refer to himself as a “dawg”… not because he rolls like that, but because he’s a shitty speller.
Thirteen hundred points for a sun I’m in the process of adopting.
Lee, this wins the “Most Obviously Done By A Dude” award. Let’s go back to the list format:
1) First off, kudos for finally just laying it out there. 40 feet is “bloody high”, and I appreciate your candor.
2) I can’t decide if The Jake looks more like a grouchy rat, a grouchy turtle, or a grouchy chocolate chip cookie. No, not here… in real life.
3) If only that fourth floor window had those unfathomably thin and not-at-all straight or connecting lines in it! That would have stopped “frickin superturtlecookie” from the mad plummeting!
4) That is some seriously lush and attractive grass, my friend. Lush and attractive grass, indeed.
Aha. This masterpiece is a collaborative effort brought to us by the fine minds of C-Doggy and D’Monique. No website. Which, you know. Is probably for the best. I’m down with this for multiple reasons, one of which is that the windows are straight out of the Beetlejuice claymation scene. Shut up. Much like Lee’s interpretation, we’re helplessly reminded here of the restraining power of recklessly drawn thin black lines. The “demon antichrist” bit is accurate enough, since he was in the thug process here of stealing food from a six-week old Chihuahua. I must admit that I felt pretty lame when I couldn’t find the “angel of descent”. Is she invisible? Or just very tiny? Shut up again. I get it now. Smarty.
Oh my god,
Cindy! It took me a while to even
find The Jake(s) in this one… I was too busy checking out how FUCKING HOT I AM.
YOU WIN.
Hey, and all potential landing materials present and accounted for, Captain! It’s a veritable smorgasbord of painful landing possibilities! Here’s how I can tell that the real The Jake is cold chillin’, even though I must say that
both Jakes are the most realistically drawn Jakes thus far:
1) The Jake totally smokes. Mostly pot, but cigarettes sometimes.
2) The Jake is always getting followed by Snail Bounty Hunters. Though slow, they’re surprisingly successful. The Jake is really lazy.
3) The Jake is a fatty.
Did I mention the fabulous camera guy? I’m telling myself that you didn’t actually draw that… my mind can’t process Paint skills that great.
So,
K… I’m tempted to give you, like,
enormous credit for Professional Building Angulation Techniques, Complete With Fancy Shadow Shading. But I won’t. Because, as you noted in your email, you fucked up the windows royally. BUT. In an
M C Escher way, which is WAY MORE badass than some pussy ass
shading! Nice job! Plus a brownie bonus for using one of my tattoos as the sun. That fifth floor action reminds me of that time we tried to BBQ inside. Yeah, like you guys haven’t done that.
Scott, I’m afraid I have to tackle this painfully controversial drawing head on using the only real tool I have. Oh yes. A LIST.
1) First off, nice fucking
sleeve, man! That Emperor is damn perfect, really. I know that when you finished his little gown and his little pasty outstretched hand you felt that deep and overwhelming sense of pride that Paint aficionados everywhere call “The Brush Flush”. Congratulations.
2) Ordinarily, I see the Emperor saving
anything and I automatically assume that the thing being saved is the root of some hideous evil. That theory clearly works here. However…
3) You spelled “Emperor” wrong. Which leads me to believe…
4) The Jake is part of some underground, renegade plan with lots of spies and rebels and good doers, and he’s in cahoots with fake “Emporers” to make people
think he’s evil when really, HE’S VERY, VERY
NOT EVIL.
I actually wrote a paper on this, if anybody’s interested
Kitten was one of the fabulous people who jumped on the “après le fait” bandwagon. At the risk of getting all After School Special on you (I don’t really know what After School Specials are like these days. There probably aren’t any. Kids just go home and let themselves in and watch hardcore porn and smoke crack. I don’t know. Let’s pretend for the purpose of my metaphor that latchkey kids are going home and watching little Amy not have sex. Thanks.), I’m impressed with her confidence in me. I’m also supremely impressed with Jake “The Cirque de Soleil Ballerina Acrobat”. Bonus: In the spirit of Bugs Bunny, Jake’s hind leg actually
is a turkey leg. That’s no desert island apparition. Although The Jake transforming
into a turkey might be an apparition. I can’t tell. I’m pretty hungry. The dancing vegetables are probably apparitions… I don’t feel comfortable making that call. I
do know that The Jake looks fantastic with one ear streaked pink. And that
somebody blew it with building height. Again. At least we have corn. Corn makes up for everything, even though I don’t personally eat corn. I can’t explain. I don’t make the rules. Next.
Oh,
Michelle. The very fact that you put The Jake’s head on a made up furry sheep’s body—albeit with “eyes the clear blue of the Pacific” (to quote
Francine Pascal) instead of the “I am the emotional and intellectual equivalent of a toaster” brown that I plead with day after day—is enough in and of itself, but I think that all of the other subtle nods deserve to be applauded as well. Let’s MAKE A LIST.
1) Dead and ungrateful Sims causing me much more heartache than I can begin to express and still be accepted into normal, adult company? Check.
2) Um, resulting anger? Check. I’m a classy bitch.
3) “THEY”RE GREEEEEEEAAT!!?” Check.
4) Behemoth killer window-skulking turkey? Check.
5) Gray tee-shirt and jeans? Check, check and fucking CHECK, my friends.
How long did the black and white checkered floor take you? For every minute, I love you more.
Okay Jackson (I mean “Jason”), this is your second picture. According to Jason, this is what The Jake saw as he launched his fifty pound idiot body out of the four story window.
I’m not really even sure what to say here. This is absolutely extraordinary. Jason, I really wish you’d given me a website or P.O Box or home address or license plate number. I look at this and I feel like I know The Jake a little better. And if things had turned out differently, and The Jake had been critically broken or twisted instead of just in need of a RUSH NEUTER, thanks to the unit scrapage that resulted from the roaring stucco windowsill, I would find solace here in this painting. Jason (Jackson), you're my new Paint hero.
As it is, I find solace in The Jake staring up at me with all of my stuff in his mouth. The Jake is a good and gentle dog. Particularly now that he has no testicles, even though he would probably disagree. Maybe it’s better that he doesn’t know that the testicles were coming off regardless. Maybe
this way, The Jake will think twice before he jumps out of a window again. That
imaginary set of balls… that set he’d like to
keep.
I love you all and I love Microsoft Paint. Thank you for your patience. Stop by anytime and The Jake will lick you anywhere you want. I promise.
The Jake and I just played a rousing edition of a little game
I like to call, "Gimme It". I was the proud victor, winner of one cracked button. And all the spit.
Okay, so here's the story about the camera:
The Jake is one of those many beloved dogs who behave unbelievably well and cause virtually no trouble... as long as they're short-chained to an anvil and muffled. With a bit. R and I like to pretend that The Jake is civilized... that when he sleeps in our bedroom with us, we don't have to make sure that the shower door is closed so he won't eat my razor or the shampoo or the lotion or the squeegee. Or the drain. Again. We also pretend like he doesn't drag anything smaller than a Honda outside through the doggie door, and that we don't lay awake at night for half-hour stretches, trying to guess what he might be in the process of dragging out
now, what we have that gurgles
and thuds.
Given that, I feel I should throw in that The Jake won't destroy things that he's previously been told not to destroy. After having been scolded, he no longer has any interest in shoes, furniture (wooden or otherwise), the phone or the remote. Or my plants. BUT. He knows he can have the
plastic buckets the plants come in, so don't ever go to Home Depot and spend like ninety dollars on plants and then leave them all dog-confident on the patio. Because when you get home the next day, every one of those fucking plants is going to be lying out in the yard-- roots splayed out grotesquely, sunbleached, gasping for carbon... but otherwise
completely unharmed. The buckets, however, met a toothy, toothy death. The damn dog shook every one of those plants toothlessly out of its bucket. He knew the bucket WAS HIS DOMAIN. LONG LIVE THE BUCKET. I bet there was a lot of prancing around when he did this. I wish I could've seen it. Any one of those four times.
INTERVENTION: I seem to be losing my point here, as well as blowing my time budget. I have to get ready for another "art party" (read
this), and earlier when I tried on my hot black skirt it literally took all of my wherewithal not to start pimping myself out. Instead I collapsed in whorish laughter, smoked some crack and drove quickly to the Church Of The Clothes That Fit My Ass, the dry cleaners, where (for the bargain price of MILLIONS OF DOLLARS) I scored some black Banana Republic pants that I already own.
ANOTHER INTERVENTION BY DIFFERENT, MORE IMPATIENT PEOPLE WHO ARE WEARING WATCHES: We have to go. We'll get back to you.
If I Clocked In Three Minutes Late, It Was Only To Give My Soul A Three
Minute Reprieve From The Evil.
I know. I don't want to talk about it.
Some Other Things I Don't Want To Talk About:1) The fact that when I hear it's officially "Carpool Wednesday", my
only thought is that maybe Wednesday I can get to work in under an hour if
all those other losers are in the carpool lane. I can really fly, then.
Alone. In my car. Maybe I should throw fast-food napkins and tacks and raw
eggs and baby hamsters and print cartridges and battery acid out the car
window to celebrate Carpool Wednesday. I'm a team player.
2) I can't take this water bottle cap out of my mouth. I mean, I can
... but I can't.
3) This project I'm working on. And dreaming about. And then working
on. And then dreaming about. And then...
Supah 4) I officially have nothing going for Thanksgiving. R's going
out of town, the parents are gleeful and frisky in their holiday
nonparticipatory-ness, and I'm working the Friday after, virtually
nullifying any plans I might have had. I'm off on Wednesday, though. So if
I had a houseload of friends and family and loved ones coming over I would
have plenty of time to run to the store and make sure that everything was,
if not "perfect", perhaps "close to approaching acceptable".
But I don't.
So all my imaginary people won't get their marginal, last-minute feast.
I will, however, be Fully Involved in creating the Best Jumping Jake post
of all time. Because the fact that I haven't done it yet combined with the
fact that these could be some of the best Paint pictures ever is eating
away at what's left of my corroded soul. And I'm sure you don't believe me.
And that's cool.
I believe me. Which is a positive factor, since I
only believe me about 45% of the time. And this ceramic bobble-head
Electric Company worker complete with my name on his hat and a trustworthy,
gap-toothed smile on my desk believes me. At least I think he does. He's
nodding.
I'm still getting Jumping Jake posts, which is cool. All are welcome*. If
you're feeling particular angst at what has turned into The Weakest
Procrastination Of Oh Four, Complete With Wheedling Promises Of The
Completely Spineless Variety, feel free to MS Paint me a picture of The
Jake, waiting. Or eating a marginal Thanksgiving. I'll include those, too.
At last count I'll have four days of home alone to fill. And all my Sims
died last week and I can't bear to go through that fucking heartbreak again
just yet.
(*you shouldn't be able to read this line and not repeat it in the voice of
that "Poltergeist" midget psychic person. I mean, by law you shouldn't.)
