The Peter Pan Peanut Butter Poisoning of 2007: Hypostatic Pollution and The Secret of Immortality

MidLife production "art"

In the mystic year of 2007... the year of the iPhone, Daft Punk's Alive tour, and, of course, Cyclone Sidr... a bunch of "Peter Pan" brand peanut butter jars were reported... infected. In Peter's seemingly innocent nutty load, swam the terrifying, microscopic fiend... Salmonella; a shocking, and appalling perversion of not only everyone's favorite creepy feminine eunich, but the very concept of Nuts. 

I got that Peter Pan. I got that Salmonella. I believe this is a key point in my life.

I've received dozens of e-mails, superchats and fan letters over the years asking about my oft-teased "Nut Story"; my only real memory, beyond general seasickness, is hallucinating a massive unreal yellow monster truck floating above me, as I laid, dreary - possibly fading to a purple, bootleg Figment-type plushie dragon guy, somewhere in-between. Almost as if I could control it - I found it funny. Reasoning with it - aware. False.

My parents - nonchalantly painting nearby, the hippies they were, probly some odd Misfits or Jack Skellington thing - were freaked. Little demon boy. Babbling tongues, visions of death.

I'm told I manically constructed The Mask in this fervor... prattling on, through shaking jaws, of urbanized purgatories... the functioning dead; but, it's all hazy. 

what a cutie!

Naturally, I was sent off to school the very next day, tripping literal nuts as the world came to discover the terrifying reality of Peter's Penultimate Prank. There were even cool, creepy legal PSAs, "call us if you got fucking poisoned", on TV - I think I remember catching 'em live. It didn't take long to feel well - in fact, it wasn't all that bad. But I'll never forget.

What if that's, like... what happened? What if that's what changed me? What if that's where it all began? Could there be some dark, deeper truths behind a seven year old's inexplicable mutation from Boy, to SmogMonster... or was it all the Nut?

I had a real issue with that "Pan" guy, for years. I try an' practice peace, but sometimes... I'm the SmogMonster. I use to deliberately rotate each and every "P.P." jar I'd see, hiding the label - no more casualties. Bring it all down. Let No Bad Happen. Heck, I still won't touch 'em. That awful Bobby Driscoll Peter Pan parody in the Rescue Rangers movie? Deserved. I even fired a guy over a Smee tattoo. That's how bad it is.

Conceptual rendering by 71 Director of
Call Center Operations, "The Hintt"

Last year's investors
promotional poster!

What if I made... "Smog Nut Butter"?  "The SmogNutster?" "Smog's Sour Mystery Spread"? 

It is, however, nice of Conagra Brands, Inc, - perpetrators of the "P.P" poisoning - to fund both myself, and inadvertently, 71 as a whole; as per the annual monetary reparations - or, as the kids say, "Quiet Money" - agreed upon in a controversial out-of-court settlement. Though the infinitely generous peoples of Conagra have repeatedly asked not to be credited, characterized, or referred to as business partners... I will continue doing so.

Quiet money formed a new existence...

Okay, okay. Jokes, funny, character-writing stuff over... it was that night - the night of the visions - the Neverland virus - I... connected to the Hedorah. Smog in three parts; The Face, The Self, and The Holy Kaiju.

Hypostatic pollution.

The trick is, I'm Immortal. 

Oh yeah! I've started watching "Parks and Rec"! I guess that was my point, in all this. Cute show! I've also slipped ever-so nervously into the unfamiliar, frigid depths known as... post-Season 7 The Office. The Horror! So far, so... Odd. Robert California's me. Manager Andy feels a little too expy-Michael. It's certainly a lot more... surreal. 

Blog Post Over. 

Yellow Eyes and Art Hoes

As the perhaps infinite making of MidLife - FATE toils on, I am reminded of one of MidLife's first real public appearances; the otherworldly spark of life, beyond life - 2023's guest-spot on the weirdo indie comic strip, [REDACTED]!

The ghastly Ratipede - skele-stoner Dev, greaseball Spence, demonic The Popobawa, and dumbass Vienna - are visited by a dimension-hopping "art hoe" - star of [REDACTED]! - stumbling through Spence's mysterious trans-existential star-gate to the purgatorial realm of MidLife, only to be threatened, mocked and further instigated by the flock of undead neon losers awaiting her. Likely facing a comical death. Or worse. For no reason. 

These pages were taken from the collaborative "Sears" storyline, featuring various studios and artists' further temporal exploits through the mysterious titular box-store.

We were initially... shall we say, uninterested, in the collaboration - you can see where 71's efforts begin, and end, y’know? However, as exuberant commission rates were discussed - including catering, lodging, and pharmaceutical expenses - we graciously blessed the MidLife IP it's rejuvenating gasp, bursting from the soil with a zombie's roar... and, though certain legal constraints following the ruling of "Molene V Delaware" prevent us from properly thanking our sponsor... I wouldn't anyway! I'm the master. 

With MidLife: FATE's laborious production, even then, well underway, a new team of 32 young, peppy temps - a colorful bunch, starry-eyed dreamers fresh from the nearby Full Sail University - were "hired" for the comic, injecting it's compromised veins with the narcotic joy of artistic creation; only found pure in the inexperienced, and stupid. 

Though 31 of these 32 artists were, of course, terminated immediately upon completion, the sole remainder - color technician "Big Slim" Jim Mink, pictured below - quickly moved on to become 71 speech language pathologist, purchasing me this humorous mug in adulation. After all; how could I fire a guy threatening to shoot himself all over my vintage ALF door-poster? Thanks, Big Slim Jim!

So, yeah. That's where the Vienna on the MidLife icon to the left came from. The keen amongst you might notice I've changed her eyes - this comic's so old, it predates her solidified color scheme; her terrible eye-jaundice pretty much the final step in the  desecration of Vienna. The grosser-er, the better-er. 

From #BoringCaucasian to #PurplePower... 2017 vs 2026

Though the whole white-to-yellow thing is an inconsistency even onscreen, on film, it works. She's rotting! Like threads through the rubber eyelids of a damp plasticine corpse, we wove it in. I've come to enjoy a healthy shaking-up of color schemes as it all goes on... and on. 

...Have I ever mentioned how much I love those little tiny mandarin-type oranges? So good.