Hey, Enziite! It’s almost March! I am not so forgiving as February, who has granted you an extra day to deal with this problem. Unlike the understanding I have reached with the fine West Haven pizza restaurant which graciously, unknowingly provided my mouse surface, I don’t excuse you assaulting me with christmas crassness after Christmas! Also, I don’t excuse you assaulting me with christmas crassness before or during christmas. Additionally, I don’t excuse your regular crassness during regular parts of the year. Because I happen to like pizza a lot more than erecto-pill ads. I forgot that I spilled a drink and the employees were jobos, because I liked the pizza. I’ll never forget I hate that ho Bob and his inexplicable fake Andy Griffith Show whistles. I’m sure that thinks it’s making fun of something, and when I found out what, I’ll tell it and help it plot its revenge.
There is also a series of forgotten Santa Claus pictures hanging around in the slightly-less-boring part of Madison,
but nobody pays money to make me see them. And they aren’t trying to make me think of peenozzles, either. I get enough vulgar robot junk comments without words like that spelled properly, thankoo.
How does anyone who this appeals to not get murdered long enough to buy viraga?
I thought ‘they’, the pharmaceutical lords of Americo who answer to no one, made that stuff for old people, which advertisers generally don’t care about targetting smug obnoxious ads at. But thehhhh, I used to think the same thing about hair paint, and I, apparently, don’t learn enough about that, either.
I was thinking again recently, about pork and beans. Beets AND pork and beans. I can’t handle them both!
DON’T… Don’t you try and distract me from my mission!
But beets and pork and beans? Really? Why can’t we compromise? Why not just beets and beans? Or beets and pork? Or how about no beets whatsoever and we only buy the pork and beans? I don’t see why things need to be so complicated!
The fact that I’m buying them in cans ought to indicate that I prefer to have difficult tasks done for me. And… and… How am I supposed to have a serious discussion about these important matters with that stupid animal interrupting me all the time, filling up the whole page with itself and idiotic opposing statements comprised of letters three times as large as mine? It’s really not fair.
Then how do you get away with not wearing clothes? You’re being absurd.
THAT DOESN’T… no, nevermind. Also, it has no nose. Yes, so, that’s the reason putting new things on this website has been so difficult the past few months, and I don’t expect it to improve.
This is one of the final frames from the astounding Arabic opening to the rarely remembered 1978 pop pop pop pop Pop-eye cartoon. Unfortunately, I can no longer find the video online, and at the time when I could I had not yet gotten into the habit of saving such things for later viewing. What’s important right just now is this picture and the important question it raises. Do we really need six Popeyes? It is not as if there are six Blutos! Certainly never at the same time, the Brutus factor notwithstanding (I think I used that word right). And yet somehow that is the amount of popeyes present.
Though a wise man once said “Once you pop, you can’t stop,” therefore explaining how, we have yet to determine why there must be so many Popeyes. Two-thirds of the characters on this program are Popeye! That is not good. There’s regular Popeye, old Popeye, an astounding four miniature Popeyes, who will, unless we act, one day be fully grown Popeyes, and… while Sweepy (akadaka “Swee’ Pea”) is not biologically related to Popeye, he has spent nearly his entire life under the influence of regular Popeye, and has been known to emulate that Popeye’s habits and behaviors. So really, there are six and a half Popeyes. This is more than my mind can comprehend.
Additionally, I will assume, by the distance, that the three popeyes on the left are nephews and that the one small popeye in the middle is a direct descendant, delivered by stork (or more likely pelican) to normal Popeye. However, any Popeye scholar knows, just to show he’s better than Donald Duck, that regular Popeye has four nephews, one of which is merely estranged. Somewhere in the world is a seventh Popeye, bitter and resentful, looking for revenge. I’m scared.
Arlington National Cemetery, I went there, once. It was during my trip to Washington Dic in September of 2006. I wrote about that length of time extensively but simply lack the discipline to order things these days.
Ennywaw, my feet had been totally destroyed by a combination of walking everywhere, doing it for hours, wearing cheap shoes, and this being the third day of that. We (we being us) had already checked out of the hotel (the mysteriously named George Washington hotel), and I assumed we had begun the long stupid car trip back to Connecticut, but then a graveyard appeared and, well, you know. Graveyards. Who wouldn’t want to get out and take a look? Evidently no one I’m directly related to.
I was a bit worried, having left my whip and case of holy water at home, but I went out among the dead anyway. What choice did I have? I was only 23 years old, for smedley’s sake. I followed the procession up a few hills, at which point the pain returned and it became clear that even if I turned back immediately I would not escape undamaged. Not from undead with military training angry at my failure to meet the posted reverence specifications, my feet. I told you my feet hurt.
How am I supposed to silently acknowledge invisible death boxes when I feel like I may die myself? My besocked limb terminuses, they were as fried fish filets, and I don’t even like fish, so if I fell down and faced starvation it would take me longer than usual to get started eating them, and by then it may be too late. This does present an interesting question, at least: If you drop dead in a cemetery, what is done to your corpse?
Not actual photograph
People brought kids. People brought babies. Why would you do this to them? You are not teaching them rethpect. You are teaching them resentment. I know. I’ve been going to awful war monuments for years. I’m fairly certain my day at Shiloh in 1990 or so was one of the worst of my life up to and beyond that point, and I had more practical shoes then. I had not known such disappointment up to then and thus could not protect myself against it. Death is disappointing.
In the considerably more recent past, as I was retreating to automobile, fleeing my fate among the dead Kennedies, I saw people coming. “Goooooh baaaaack!”, I truly wanted to warn them. But I couldn’t. The signs said to be quiet. If I’d started exclaiming and making a fuss, why, there would probably be dispatched a security guard to come pick me up and carry me off the premises.
I’d never put a little icon on my page that says “I honor people, not graves,” but this whole business still bothers me a bit. Don’t ever put me in the ground, please.
For whatever reason, either fear of mega-americans or angry zombies, or maybe my camera was full of pictures of “please excuse the inconvenience” signs from the previous day’s National Zoo tour, I did not end up with an actual image from within the bone zone, but here’s a book about drawing with a cover by someone who can’t. It’s illustration now! after all, not illustration in a couple minutes!. This book tells you how to turn out the artistic equivalent of microwave popcorn. I guess. I assumed, looking at this picture I’ve long since forgotten producing, it was all Gary Baseman (for that is the artist’s name) junk but a glance online tells me this is in some form represents a wide variety of people who mass produce what is likely ugly commercial rubbish. Indeed, this cover now seems to say “150 illustrators” on it, but I can’t blame myself for not studying it with but the same dedication and interest I give an end-user license agreement. Also, the author is Julius Wiedemann, not Jesus Wilberman. I was mildly disappointed. But I’m used to it.
Aw naw, not again. What could that lizard, “lope,” eater of muffins, possibly have to smile about?
It looks dumb, people hate it, people abuse it, it can’t walk without stomping, it can’t dress properly, it says things like “muffinty three!” (I have not personally experienced the last item, but for some reason I imagine this would happen), and its ridiculous neck brings no benefit at all. That lizard lives the instruction manual for misery.
Oh, and apparently it randomly turns into a mouse. That’s… that’s really… I have to go.
Over the years I have seen, plenty more than once, films or television program episodes advertised in which a character dances gleefully to trashy music / embarrassing self-recreation of trashy music while wearing only under-garment type clothing. I am personally of the belief that this does not happen. Or if it does, I doubt that this is with frequency approaching what is suggested to me that it is. I further believe that anyone who would do this would make sure itself was totally alone and lock any adjoining doors and cover any exposed windows. Regardless of whether the person is cornily and/or murderly interrupted, I think it looks stupid and I hate seeing it. Anybody who has personally witnessed or felt the impulse to do this… probably wouldn’t tell me, especially given my negative attitude toward it, so I will continue thinking as I have. …I’m not going to tell you what, if anything, provokes my chemicals, but it’s not underpant/”swimsuit” people and I’m sick of seeing them. I do not need more little triangles of taut rubbery fabrics in my life.
I don’t think fat or skinny or otherwise regarded as “unattractive” by popular media outhouses men dressed the same are instantly hilarious, either. Even if they are additionally wearing socks and sunglasses and singing that “bob bob baran” song.
Oh, and allegedly your dad is better than mine. I thought The Strike was ending. ? I’m still not watching the dumb olympics. I didn’t know they were on, but that’s the only logical reason for those stupid rings to be beneath the national broadcasting company logo at all times. Unless you would have me believe the ill-defined peacock is riding an ill-defined bicycle sideways.
I don’t understand pornography. I know that usually men like looking at pictures of naked women and occasionally women like looking at pictures of naked men. Fine. Ehhh…. but I don’t understand how they also like looking at men and women doing stuff together. Wouldn’t the sight of one of their own kind put them off the mental state they’re trying to create? Must research more (don’t wanna!). But perhaps you’ve guessed that though never wanting to I’ve encountered these pictures on the internet. You might wonder what I was looking for but I hope you don’t.
I also do not understand why anybody would want to see viscous white fluids doing whatever. I, prior to this undesired exposure, had I any concept of what was coming, would have assumed that part of a process to be an unfortunate side effect of the act that people just dealt with because they had to. Yet there it is, in that picture, which somebody drew, which somebody painted, as if somebody wanted to see it. Ew. We needn’t discuss how hair complicates things.
Yes, so, not just photographs, people draw this rabbage. Some people appear to draw nothing else. They can say “look (no!), this is a thing I do to amuse myself and my weird friends. This is not my job. I work on a boat.” Well I’m not criticizing them for that today. I’m just wondering how anyone likes it. Unnnnnnyihhhheah.
Sure, I’ve drawn them, naked people things, but never because I wanted to. I was there in the room to draw life, and at that particular point in time it just happened to be a part of life. I’m glad the models were clean and apparently dry. I wasn’t glad then because the alternative wasn’t making itself relevant and I wasn’t thinking about it.
There’s nothing worse than a self-righteous pervert. I’m not saying my “thing” is half-open soup cans, but if it was, I wouldn’t cover this page with them and act like I think everyone thinks it’s great and I’m doing them a favor. Though I probably would be, because it’s not like we can type a synonym for erotic imagery into google or the yahew and have that come up. We have to work for it. We should unite, pool our resources and findings, but to do that we’d need to “out” ourselves, and oh! the shame we feel.
I don’t get mass e-mail telling me where to get my hot can pix in exchange for simply running password stealing malware. Life is hard. Sometimes it seems like life is the only thing that’s hard. It’s not as hard as it was back when “can” was a popular synonym for human posteriors, however. I almost became a monk. Alas, I could not master spinning on my head in time for our Tonight Show appearance and consequently was not issued a pair of sacred white sneaker shoes. I resigned in disgrace.
And tins never get the job done. You’re probably wondering why I don’t like the Shop Rite Can-Can sale (featuring beets and pork & beans!). I just think it’s tasteless, that’s all. What I do with my cans is my own business and I don’t like to see a spectacle made of it. I’m no ho.
Hey, have you seen those new cans the kids are buying where you just pull the tab, and don’t need a can-opener or anything? What about foreplay? If I wanted to do it like that I’d just buy Spam, where the whole lid comes off at once. Yes, the reason I don’t buy Spam Luncheon Meat is out at last. That’s the real reason I stopped making jokes about it every single day of my life. We just didn’t have fun anymore. The magic was gone.
At important gatherings of magnitude significance it is good for one’s transportation to be stylish to match.
Wow, look at how fast we were going.
This is the place, I suppose. “Small Space” will reveal itself to be terrifyingly accurate.
Because of slightly vomitous colors and what appear to be very prominent inkroller lines, my pictures looked like they came out of a printer at Staples. Which they did. Nobody else’s did. Even the ones that did come out of printers. Due to all the wide areas of color, additionally, the stupid way I wrote names on them (which I ordinarily would not do, combined with my needless desire to do all feasible things in difficult ways creating an amateurish presentation) made the frames look strange, but I had no contact with the framer. Yes, so, you can see why they stuck most of my pictures in this dopey cubicle here where no one would presume to look unless they accidentally looked inside first, which I have to imagine few are inherently curious enough to do. Rather than in the main hall-type area or the eating room. The actual gallery room was out sick. By the roy, the person here is Jayred, a friend of my sister Seabass. Which is odd, because as far as I could discern she wasn’t here at all.
On this side, owned by the cubicle’s normal resident is artwork which it appears I either made or am in direct competition with.
This one, 44.Self Defense is the worst. This big blank section and it just says “umiliphus” on it. Who cares that it says umiliphus? If it’s not my real name, why is it there at all and why is it that big? I don’t know! I regretted it over two months ago! And it’s in a frame! I just look like the biggest conceited moronaff in the world. And the picture’s not even that good. That’s one of the pictures where I tried to use smooth shading with hard black outlines. Those ALWAYS look bad because I don’t know how to do it properly. And this one now looks worse than that.
This is the food table. As a result of the plates being covered, you can’t tell what’s on them. Lucky you. Additionally, blurriness caused by my hands twitching with excitement over the thought of free seltzer.
As a result of the cramped space and inexplicable attendee quantity, I could not get pictures of all things. I didn’t even get to explain to persons who ended up in my kickle cubicle out of simple space-time necessity their misconceptions about the visions upon the wall. Wearing the sweater-shirt is Alison Hummel, who luckily wasn’t offended when I asked if she had hurt her neck.
Back in the conference room turned stand and mumble inaudibly room, the culprits were instructed to stand against one wall, police line up style. While I will not doubt I have done something illegal throughout my involvement with this program, I thought I would at least get arrested and rape-searched first. I thought I had rights.
Some people took photographs of me, of “us,” but I don’t know what became of the results. I assume the camera-users’ employments require faster response time than whatever this is that I do for free does, so if the snapsh-… shots haven’t been used yet they probably won’t be. I have to imagine in the photographs that the person in my place comes across a tad jackassish beyond acceptable levels, because I could feel that my facial expressions weren’t working properly. I kept trying to raise an eyebrow but it just wasn’t happening. I was so preoccupied with doing that, I forgot to vary the expression and pose at all. Life is hard.
I put “us” in quotation marks back there because I probably said less than three sentences overall to the five artists I shared wall-space with. I didn’t feel like I was a “part” of anything with them. But that’s normal.
After the pictures some people asked questions. I remember few. My responses were suitably useless. The closest thing to “getting a laugh” occurred when I said I used to make horrible Garfield ripoff comics, possibly the only thing which was true. I wanted to take the opportunity to ask somebody “ahhhehahh yes, ahtist number three: why didn’t you add me on facebook?”, but I’ve found that the more ridiculous my questions are the more I sound like I’m serious, and at any rate I don’t need people coming here and thinking I use facebook and deeviant art.
The peculiar individual wearing a street urchin’s hat was a surprise, and really helped top off the Ellis Island feel of the area. Through unknowable circumstances I spent a single digit fraction of the two hours having things resembling conversations with that person, and on the whole it was one of the strangest non-painful experiences of my life. I gathered from the proceedings that he had seen this page, and numerous past pages which have occupied this space and/or been referred to by it. He brought an alarming number of questions about “dopes.” Of course, any number of questions about dopes is alarming, so it may have only been one. But there also were comments made regarding nemitzes and vaguely reptillian muffin-aficionados and there simply is no excuse for that. We both thought the room was needlessly warmth-saturated, but we also both were wearing coats indoors.
The visible woman near left either thinks it’s hilarious that I am taking pictures of the photographers or has quickly descended into manic delirium from cheese on sticks and weird trail mix…
There was some debate as to whether the green lumps were trix, peas, some sort of beans or meow mix. Nobody who tasted one survived.
Here brother Cochise takes notes on the art of pointing from the mysterious person. I say “mysterious person” not to be vague, for once, but because through the entire length of time he eluded anyone discovering his actual name. Quite mysterious! He seemed to me to have traveled an irrational distance to attend, and done it on a bus, at that. Combined with the interest in imp activity I could not deny that his was a life of great suffering, even if the restroom graffitists are less lazy where he comes from. I felt special to have met such an individual.
Due, perhaps, to the highly unusual nature of the event, I quickly forgot about my civil duty and did not produce nearly as many camera babies as I should have. Notably lacking from the collection is my late arrival mad-dome-getting brother Eeple filling out every remaining name card with nonsense, the mysterious person signing the guestbook as MEEPLESWORTH, and the two of them discussing the tendency for small children to only color sky in the upper inches of a drawing, with a 3/4 obscured sun hiding in a corner. I mean, those sound stupid if I just mention them without showing something.
Well there’s one, anyway. He is occupying one of two chairs available to non-employees.
A numerated list with work titles was provided to attendoys so they could identify what they were looking at. Beside each picture was a number corresponding to one beside a name on the list. Why this was considered easier than printing names rather than numbers besides the pictures themselves is just one of many reasons I would never be hired to do something like this.
A result of confusion and inaction by me and possibly other people, the official list of titles referred to my units as “Untitled.” I was graciously given the opportunity to write in the proper, stupid titles and have revised lists printed before guests arrived. Another oversight on my parts (those parts being eyes) left 41.”repent, sinners” as “repent, sinner.” That makes it seem like the dope, not the people being menaced by the dope, is the one sinning. And that’s ridiculous.
A couple of the stranger pictures got themselves sold that evening, not even the first official day. As it is necessary for them to remain in place until the date at which it is no longer necessary, the updated status was represented by red dots placed beside the frames. I just assumed they had converted to Hinduism or had a really bad game of Bingo. Because I’m a moron.
Nobody bought my ugly printouts, and I don’t blame them. I think management’s insistence on labeling mine “$50” may also have been a factor, but grapes, scary people sell tacky illegal mickey mouse prints at kiosks in the mall for twice that. A few gallerists with the power to alter the list asked me what price I’d prefer to charge and I said I was willing to haggle. That’s another problem of mine. I’ll complain about their price but I won’t come out and commit to a lesser value. Maybe I’ll go there tomorrow and try to change the prices. But then it will just look like I’m desperate to sell one. Or like I’m an exclusive TV offer that crosses out 49.95 and prints 19.95 next to it for a set of stainless steel tape dispensers only worth fifty cents. But wait! You also get the Hiyaguchi Magic Tongue Depressor, an eighty dollar value no one would ever actually pay totally free! I’m not even giving anybody an extra thing, aside from an unverifiable space wasting signature.
I once saw this whole awful pandery series of Looney Tunestm creatures dressed as various baseball teams and I don’t think one of them was priced at less than 500 smackeroos. That’s the sort of person who wants that. Somebody who says “smackeroos.” Maybe they don’t deserve to have that much money to spare, but I don’t necessarily want to think I appeal to their buying interests, either. It’s an ongoing internal struggle. I’d love to find somebody who got the New York Yankees one as a gift and say “look! they’re the Red Socks too! They’re only in it for the money! They have no integrity and aren’t actually doing anything entertaining! They have no reason to continue existing!” But then I’d either have to buy it myself or have had taken a picture of it, which I did not do, merely out of fear of the people running the store.
In addition to batheball, there were a surprising (because I’m so very naive) number of scenes based around the “these are REAL people on a film set!” awful theme. And Bugs Bunny is ALWAYS directing or hitting the home-run or in some way getting the better of someone else. So yesh, pretty much if you have a framed picture of Daffy Duck you probably got ripped off. It seems so obvious when you put it that way.
There were also baseball pictures which did not have official Looney Tunestm characters, which managed to be almost as bad. To be fair, this was in September, when base-ball season was going on, in full swing, if you will, be a moron. But I was talking about the Full Spectrum art show. Because I need to identify the elements in the meteorite I discovered.
Maybe I spent, and spend days working on things, but that’s only because I’m slow. And you wouldn’t pay me $50 to fill three days kicking a bucket really slowly along a driveway, would you? Abyssal Jeff Tell only charges $35 for 26.Tranquility, and you’d get the piece of paper he drew it on! 36.Wonder… is in color, without lines, and while it costs the full fifty, Jefet can’t just roll out another one. There is actual paint contained within the frame! I’m so ashamed. Almost as ashamed as I am of my awful signatures.
My most sellable picture, Stop the Violence, was mysteriously absent. How can we hope to stop the violence if the picture that says to do so is so cruelly and brutally suppressed? It just wanted to help.
GUWAAAAHHHHH! That was truly uncalled for.
It may surprise you to know, but I have problems. I don’t know if I would attend an art gallery specifically because all the artists have problems, but the fact remaineth that one has been arranged.
From February 8 to March 21, of whatever year this entry starts with, some of my and other persons’ silly pictures will be on display at, uih,
Small Space Gallery
70 Audubon Street, 2nd Floor
New Haven, Connecticut
I am pretty sure it’s free. If it isn’t, I’m certainly not getting a cut. Unless I err during my axe juggling routine. Every time I do that my cruel governess gets a knife and cuts me.
Also, on Thursday, this Thursday, the seven, at some point between 5 and 7 pm, I will be present for something called “Artists’ Talk,” which I’m told will involve me answering any questions any day-early attendees might happen to ask. They don’t have to be about the pictures, either. Ask me about pelicans. Ask me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street. Ask me what I think of the [expected] mediocre catering/lack of catering. Ask me how many pages I got into the book Dune (and then laugh). Ask me about croutons. But someone ask me something, please. The situation always goes stupid when I talk before more than three people and… I’m going down anyway, so I’d like to ruin it for others, as well.
I don’t want to make too big an issue of this, especially after I spent much of yesterday complaining about pictures from the internet I lack the skill to have assembled. I also find it highly doubtful that anyone who reads this, if anyone reads this, would be able to attend, whether due to the location or the minimal notice, and that if they could they’d be able to find the place.
But if you do go you will get to see, in person, this astounding Vance May picture, but a mere grubby likeness of which is printed on one side of the official invitation. The reason I have an invitation, when I’m
being having one of the exhibits… The mega autism people who arranged the thing, for whatever reason, sent me about twenty of these, expecting me to mail them to people, entirely forgetting that they’re the mega autism people. Autism being a disorder associated with awkward social relationships and stunted public mobility. Sure, it’s “high functioning autism,” but that’s about the mental malfunction equivalent of saying I’m a credit to my race. Did you see when I said I wrote a letter to a lawyer? I wrote it, yes, but someone else had to send it because I’m useless (and so it is quite possible that my begrudging notice of compliance was replaced with an undeserved insincere sniveling apology to the wretched wretches at some point in the process). I have to write a note, put it inside a different thing, write a code on it, then put that inside another thing which some person I’ll never see then takes to some other place, and it will be days before I know if I did it properly, if anyone feels like telling me. How can I trust that? I’ll destroy them. Even if I was about to address all these and put them in a mailbox, and assure myself I’d done it properly, I don’t know that many people + addresses that I would risk assuming would be willing to bother with me. That up there isn’t necessarily how I’d want to tell them, either.
The only person I’m bringing is whoever brings me. So… if you know any motorcycle gangs, rodeo clowns or crazed robots in the New Haven region, perhaps you could tell them to could go in your place.
I don’t think I have many entries like this left in me. That can only lead to improvement.
Maybe you wondered (or more likely never thought about at all) what my problem was in this entry with SIMPSON-ZU, since it actually improves upon the original artwork and was more complicated than the standard art-site character posing against no-background. Because it only does so for the sake of looking artificially japanese. I think the artist may even be Japanese, and I still find the whole thing a bit contrived. It was not an earnest artistic choice, it was just a stupid gimmick. And without that, what is it? Just a bunch of someone else’s characters loafing around looking at a television set. Nothing interesting is happening (I doubt what they’re watching is, either. I can’t think of anything I could or would view with every person I know, so the set is most likely off). All it’s done is swap one ugly commercially mandated “style” for another. My discontent has nothing to do with jealousy this time, surprisingly. Very often I see an insipid example of nothing going on get beloved just because the perpetrator does that all the time and weak people love it and I get mad but that’s as far as it goes. This was more sinister, I felt. Whether or naw the artist set out to have it be so.
A mere fortunate coincidence is that both the pictures were approved by the same master judge, grave accent animator. Why should I be bothered by the opinion of somebody who draws awful large-mouth disney-standard-unquestioning duckface people who otherwise appear totally human? When I hate duck-face-people more than almost all awful animal people? Maybe I just like being bothered. It’s probably not that big of a deal, actually. But I definitely hate duck people. They are ruthless.
Verily, they lack ruth.
But regarding the universally accepted deviation, the proponent of ruthlessness admitted that this was already an overexposed piece of trash by the time it got official acknowledgment, so why’s it even need that? Just because the office said so. It is Simpson Week, after all. And what is that? I didn’t know the fourth week of July 2007 was simpson week, and I was there! Ah, that must have been the week when the Simpson movie was released. Everyone was “going yellow.” Cowards.
It was the same week we saw a googly-eyed burger king and this jaundiced overbiting puffy cheeked round toothed myspace moron, who it’s easy to imagine not enjoying a sandwich, which this whole thing is the inescapable mass-marketed equivelant of. I assume other companies got involved but I won’t go looking for them. By suggesting that it really had no choice in playing along with such a corporate holy week, the Deviant Art makes clear that it has not a skrimpf of integrity, had it ever. The original object of issue might as well be fifty discarded mcdonald’s bags standing around a couch staring at a bottle of coke.
Hey, according to, I’m told, former Coca Cola Company president Donald Keough on the subject of a less successful business stunt I’m not old enough to have been affected by,
That is also a dumb reason. Doesn’t anybody buy anything because they want it anymore? Oh oh oh and of course the website isn’t cokerewards, it’s mycokerewards, because they think that will make me think I like it. Guess what: I don’t think I like it!
It seems there is no smart reason to buy soda.
Unless you’re Duke Nukem, and you probably aren’t. But I was complaining about a picture of The Simpsons.
It’s not Mona Lisa Simpson on a toilet, but it doesn’t have to be. Whenever you draw these characters, just for the sake of drawing them, you are in a sense also drawing every other tacky picture of them. That’s how it ends up to me, anyway. Maybe it doesn’t matter to you. That’s why you didn’t complain about it on your page. Sometimes I feel like I do everything around here.
I didn’t get a good shot of this because I was afraid someone would see me taking it and think I liked it, but this sums up what the Simpsons are, as purely two-dimensional (note the absence of any logical appearance of depth) images, without scripts to make them funny, without the best animation FOX can buy distracting us from how ugly they are, without Hank Azaria’s 2 or 3 distinct voices making them seem worth staring at the endlessly plopiting mouths of: just another greeping “institution” getting airbrush-painted on a piece of wood at some life-draining tourist dump in Florida, with Elvis Presley, Betty Boop, the perennially dead and talentless Marilyn Monroe, The Beattles dressed as mandarins or something, Snoopy flying a doghouse, ugly jerk-worshiped cars and enormous ghost heads threatening to devour us all. The only reason Mickey Mouse isn’t in it is because the Disney people have a history of suing anyone who puts that on a wall in public. I wish I could sue for that, too. That happened in 1989 and doesn’t seem to have happened since, but this picture is probably almost that old. If this was made today it would definitely have Dale Ernhardt and the Geico skink in it. “This is why not to become an artist,” I thought when I saw this in 2006’s November, long before “Simpson Week.”
On the subject, sort of, why, on The Simpsons, are white people drawn yellow, but brown people are still brown? Couldn’t they be orange?
Ey, why are Simpson Halloween episodes still called tree-houses of horror? Is the tree-house still a major location on the show? I know Bartholomeau was the central character when I first watched it, but he wasn’t by the time I stopped,* and I can’t even recall with certainty that he had a treehouse. I suppose nuclear power plant of horrors or scum-sustaining tavern of horrors or Rolling Stones guest voice contract of horrors would seem redundant.
*unlike apparently every other whinist on the internet, I wasn’t counting to see what season that was. Oops.
There’s nothing else there.
And they think I’ll shorten Saint to St and Petersburg to Pete, but I won’t.
Ha ha huhhhhhhhzzzzzjzjgbjb.
This is that which wasn’t good enough for last time. Now there is none left. Yet still I do hunger.
Why are meals with vegetables and meat always named after the meat portion? If something is named after a non-meat, vegetable lasagne, for instance, you can usually assume safely that there is no meat in it. Is it really fair, then, that, if I want a chicken sandwich it still might have vegetables or worse on it? Mayonnaise is not meat or vegetable, and it is also not good at all. It is worse than both, yet harder to get away from once it finds me. It hides, it exempts iitself from The Menu, and it changes its name sometimes. It can say it’s ranch dressing, but I know the truth.
I hate when people imitating music with their voices interpret all notes as the syllable “bom.” And in comics it’s always “dum de dum” I don’t do that! Dehs, rorms, mahms and youihhhs must be utilized to get the most from one’s vocal capabilities.
I keep my bases covered to protect them from airstrikes.
It was an unhealthy relationship. We ate lots of bacon and drank Clorox together.
I’m often amazed at the tolerance some people have for themselves.
Pudding is made of puppies!
Ohhh me and my big font.
If nothing else, I want to provide an amusing autopsy. THERE’s a job where you’re set for life. And death. Urg.
I have much sympathy for people whose upbringing doesn’t allow them to get the amusement I do from corn with a k.
I refuse to call rappish recordings “hip hop” until they start incorporating more rabbits or kangaroos. Even then, I still will not listen to “the Kangaroo Hop.” I’ve just looked and evidently there’s more than one “The Kangaroo Hop.” I hate both. If you could make beer with kangaroo hops, I probably wouldn’t drink it. Hops in general are bad news.
I hate when someone on television sees another person aiming a gun and says “what, you’re gonna shoot me? Go on, shoot me!” No one would really say that, and no one with a gun would really not shoot upon hearing that. If I said that, I would be shot. I may be shot anyway.
When I see sports coverage, it’s no exaggeration to say that if these people had been showing me the exact same “guy throwing ball at other guy” footage for the past 20 years, I wouldn’t know it. How much cheaper would film equipment be if there wasn’t so much used exclusively for filming hours and hours of identical movements? Each day?
I remember when i first started hearing about Dame Cook I hated him. Then I didnt hate him for a while. Now (I reckon this was from May 2006 or thereabouts) he’s doing talk show tours again and I hate him again. Pretty much anyone who goes on television and mentions “myspace” just to get a cheap pop from the audience probably needs to be punched in the nose, or at least sternly poked.
Hey, myspace: Making things harder for people who don’t rape isn’t going to stop rapes. Just as limiting program capabilities and making all documentation condescending didn’t stop dumb people from breaking their computers or pirating software. You only make worthy users hate you. You might argue that with limited program capabilities one would actually need to be smarter to pirate software, but go to one of those websites and tell me whoever made it isn’t a complete degenerate moron. I dare say a hacker’s hacking skill is inversely proportional to one’s abilities in all other areas of existence. You might similarly argue that there is no such thing as a noble MySpace user. That is a problem: in most people the gland that makes desire to want a myspace account is genetically tied to being dumb enough to get raped through the internet tubes.
The only thing that will stop dumb kids from getting raped is those kids getting less dumb. But instead of educating them you just hassle them about their age to swat legal liabilities off yourself. If they can have been hearing about people getting abducted over internet relationships for years and still think they’ve found “true love” within a couple trivial exchanges and fake pictures, then they must be idiots. Fools need to realize that even in the best, rarest circumstances the results will be horribly bad.
Unfortunately, the Concerned Parents of America force MySpace to do something. They leave it no choice. It, itself knows the changes cannot possibly help. It realizes it will come to a point where the only thing it can do is write up confusing “agreements” which no one will ever read, like every other maker of products people hurt themselves with.