Saturday, May 26, 2007

Troy Hickman: I Can't Feel My Lower Extremities

So I'm sitting there minding my own business when Erin Palette (or the Paletteer, as I like to call her) asks me to write some stuff and junk for her blog. Even worse, she tells me I can use the space to plug my comics. Of course, I was offended by the very notion of whoring my work (such as the Eisner-nominated Common Grounds trade paperback, on sale at fine bookstores and comic shops everywhere, featuring artwork by Kieth, Bachalo, Oeming, Perez, Pacheco, Medina, Van Sciver, Jurgens, Migliari, etc.).

Instead, I demanded this space to tell the truth about Palette, the truth as only someone who goes through her garbage can tell it. Let me clue you in on the length and breadth and width and girth of Palette, the seismic and balsamic readings of Palette, the very things that make Palette what she is: somebody I'm writing about.

Erin Palette keeps herself looking young by an arcane ritual involving the prostatic fluid of Mr. Ben Vereen.

To say Erin Palette is acquainted with the night is like saying Monica Lewinsky's va-jay-jay is acquainted with Bill Clinton's cigar. The night has overwhelmed Palette, and turned her into its medieval puppydog bitch.

Erin Palette has the intelligence to use the word "jejune," but not the wisdom to keep from doing it.

If an infinite number of Erin Palettes sat at an infinite number of typewriters, they'd be working on really out-of-date equipment.

She was born with a superfluous fifth elbow.

Palette used to work for the library, but they kept finding her with her decimals all dewy.

Erin Palette was mentioned by name in Jim Shooter's "little fucks" memo.

When she was a teen-ager, Erin Palette and her date were parked in a car on a deserted road. They heard a noise and quickly drove off, nearly paralyzed with fear. The next morning, when they checked the car, they found hanging from its door handle...a bloody hookworm!

Palette once asked me if I wanted a "hertz donut," and when I said yes, she pierced my chest with a clawhammer.

She was the original choice to play Linc on "The Mod Squad," but producers felt she wasn't "Jewish enough."

Erin Palette has taught me what it really means to be dizzy.

Palette is our first line of defense if the United States is invaded by Port Orange.

She has the world's largest collection of crotchless hats.

Erin's doesn't have her mojo working, but it does get a sweet SSI check every month.

When it comes down to it, I'm proud to call her someone I almost sort of know in a weird internet kind of way.


  1. I believe the medical term for a girl's ladyparts is the Vagoo, not the vajayjay.

  2. Vagoo sounds like a pornographic spaghetti sauce...

  3. Thank god you were just being phallic. For a minute I thought you meant the pro wrestler...

  4. Hey, be grateful I didn't say "in YOUR can"...

  5. I also have pigs feet and I'm trying to call Mike Hunt...

  6. If I recall correctly, the term vajayjay was one of the only good things to come out of that whole messy Grey's Anatomy affair.

    And in Ireland, it's insultingly called a "gee." That's with a hard G, mind. Such as "that Paris Hilton is such a dirty gee-bag."

    See kids? We've got references to Paris Hilton AND vaginas on the same page. IF we can all stomach our dinners at this point, we've just upped Erin's hit count on Google!


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