Here I am, back in the car, traveling back home from a very successful appearance at the Emerald City Comicon.

Like before, I am writing this using my futuristic iPhone communicator. Unlike before, I am not writing this entry under the influence of my natural inclination to deceive you, softening your understanding of reality, making you easier to utilize for my own nefarious purposes.

Now, put on this bikini and go clean out the toilets. I’ll wait.

Ah, all finished, eh? Good. Gooood. No, no. Don’t go clean off.

I like you this way.

As I was saying before you went up and cleaned the toilets, with a bit too much screaming for my tastes by the way, I won’t be writing on this phone as though I was using my face. I’m very worn down from my travels and two days blasting my natural sunshine into the generally lightless hells that are the my fans’ souls.

It takes a lot out of me to deal with people coming up and asking me, with no hint of humor, why I’m so negative and hate humanity. What makes this confrontation so confusing is that this is being asked in interruption of my regaling friends at the booth with a rousing rendition of the world 1 music theme from Super Mario Brothers 2.

So mid “Doot doodoo doot badoop-ah diddledeeboop boooooh!” this guy comes up to find out just why I’m so full of hate and miserable. Be wasn’t being condescending or anything, either! He was genuinely asking a thing that he was curious about.

I usually laugh at being asked things lime that, and am sometimes sorry I did, seeing their expressions change as their brains shift a gear as they adapt to a new situation arising, one where they’re going along with it being a joke.

Which makes me wonder: What would have happened if I went ahead and explained just why I was full of hate and so on? Would the gear shift be in the other direction? Would they suddenly feel they’ve found someone cut from the same humanity hating cloth?

“I’m so glad to hear you say that, Yohan.”, they’d maybe say, dropping a portfolio on the table before me and opening it up to reveal all the photos of the people they’ve murdered.

I’d maybe turn a page and ask “Ah, and are these here-”

“Yes, those are of my dick still wet with the blood of my chosen.”

“Security!”

But I digress.

So, even though I’m not quite as bad at typing on the phone as a previous entry would suggest, I’ve no love for writing on it for extended periods of time.

And with that, let’s get on to today’s somewhat tardy ZIM-

FACT:

INVADER ZIM was, essentially, a children’s show about a horrific racist.

ZIM hated the Jews, loathed the Mexicans, reviled the Asians, had no love for Samoans, and really hated the Dutch. No race was immune from the main character’s disgust and sense of superiority.

And I’m not talking about that crabby bastard with a soft heart of muffin like Oscar the Grouch. I’m talking Hitler was pussy hateful.

ZIM hated you, but he’s dead now, kids.

A moment of silence, please.

Now cake.