Merry Christmas Micky

My favorite time of the year you ask? The end of it! I sat down to address my readers and reflect on the year that has passed. As I did I remembered that the only good year is one that is ending.

The good news is, Christmas is over! Although I love the meaning it holds and the purpose it celebrates, the commercial crap that has infested an otherwise beautiful holiday has made it less then my favorite time of the year. However, I often buy in to it...

This year, I visited my parents Christmas morning as I have in years past, but this year I had a most disturbing surprise. There was not a single present under the tree for Mike! Not One! I rummaged under the tree, moving from present to present and yet, nothing. There was one from my brother for me, made out to "him." (A name he had given me the year he decided to stop using my name in conversation.) But that was it. Nothing else.

I began to scan the past year in my mind, trying to figure out what I could have done to cause such a thing. What could a child do to cause their parents enough grief, to not get them a single gift on Christmas morning. So I sprung to my feet, (not unlike a jungle cat,) and ran to where my father sat on the couch sipping his Paps, to find out what was going on.



"what gives Biological Father?!" (This was a name my father assigned to himself long ago. He wanted anyone in ear shot to know it was the only reason he was associated with me...)



"What is it Chris?"



"Mike!"



"Whatever"



"I don't have any presents under the tree... what happened?"



"Well for starters, you were born. And the rest pretty much writes itself..."



I realized I wasn't going to get anything out of him, and remembered the last present he had given me. It was a headstone, you could still make out the previous name, mine was etched in above it.
"For the inevitable!" he would yell. "Always be prepared!"



So I sat quietly under the tree one last time and started sifting through the gifts... "To: Tony"... "To: Roni"... "To: Mailman"... and "To: Micky."



"Micky?" I thought to myself. I began to tear open his presents in a blind rage! "Whose Micky!?" I yelled across the house. Then my heart sunk when I opened the first box. My parents have been getting me a pack of Marlboro Reds every year since my 5th birthday. "Hasten the inevitable!" my dad would always say. But this year, they gave it to Micky. I quickly opened the next box. It was a small section of dryer lint. It was still warm to the touch and had a note attached.

"Please enjoy the beginning of your new sweater." From- Cindy, Biological Father, Tony, and Roni.

That is when it hit me. I AM MICKY! It wasn't a terrible Christmas after all, my mom had just spelled my name wrong, on every single one of my presents.

I know what you are thinking,
"Isn't that insulting Mike? They spelled your name wrong, and not just once, but every single present!"


But you know what, when you are a middle child, and some of you out there can relate. You just take it where you can get it. And if that means your parents forget your name, no biggy. I sat tall that day, touched the small patch of lint to my cheek and felt the warmth it held... Why be sad? After all, I just got myself a new sweater.

He is also a Kung Fu Master...

Not many people know that, not only is Tony a comic, but a self titled KungFu master. Pictured here he shows off some of his skills at recent family event.

Some might be confused and think that that is some sort of KungFu Kick, Eye gouging, sky flying, world rocking super move. But they would be wrong.

This is just how he walks now.

I hate life.

Stick um up!

Those of you who know my know me know I have two loves in my life. Firearms, and anything written and preformed by the 2nd Jonas brother.

Hair like that doesn't happen by accident... *sigh*


I recently became the victim of a potentially violent crime.
By violent I of course mean passive, and by victim I mean clueless innocent bystander.

I sat in my office minding my own business, googling my name and searching for Bonanza memorabilia on Ebay when I decided I should take a much needed brake. My office is blessed with large windows that give me an excellent view of the entirety of the banking center in which I work, however they are placed behind me as I sit at my desk.
I stand up to head out of the office when I notice something strange. The bank is completely empty, with the exception of about 10 police officers. And outside, the entire center had been blocked of with police tape!
Assuming that the disturbance is a result of the company pens I helped myself to a few weeks earlier, I immediately proceed to keaster a pack a cigarettes, as I hear they are good as gold on the inside. As I walk slowly (and awkwardly) from my office with my hands interlocked behind my head demanding my one phone call, I notice that there are no guns drawn.
It turns out, that much like my upbringing, they simply forgot I was around. While I was in my office one of the tellers had been robbed. After a quick trip to the restroom, I lit one up with one of the detectives outside...
The good news was two fold, no one was hurt, and they had caught the culprit. He had tried unsuccessfully to escape with $1500. It was however not all a loss for the gentlemen who tried to help himself to our funds.
He obviously needed the money, so the officers graciously decided to put him up for free at Florence prison for at least the next 6 years, not to mention 3 meals a day, and cable! Talk about a deal! I would have killed for that growing up.
The day I turned 12 my parents started charging me rent, and that didn't include cable. Often my dad would have me act as his antenna by standing precariously on top of the television, in hopes of catching the fight. If that didn't work, he would have my brother and I reenact the fight from the night before based on highlights in the following day's newspaper. Unfortunately I always played the white guy.
My dad always insisted that in order for it to be a true reenactment the knockout had to be real. I eventually that if I held my breath as my brother pummeled my head, I would pass out faster.

I am glad the ordeal is over and that everyone is okay. Robberies such as this are not as glamorous as everyone thinks they are. So always be careful. I don't want you do end up hardened like me. I am a bank robbery survivor.

Putting the F in ridiculous

F-Minus - Putting the F in rediculous!

To all my readers, and more importantly, to the readers of F-minus:





Exhibit A: Comic "Mike, the Middle Child" - Comic #2386, published 1977







Exhibit B: Comic: F-Minus - Published some time after 1977







Notice anything? yeah so did I! Exhibit B's art makes me want to vomit.

My comic, "Mike, the middle Child" show above as "Exhibit A" was published some 30 years ago, before Carrillo was even a glimmer in some, drunken frat boy's eye. I understand that when you are a comic, trying to come up with something funny to draw on a daily basis must be difficult. But plagiarism? Makes me sick...


I'm calling you out Carrillo.

Our son Tony, Our Daughter Roni... and Tony's friend Mike

Unfortunately my family is celebrating Christmas again this year. For some, Christmas brings up wonderful memories of raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, and warm woolen mittens. I can't help but think of Christmas two years ago. This year I am asking for a rash, because the way I see it, it will be a little less irritating, but I probably wont get it anyway.
I arrive at my Grandma's house on Christmas eve, as I have so many years growing up, and as usual I am greeted by my family with "i'm sorry, have we met before?"
So my mother goes through the tedious process of introducing me to all my aunts and uncles.
"This is our Son Tony, he's an artist! Our daughter Roni, she will soon be an ASU graduate! And this is Mike, Tony's Friend."
I can't say it doesn't hurt but in some ways I have learned to appreciate the anonymity.
We sat around as we initiated the family's giving of presents, as we do every year.
My mother decided to kick things off by giving everyone in the family a warm woolen pair of pajama pants... As a cool Christmas morning in Arizona often get down to the low 70's. I was excited and began to remove my pants when I realized a startling fact. Tony had pants, Roni had pants, Roni's neighbor friend had pants, as did Tony's girlfriend. My mom even purchased a pair of pants for her astranged brother who stormed out of the house Christmas of '87, never to be seen again. She never let go.
No pants this year for Tony's friend Mike. As I stood there, pantless in the living room, a cool breeze tickled the hair on my legs. And I realized in that moment.

I am... Mike the Middle Child.