I'll bold the ones that I've got now, and italicise the ones that I'm bidding on (if I can).

Year	Snake-Eyes Version	Year	Storm Shadow Version
1982	v1
1983	v1.5 (kung-fu grip)	1984	v1
1985	v2	1988	v2
1989	v3
1991	v4	1992	v3
1993	v5
1994	v6	1994	v4
1997	v7	1997	v5
1997	v8
2000	v9	2000	v6
2002	v10	2002	v7
2002	v11	2002	v8
2002	v12	2002	v9
2002	v13
2002	v14	2002	v10
2003	v15
2003	v16
2004	v17	2004	v11
2004	v18	2004	v12
2004	v19	2004	v15
2004	v20	2004	v14
2004	v21	2004	v16
2005	v22	2004	v13
2005	v23	2005	v17
2005	v24	2005	v18
2005	v25	2005	v19
2005	v26	2005	v20
2005	v27
2006	CLASSIFIED	2006	Tommy Arashikage
2007	v28	2007	v21
2007	v29	2007	v22
2008	v30	2007	v23
2008	v31	2008	v24
2008	v32	2008	v25
2008	v33	2008	Red Ninja Leader
2008	v34	2008	v26
2008	v35
2008	v36
2008	v37
2008	v38	2008	v27
2009	v39	2009	v29
2009	v40
2009	v41	2009	v30
2009	v42	2009	v31
2009	v43	2009	v32
2009	v44	2009	v33
2009	v45	2009	v34b
2009	v46	2009	v34a
2009	v47	2009	v35
2009	v48	2009	v36
2009	v49	2009	v37
2010	v50
2010	v51	2010	v38
2010	v52	2010	v39
2010	v53	2010	v40
2011	v54
2011	v55 [image courtesy www.generalsjoes.com]	2009	v28
2011	v56

Can I just get a Hellacious Yeah?

Right on.

I have a story about Storm Shadow that someday I'll write in the other blog. For now, I'm just using this page as a place to keep track of the Storm Shadows that I've got while getting a visual cue as to which one is which. While I love the yojoe.com site, they don't list all these badboys on one page, and instead you have to click on each version and wait 9 days for all the ads to load.

All images are courtesy of YoJoe.com and I thank them for letting me post them here even though I didn't ask.

Version	Year	Figure/Accessories
v1	1984
v2	1988
v3	1992
v4	1994
v5	1997
v6	2000
v7	2002
v8	2002
v9	2002
v10	2002
v11	2004
v12	2004
v13	2004
v14	2004
v15	2004
v16	2004
v17	2005
v18	2005
v19	2005
v20	2005		Tommy Arashikage	2006
v21	2007
v22	2007
v23	2007
v24	2008
v25	2008
v26	2008
v27	2008
v28	2009
v29	2009
v30	2009
v31	2009
v32	2009
v33	2009
v34a	2009
v34b	2009
v35	2009
v36	2009
v37	2009
v38	2010
v39	2010

It's Australia Day here (in Australia... um... yeah, in case yer stupid) and I'm looking forward to it kickin' the shitwaddins out of The 4th of July.

Shaddap, I'm an Aussie now, I get to say shit like that... and mean it.

Australia Day also means that our HNT was inspired by a swell of patriotism.

At least that's what we called it this morning... heh.

I can truthfully say, without a shadow of a doubt, that I am the...

Luckiest.

Man.

Ever.

She and I are a Year Old together, yay.

So... Jeezus, where to begin? I figure that, after a year, I can hit that point of just random, meaningless, brain-vomiting and pass it off as an entry. I mean Really... why am I so concerned about writing something worth a shit when I've continually proven that I don't do this near as often as I think I need to?

If I could pinpoint one year of my entire fucking life that had more momentous changes, emotional and physical highs and lows, new adventures, nipple-tweaking, and spiritual growth, than this one, then I... what?

Oh, right. I was just seeing if you were listening. The \"nipple tweaking\" year was back in Junior High, and it scarred me for life. Let's never talk about that ever again.

A year ago, the other day... I read an email about something that was ass-achingly funny, and I clicked on the link. Needless to say, I fell in love.

*cough* YEAH, with the idea of blogging and being funny and having panties 'n shit thrown at me... *cough* NOT with D-bag.

OUR love would have to wait.

I started telling stupid stories, got linked by said D-bag, Fuck Knows Why, and the panty-throwing began.

Awesome.

I learned to write for the catharsis, and expelled some pretty fucked-up shit from my brain into the online world. It felt good, I got great feedback, and it set some things in motion.

I documented some more fucked-up shit, and left a lot out too.

I \"met,\" made friends with, and fell in love with the woman I'm going to marry.

Life is Good.

Honestly, and it's rare that I'm this honest in here, but I'm fucking depressed. I have almost zero motivation in my life to do anything other than breathe in and out during the day, and spend all my time with WifeToBe at night. Getting a visa, selling this house, and staying alive are hardly noble motivations in the context of Living Life, I'll admit, but they all lead me to Her.

To say that she is the most important thing in my life would be selling her terribly short.

She is the One Thing I've been needing for my entire life, and I am hers. To have found that, and then part from it... well Yeah, it gets depressing. We're closer now than I've ever witnessed from two people being, yet we're 10,000 miles apart.

\"This is good,\" I hear myself saying, \"that you can do this across such a distance.\"

That doesn't mean it doesn't Suck. It does.

So... this is Me, dealing with Suckage, and missing my wife.

I'll do my best to write in here when inspired, but inspiration isn't here right now, and obviously hasn't been for a while.

Fuck, to see that written out makes me want to apologize for being such a Fucking PoopyPants... but it's there, and I won't pretend it's not.

I told Pimp to look out for me updating less frequently, and he reminded me that the last time I said that, I came back with a vengeance.

Well, here's hoping, eh?

Wish me luck.

Not happenin', so I started drinking.

I briefly considered writing an actual entry, but instead remembered all of the pics that I'd taken during the week, as well as my own increased level of inebriation.

Whenever I go \"drunken posting,\" I end up with something sappy and emoty, so I'm copping out with these.

MyCompany's office move is complete, and CubeWorld no longer exists in reference to Judd's Hole (at least where my career is concerned).

Spacious and welcoming, complete with props to my white-trash heritage, my \"cube\" will be further enhanced after a group trip to Toys R Us this coming Monday.

This is the view from my desk.

That definitely DOESN'T suck.

Our current building must have been a daycare or \"Office of Under the Rainbowers\" though... hence my only complaint.

The damn pisser is about 5 fuckin' inches offa the floor.

I'm working on the start-far-away-and-work-your-way-in technique as well as the aim-directly-into-the-drain-holes technique. Thus far, neither have worked to avoid splatter, and I'm wiping my boots off every goddam trip.

There's a \"workout room\" stocked with fancy-schmancy bikes and some weights and a shower in the men's room.

I've been hitting ze veights tho, after hours, and shall be buff Basedow-style soon.

Oh, except for that whole beer-drinking thing. Um, never mind.

For reference, \"limparme antes limpia el bano por favor\" does NOT mean \"please let me shower before you clean the bathroom,\" but rather something along the lines of \"please clean me before you clean the bathroom.\"

My Spanish is for shit, but I've made quick friends with the nice Hispanic woman that cleans our offices.

In honor of St. Patrick and his special day, I wore the Utilikilt to work, mostly in hopes that I could entice some of my coworkers out for an evening of \"let's see how much Guinness we can drink before we piss on ourselves,\" but I was rebuffed.

For fear of the crowds and the cops downtown, the Montanan and I hit a bar in Highlands Ranch, which proved to be quite lame, but we bullshitted and told lies until we were lit up enough to liven up the place.

The Montanan proved that one's camera skills can only be increased by alcohol with this stunning, artistic, shot of the bar.

I also had on my \"Go Fuck Yourself, Eh?\" hat, courtesy of the Surly Canuck.

See? Cole does more than just leave repressed-flambouyantly gay comments on here folks. Go visit him. It's cold up North, and his hands are probably too numb for some \"quality time.\"

The Montanan was looking quite dapper, and I got drunk enough to put the moves on him, but he kept saying/screaming something about how he has a girlfriend and wouldn't go for me despite the fact that I was in a kilt. He still enjoyed it when I grabbed his tits though, he can't deny that.

He's still wanted back home for questioning in a bizarre-love-triangle-double-murder involving some sheep, a hairdryer, and a 5-pound box of walnuts, so he's permanently altered his appearance.

Despite the fact that our waitress kept the beer flowing like mud, she did express interest in what is under the kilt, as well as the accompanying Dance of Explanation.

But, she avoided a St. Patty's Day Molestation by claiming that she was getting over Strep, or Mono, or some shit.

It was snowing last weekend while I was on the phone with Femme Australis, and she tasked me with two things.

The first... to make a fresh snow angel.

The second was more of a theory, that she and ThirdSister were interested in testing out.

I made the snow angel a GIRL in the interests of testing this theory (as well as for my own manly needs), but simply got too fucking cold to test it. I won't go into details, for fear of giving away their idea...

*cough SnowmanPorn cough*

...but it's a million dollars baby, for sure.

The problem with starting in on the beer at 4 PM is that I run out, and my head hurts, by 8. My choices were previously A) go to bed now, or 2) walk to the liquor store for more.

The Montanan just called. He's on his way to his girlfriend's hockey game and he wants me to go. Hmmm.

\"Dude, it's up North, but they've got a bar upstairs... a BAR.\"

Go Hockey Chicks.

Watch out for deer.

P.S. About a million years ago, I made another survey. I forget the name of it, and can't seem to link to it, either because I'm drunk or Andy-roo still ain't fixed everything, but go fill it out. It doesn't suck near as bad as the other one, I promise.

And by \"promise\" I mean \"forgot to care whether or not I suck.\"

But... I'm trying, and that's all I really can do.

You don't know why I write in here and you don't know how much of what's in here is really me.

You don't know that I write cocky, smartass, funny, fuck-around, shit in here to cover up the insecurities that corrupt my personality. You don't know that I leave comments on other people's sites that are equally as smartassish in the hopes that I'll make them and the people that read them laugh and like me. You don't know that I write in here to vent that which I normally wouldn't express, and I do it in such a large forum because I am constantly seeking validation and this is the easiest way to get it.

You don't know that I am wracked with the same bullshit that I see and hear in so many places, in so many other people. My insecurities about physical looks, intelligence, and wit, are not unique I am sure, but that doesn't make them any less real and powerful to me.

You don't know how real and powerful they are to me.

You don't know how hard it is for me to face that I am always trying to do the right thing yet sometimes, or even often, fail. My impish-eyed dog stares at me while I type this, expectant of love in the form of playtime, or even a treat. You don't know how hard it is to give her a treat and watch her drop it on the floor, still eyeing me expectantly, and for me to realize that she wants my time and my love more than a CrunchyChewyBone. You don't know how much it hurts to realize that I don't have it to give right now.

You don't know how hard it is to always want to be the key difference in pressure situations, and how much it hurts when that difference is negative. A lot of situations in my life mean many things to many people but sometimes the outcome is negative and I didn't have my all to give at the time. You don't know how much that hurts.

You don't know how much I judge, and usually resent, those that don't see things the way I do. How much I wish I didn't do it and try not to, yet tend to be aware of it only after I've hurt someone's feelings or even pushed them away from me in a fit of self-righteousness and over-inflated ego.

You don't know why I love those that I love and how much I love them.

You don't know that Shithead can be a complete fuck-up, yet has been the most loyal and true friend that I've ever known and is a great father. You don't know that I've pushed him away regardless of this.

You don't know that, despite how much I love her now, I've resented The Mom for most of my life for being only a telephone and neat handwriting when I needed her while growing up. You don't know how much I recoil from any attempt of hers at \"mothering\" and instead consider her my absolute bestest friend, and nothing more.

You don't know that The Girl is a sweet, funny, compassionate, wonderful person. She still reads this though I prefer her not to, but that isn't why I write these words. I write them because they are what I believe, and I believe that you don't know a lot about her. He said-She said, is a game that I've never wanted to be part of, yet I understand that I have written mostly about the shit in our relationship and that anyone who reads anything about her (even if I asked them not to) may construct an unfair opinion.

That said, I'm not here to be fair, for life isn't fucking fair and this is my own little spot on the web to do with what I choose. I choose to be as honest as I know how and it's up to you to deal with that.

You don't know that neither The Girl nor myself handled our relationship particularly well, and that if blame has to be assigned, it should be in exactly equal parts.

You don't know that she is a person that rarely, if ever, believed that she is beautiful, inside and out, and you don't know what it meant to me to cup her face in my hands, kiss her lips, tell her this, and have her truly believe it.

You don't know how much it hurts to be unable to do that anymore.

You don't know why we split up either. You don't know how long I was with someone that I inherently knew I shouldn't be with and how, towards the end, I was cowardly looking for an excuse to get out. You don't know how guilty I feel about this.

You don't know how good it feels to be facing my life on my terms.

You don't know why I fell in love with MarriedGirl and how, despite the subversiveness and the fact that it could technically be referred to as an \"affair,\" nothing ever happened because we never physically met. You don't know how intense things got, or why they ended. You don't know how much I care for her now, and how guilty I feel for pulling away the way that I did.

You don't know why I fell in love with Femme Australis, or why I impulsively blew my entire profit-sharing bonus on a plane ticket to see her. You don't know the ways that we've connected, and you don't know the ways that we've parted. You don't know why I believe what I believe about us, and you don't know why I doubt what I doubt about us. You don't know how much she's unwittingly taught me about myself throughout the course of the last 8 months, how much she's gone through, and how much she is still going through. You don't know how difficult it is for me to deal with any of this from 10,000 miles away.

You don't know why I can love someone, anyone, so much, yet separate myself from them, for what I believe is for the better. You don't know how bad I am at this and how I sometimes really fuck things up in my efforts to \"do the right thing for all concerned.\"

You don't know how much it touches me when people, random strangers who read this drivel, reach out to me, and how much I push them away because of my own insecurities and judgmental nature.

You don't know how much I appreciate certain things, and you don't know how much I take certain things for granted.

You don't know how often the smallest things bring me immense joy, and how often the smallest things bring me immense pain.

You don't know how much I hate my life or how much I love it.

You don't really know who I am.

You don't really know any of this, because I don't really know any of it myself.

I'm trying my best though, and that's really all I can do.

\"Yeah, I just attach one of these stickers to anything I want moved?\"

\"Anything on the approved list, Yes.\"

\"What about something of value that I want kept safe...\"

\"No, they won't move your hat for you.\"

\"But I want my important stuff safe. What about if I put a sticker right here...\"

\"NO, they're not moving THAT! Pervert.\"

\"The code I wrote would've worked, but it would've been ghetto.\"

\"'Ghetto?' What the hell are you talking about?\"

\"You know... it would've been all 'Bitch, I be loadin' the muffuckin' page 'n shit, but don't be steppin' to mah shit, o' ah'll bust a unterminated string constant on line 152, character 47 on yo' punkass.'\"

\"Jeezus... you're really...\"

\"Unh. Unh. Damn, it feels good to be a Geeksta.\"

\"Guys, there's no way we should be tied with these idiots right now. We need to score some goals.\"

\"Yeah, we're not passionate enough!\"

\"Wow. Gonzo, I've never heard you talk like that before...\"

\"Yeah man, I'm wide open by the net, and no one is passion me the damn puck.\"

\"Dude, take out your teethguard before trying to talk. Dumbass.\"

\"Hey, that last shower's all yours.\"

\"Thanks, good game goalie. Ungh.\"

\"Thanks, you too. What's wrong with you? Why you rubbing like that?\"

\"Oh, pulled my fuckin' groin in the third period, hurts like a bitch.\"

\"Well, the way you got that towel there, it looks kind of funny.\"

\"Hey, 'zat shower open? WHOA, Dude... this ain't that kind o' party, man.\"

\"We're all stressed by this project and by the office moving. We'll just have to keep on eye on each other for signs of burnout.\"

\"Burnout? Like when I start talking to myself? Or when I start eating my Sticky-Notes like those fresh breath minty strips?\"

\"Shpppfffffffftttttttttt!!!\"

\"Dude, it wasn't that funny.\"

\"Fuck, that wasn't water. That was Mir@cleGro.\"

\"In the water bottle?\"

\"Yeah, I mixed it in my water bottle for my plants. Fuck. I just drank Mir@cleGro.\"

\"Heh, maybe we should add that to the 'Signs of Burnout' list. So, are you gonna yak now, or grow leaves and shit out of your ears?\"

\"I want more than anything to be there with her. It's really hard to not be able to do that, especially when I'm not real or tangible to her yet, and she becomes distant. This really sucks.\"

\"Yeah, but you'll be there soon, and then have to leave. That'll really suck.\"

\"A lot of this is going to suck.\"

\"You regretting the trip?\"

\"Never regretted anything, not gonna start now.\"

\"It's a big leap. A real gamble.\"

\"Yeah, it is. Didn't really have any other choice though.\"

\"Sure you did.\"

\"And live the rest of my life wondering and what-iffing about what I may have potentially had?\"

\"Hmm. Yeah, I guess you didn't. One thing though?\"

\"Yeah?\"

\"If she's your soulmate and you move to Australia, I want a kangaroo.\"

\"Why don't you just come out and ASK me to hit you in the head?\"

There's also something to be said for their visions coming to fruition through a handful of people's backbreaking labor in an extremely short amount of time, with the hopes that this vision will bring in tens of millions of dollars very soon.

Both of those somethings are: HOLY FUCKING SHIT.

Which can mean either \"Kill Kirk,\" or \"Hallelujah,\" depending on context.

Aside from the occasional hours-long conversation with my foreign love and a hockey game here and there, I've been at work every waking moment all fucking week.

CoWorkerBuddy and I have been frickin' killing ourselves on this project, staying late every night, and growing to \"NORM!\" status at the local coffee shop in the early morning hours. When purchasing those little Fight-Cancer Paper Shamrocks with our coffee every morning and requesting that CuteCoffeeGirl write in our names for us, it's never a good sign that we were dubbed, \"Snarly CWB\" and \"Itchy-eyed Zombie Jed.\"

I would've corrected my name spelling were I not so busy leaning submissively on the counter and contemplating weeping openly at my obvious stress.

As we were facing the wrapping up of this project on Thursday night, a full day early, we were invited out for a beer by BossGuy, immediately after he informed us that our project was being bumped and we'd sacrificed valuable chunks of our sanity for virtually nothing.

\"A\" beer turned into many, and after CoWorkerBuddy wussily left for his bed BossGuy got the Hall Pass from his Spousal Unit and it was on.

We drank and talked and smoked, we harassed the waitress and he offered me 10 bucks to ask her out. I never made it past, \"I'm 30, how old are you?\" \"I'm 20 and a half.\"

Jeezus. I would never have pursued her anyway, but 10 bucks isn't worth the sharp decline my IQ would take by simply engaging her in conversation.

Much fun was had though, and I got to know a lot about the person most immediately involved in my career's future. He's truly an amazing man and I respect him immensely. Very cool.

He also has an unhealthy fondness for shots of Jack Daniels and toasts. Not so very cool.

Colorado's night air always has a sobering effect, but I'm not completely retarded, even when drunk, so I only made it to the end of the parking lot before I decided to either A) Call a cab, or 2) Cross the street and sleep in my office without bothering Eduardo's late-night cleaning crew and getting a vacuum wedged in my ass as I lay curled up under my desk.

I'd forgotten my phone, but have always been blessed with a perfect sense of direction and good friends, so when I showed up on the doorstep of a hockey buddy that lived nearby, he laughed and welcomed me in and to his couch, promising not to anally violate me after I passed out. That's love, people.

There's only so many times that I wish to wake up with a pounding head, roiling stomach, stinking like beer, whiskey, and smoke, with a large animal licking my face. Depending on what kind of animal and whether or not she paid for my drinks the night before, I'm thinking...

Never Fucking Again.

My buddy's Labrador apparently didn't agree to our \"No Molesting of Drunken Judd\" pact. Bathing in Canine Cologne is a great way to start a Friday.

That morning our office was filled with our newest multi-multi-million-dollar clients and we had a new CodeGeek starting too, so hungover-stinky-sleep-deprived-Judd was a truly magnificent sight, of this I am certain.

Even groaning, bleary-eyed, reeking of alcohol and smoke, and wearing the same slightly soiled clothes as the day before, they still love me.

Proof that I'm indelibly leaving my mark on MyCompany was shown in an interview BossGuy conducted that morning. He appeared to be completely unaffected by the previous evening's debauchery except for the fact that he traded in the standard interview question of, \"Can you describe your ideal work environment?\" with \"How would you feel if you were deeply immersed in work at your desk and were pelted in the back of the head by Nerf darts?\"

Any applicant with the proper mettle would surely appreciate the fact that the plastic-wrap from our new server racks was left on my desk and that this instantly inspired the idea of a new Office-Olympics Event I like to call, \"Who Can Fuck CubeWorld the Deepest?\"

I couldn't get the end of the plastic-wrap to hold in a \"reservoir-tip\" fashion while still allowing me to breathe, so I simply cut a hole out for my head and donned my \"Don't be Dumb\" helmet (aptly named after I kept repeatedly banging my head against the walls of my cube following production errors).

The phallic nature of the helmet and the sheathing of myself in plastic inspired the name of the game, but the possibility of \"bodily harm,\" \"rug burns,\" and other PussySissySally terms meant that I would be the only participant thus far.

One of my coworkers declined my invitation to the game and then immediately began placing bets on what parts of myself I would injure and to what degree of severity.

Despite the fact that ALL onlookers seemed certain that I was going to hurt myself, I was not to be dissuaded.

I forgot my goalie cup though, so I knew my form had to be perfect.

With a distance of 7.3 feet and a whopping 5 style points, it's probably best that no one else wanted to play anyway as they never could've beaten me with those numbers.

Plus, my madly-hopping delayed reaction to the friction-generated pain covering the front of my body caused bodily-fluid-releasing laughter from onlookers, and was poor incentive.

Next time I'm requesting that they throw in a bottle of KY with their body-length plastic-wrap, 'cause... That. Fucking. Hurt.

Now, Saturdays mean that I get to clean all fucking morning, strip all personal effects from this goddam Hotel-of-a-house, and disappear with AssHead for several hours while strangers openly critique my housekeeping and home-improvement skills. They still aren't fucking buying, but I'm not bitter as a fucking mouthful of moldy coffee grounds either.

AT ALL.

My buddy, The Montanan, called though, and invited me over for a couple beers. The sumbitch failed to mention that his \"invite\" was a clever euphemism for \"help me move my 7-thousand pound Keggerator out of the basement\" and that he didn't really have any beer.

He also failed to mention that Parker isn't really a \"suburb\" of Denver, like I'd always thought, but is just a Stone's Throw *cough ReallyFuckingFar cough* from Lakewood, where AssHead and I were perusing potential abodes.

He also left out the fact that he has toys. Lots of 'em. Big Boy TOYS, and they kick much ass. We cranked up his old turntable and vintage collection of Zeppelin, drank numerous bottles of MGD, revved his Harley to neighbors-contemplating-homicide levels, kicked the tires on his climb-the-sides-of-skyscrapers Jeep, and played foosball, pool, and basement hockey while ever-attempting to impress each other with increasingly loud and disgusting beer belches.

Phrases like \"Fuckstick\" and \"Shitsucker\" were thrown around with much machismo-laden affection.

We even scratched and drank and smoked and discussed the '79 Trans Am parts that used to be under his back porch.

Apart from the discussion of his numerous Engineering Degrees, we WhiteTrashed it up like a coupla champs.

As much fun as was being had, I had to bust across town in time to babysit LittleBrother while The Mom and LifePartner attended some sort of soiree.

I'd brought along some stuff that I thought would keep him busy, and while I was making dinner he found the WebCam.

Being the role-model-type-guy that I am, I had to show him how it was done.

Me	My Protege

The kid's a quick study, but the cord on the cam crapped out before we could capture ourselves Spidermanning up the walls and ceiling. Bummer.

LittleBrother's a good kid, but can be a bit picky about food. This may fly with LifePartner, but not when Judd is cooking.

\"Ew. What's that?\"

\"Don't 'ew' me, they're potatoes and they're yummy. Broccoli and chicken strips too.\"

\"I'm not a big fan of potatoes or broccoli.\"

\"Oh yeah? You a big fan of Letters to Grandma?*\"

*Involves pinning child down with knees while pounding on their chest typewriter-style with your fingers... \"D-e-a-r\" *pound pound pound*

He shrieked and recoiled, \"Noooooooooooo!\"

I casually explained to him that I was going to subject him to Letters to Grandma every time I saw him, and without eating his vegetables, he'd never be able to stop me.

I know, I know, I never thought I'd hear myself using that whole \"eat your veggies and grow up big and strong\" bit either, but the kid cleaned his entire plate, so it's hard to argue with the results.

Neither of my two favorite Aussies were online, so we watched us some SpiderMan vs. Doc Ock, and worked in the sketchbook after being suitably inspired.

LittleBrother's got some talent too, and even though we argued theology for 15 minutes while I was tucking him in, I promised him that \"our\" picture, even unfinished, was good enough to show to folks.

Calm down, I didn't blast off into a tangent about my thoughts on Organized Religion or the existence of the Big \"G,\" he's only 8 for chrissakes.

I just had to explain to him that even though I had no proof that one won't be magically gifted with the Powers of SpiderMan even if he prays really hard, I'd never heard of it happening either.

He decided it was worth a shot though, and that works for me. He prayed for love and peace and alla the good stuff too, but I gotta confess, I'd love me some Spidey Powers, so LittleBrother told me he'd throw in my request too.

Sweet.

Chicks dig Spiderman.