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Questionable artwork and pedantic miscellany
June 24, 2010
They don’t give a damn! about any trumpet playing band.

I gave people cards with this site url on it. I wonder how many who actually attempted to type it out got this far on the page.

=======================================

I remember, long ago, at the ripe old age of seven years my grandplum said to me “huplix (grandplum always called me huplix)” “Huplix,” Grandplum repeated, quite redundantly I must say, “don’t say anything! I’m talking! And Huplix, it’s about time you learned to eat an Oreo.” Grandplum so set off for the vault to fetch the ancestral family oreo, when the house candle-stick-maker rushed in saying “Huplix! there’s a telegram for you! I left it outside by the lampshade. Go get it.” I did so and fetched the telegram. It was from my long lost potato, Turnip. The note read, in part: IT TIME WE SETTLED OLD GRIEVANCE STOP HUPLIX (everyone called me Huplix, actually) PAUSE I CALL YOU OUT STOP IAPOSTROPHELL SEE YOU ON THE RICKI LAKE SHOW THIS SATURDAY STOP. I immediately boarded a automobile for the Ricki Lake Show. When I arrived I only found an elaborate cone of rubble, overgrown with colorful vegetation. I searched through the plants, finding several rupees and a piece of heart but no Turnip. That was when I remembered: this was the old Ricki Lake Show. It burned down twenty years ago. The new one was across town. I quickly crossed town but discovered I was too late. Turnip had dueled without me, picking fights with several random civilians who quickly beat turnip to a fine mash mass. It was the saddest day of my life.



September 17, 2008
They hung out with folks like Dennis Hopper and Bob Seger and Sonny and Cher


Does Carmen Electra really get paid to stand around and be met? I mean, I believe that could be the extent of her talent, I’m just surprised there would be adequate patronage to make hiring bodyguards feasible. In this shot, the guards have just finished forcibly removing a man who attempted to Meet Carmen Electra. Maybe they were his body guards.

Other than sharing a name with an American Gladiator, what’s special about Carmen Electra? Apart from ads, all I know her from is… ads for everyone’s favorite space alien humanity-miming infiltrator film series, which doesn’t even have a proper collective name to refer to it by, which is as considerate as it is watchable. It is worth noting, further, that I am just as likely to elect (ha uh) to meet Carmen Electra as the Spartans. Which is not to say I hate her as a person just for having a loathsome career, I just don’t believe the sort of display depicted above happens. I used to live near Garry Trudeau and I never saw him just standing outside next to sign, and he’s probably actually worth talking to about things.

Ehhh, are you in position to be SPOOFING anything, regardless of how lazily, if you abet fashion model acting careers? I am told the latest venture, the deviously titled Disaster Movie, (haw haw, let’s see em make fun of us now) also featured someone named “Kim Kardashian,” who’s not even culturally relevant enough to have someone pretend to be her irrelevantly. If I thought Tila Tictacdoughquila wasn’t worthy of awareness, then I was right. So Kim Kardashian seems similar. Supposedly she has sisters named Khloe and Kourtney. No, really. Together they protect Golbez at the Tower of Zot.

The advertisement above, though, seems to be an ad for gum. I hate gum. It is grosser than lipstick. It is not, however, grosser than flavored chap-stick.


Blatantly, creepily flavored lip paste that costs extra money. I can’t even come up with a joke explanation for why the pair of Os in the name are joined together. It did, though, successfully make me recall the “undivided cell” aspect of the last chap stick display I did not approve of. Doesn’t my approval matter to them?!
But this, it’s meant to go on your lips, not in your mouth. Why not just squeeze out the whole log and eat that?

Afterward you can listen to your favorite two minutes of frightful brain vibrations as you attempt to scrub chemical desert out of your mouth. I don’t know what Napoleon Dynamite might be singing about

any more than I know what he’s doing that needs two separate screens and my repeated finger expressed authorization to proceed with. Maybe I can ask the penguins.


Marching, at least, is a tangible goal, I suppose. I prefer not to think of what the Let’s Pilate lady is doing to her DS. I’m glad they’re not called Gameboy anymore because I was going to say “today it is a Gameman” and that would have been tasteless, don’t you think?

Hey,

remember when horrible licensed video games at least had a point in theory?


No, seriously? I get to control Superman?! Waw, gee!
Are we marketing these entirely on ashamed curiosity now? Whose idea was this?!



Uh no, actually. Not this time. I’m busy trying to find a distributor for my MILF IN ’08 campaign buttons!


Well I certainly hope we find out soon. Things could get ugly.



July 30, 2008
Winning the race for your digital flicks, living your life with a clickety click

I saw a Dr Pepper soda advertisement recently which I found alarming. No, not the one which was my first “dr pepper” search result, Zon Tayday confirming my suspicions that people have been giving him money to be further publicly made fun of despite his lack of everything. But I will complain at length about it anyway.


The “song” actually starts with lines about him being on the internet and getting money. Yeah, and for what? For being a ridiculous doofus incapable of giving any legitimate enrichment through his entertainment aspirations. The “song” is shorter and just slightly more non-horrible-soundy than the old, but only because people who Yad Yazton obviously learned nothing from have produced the heap out of it. And I’d hardly say this proves any fool can be picked off the street, placed in a controlled environment and made to seem like a competent artist to those with as much competence, because we already knew that. It’s always been that way. How is Yaya Tzond so different than an A. Idol winner/loser, then? Answer: he isn’t, and I’m sick of that.


They’ve got him goofed up on a throne surrounded by nameless ladies with dress priorities contrary to his own, a la a previous year’s public contract trainwreck, Flavor Flave, who has also done a Dr Pepper ad, albeit in a different form I will discuss with myself later. Oh, I will! But this, here, is a man whose biggest creative touch to his own, self-made music videos is using the annotation function to ad extra ads to fill in the temporary commercialism void.


The only reason to watch this silly person in front of a microphone for three minutes is to see those ads. Evidently that appeals to a great deal of people. Yoy Zandat is one of few recordy people whose brief, identical telephone-noises heard repeatedly throughout the day when combined accurately represent the experience of hearing the full song. But hopefully no one ever calls you. For their sake.

And if you’re wondering about “charity album” tagged on to the first clip, it’s just 16 yet dopier remixes of the original dopey song far too many people have heard before. The provided video has (very loud) sniplets of them all, all with the initial vocals incorporated and beeptrack represented in some way, with Mr. Yellowroom himself at both ends telling you about all his websites.


Yes, Babastank exists and is involved, and Of COURSE that’s a myspace link at the right, hovering above print I’m used to seeing in email I delete.

The actual charity aspect expired 30 days after the video was posted and was for eh half the, one assumes, scant proceeds to go toward the Electronic Frontier Foundation, which while apparently a decent cause is nothing that makes me feel heelish about complaining about supporters of for unrelated reasons (longtime unaware nemesis Robin Williams has a couple of those). Charity is supposed to be about helping others, and as a puzzlewit who but for the internet’s tendency to enshrine things nobody likes –if he had been a better musician, we still wouldn’t know about him–, the preservation of electronic anything seems more than a bit in Oyz Nadyat’s own best interest. If you believe EFF is worth giving your money to, I suggest you give money to it, and not risk encouraging Zat Donyay to do anything that involves the continued presence of his profile statement of his lack of piano and voice training. If he wants to be a clown that’s fine, but I don’t think he thinks he is a clown.

If Yatz Yonad made an attempt to assure me that the other half went to the team of remixers and not his own five second keyboard loop making grasp-digits… I’d still dislike it because all they’ve done is apply annoying noisy filters over something that was already unlistenable. Any good accomplished by donating half your sales to a charity is undone by distributing hard prints of an album that’s 48+ minutes of Chocolate Rain. There are people with actual digital audio composition/manipulation talent on the internet, and you’re generally not going to find them on a video site. A site where the most prolific and appreciated musicians sequence popular tunes for Mario Paint, an underpowered novelty tool, at best, 15 years ago,
that someone has made a special tool to encourage the online ubiquity of.

 


And you win again, internet. Would you believe it’s not long enough? FIVE STARS ANYWAY.


I was dead before you got here.

In summary: I need much better people to be jealous of.



May 3, 2008
Roy and Dale fell in love, and Roy proposed to her during a rodeo at Chicago Stadium.


Hey, do you remember earth week? Wasn’t that great? And green? It sure was hard, though! Good thing it was just a week!
I personally was amazed at how much good one can do by changing the NBC symbol to one color for a couple of days. It definitely got me thinking about green. Things that are green. I have many fond memories of green. And that reminded me of “Memories of Green,” the 1000ad map music from Chrono Trigger.


Chrono Trigger has nice music. Sorcerian is also a popular choice this time of year. But I won’t bore you with my musical tastes. Unless I talk about them.


‘ey, do you remember when it was perceived as necessary for single corporate entities to pretend they didn’t own everything? I also seem to recall when they actually didn’t, not quite, but that might just be all the green fogging up my memories. You can rest comfortably knowing “oxygen” up there means the tv channel oxygen and not that NBC Universal just owns all the air; Pepsico has the lock on that.

If General Electric truly gave a bean about green, that being the pointless stupid codeword for not being wasteful ignorant oafs, it wouldn’t be for a week, and he wouldn’t put his logos on it. If that gang was serious it’d [not cut out but not pretend is the ultimate achievement either] this ‘hybrid’ tomfoolery and make a sincere effort in the fully electric automobile department. Krigstein, it has “Electric” in its name; it should not be hard to get this done properly.

Doy, do you remember electric cars? That there were some? From actual major automobile companies? But they intentionally weren’t promoted and didn’t sell very well and so the ones that were sold were recalled / repossessed and destroyed for no reason and the people who designed them were fired and the factories which factored them were changed into dumb old normal car factories? Good times. Imagine, instead of using electricity and corn to make fuel, you used electricity and no corn and were already done. It can boggle one’s mind if one is into that sort of thing. At least we ought to bring out that solar-powered truck Rick Moranis drives in one of those honey movies. And maybe while he’s at it he can shrink the national deficit HA ha eh. I’ll change that to a better joke when I refer back to this post a few months from now.

I’m told there are “over 100,000 non-emission vehicles on US streets,” more than there ever have been previously, according to a crazy estimate made over three years ago, but it’s still really not all that much. I’ve certainly never seen one. And “on US streets” can mean a number of things. A car could be crushed by a genetically engineered 60 ton crouton and rendered inoperable but still be considered on the streets. This is in fact the most likely situation, as a car in one piece can only be on one street at a time. That could also mean the cars are homeless strays, a growing problem in this country. Please adopt one if you get a chance and be sure to get it neutered. I know I was saying there aren’t enough of them, but when electric cars get pregnant they give birth to stray cats. It’s complicated, I’ll explain later. But at least the cars are on the streets and not under them. Can you imagine the public embarrassment if the Turtle Van went electric before the Bat-Mobile?


This is no time for doubting, Bat-Man. We both know there’s only one way to resolve this: Battle.



January 22, 2008
Mimett greens

What’s all this “Down east” business? I hate that. I wouldn’t mind if just one person said it, but it’s all over the place. There’s a Maine-centric magazine called Down East, and these people own every copy. Just the cover story for this month makes me extremely skeptical as to there being adequate material to fill all the pages every month, let alone for ten years, and that a consistent reader wouldn’t notice repeat articles. By the way, pirates say ARRRRRR, not ARRRRRGH, matey. ARRRRRGH is what you say when someone drops a watermelon on your foot or Garfield steals your lasagnea. Pirates may say “arrrrrgh” when they find out you misquoted them.

You might think I’m a horrible person, to be welcomed as a guest into someone’s home and then to critique minor aspects of things which were not even thrust upon me (and I took more pictures than this), but as we were renting the home, and for about $200 a day, I will treat it as a commercial establishment. If I wanted to read about Maine, I wouldn’t live there. Rooms outside the basement feature bookcases filled entirely with non-fiction books written by Maine residents (that is, if we accept “Maine is great” as fact). How am I supposed to deal with that?


The same way I deal with this, I reckon, and I still haven’t figured that out.


I’ve lived in Connecticut, which is essentially the same thing, my whole life and never once paid someone else to let me read about it. I certainly wouldn’t commit to a year of that. Here’s what you need to know: lighthouses, lobster, boats, beachfront property. Every story will be about one of those things. They don’t tell you to expect white-painted buildings decorated with gratuitous anchor imagery, but you learn that as you go along.

Other magazines: 50% off! Considering that they’re old, some from the 1970s, if I recall with accuracy, they ought to be 80% off. They were in some stupid “retro” store, but the fact remains these were the only magazines beside Down East I saw while I was in Maine, meaning the slightest possibility exists of there being no other magazines, so it’s hard to blame people for choosing such an alternative, if they absolutely must read magazines. Even if these are music magazines. What’s more annoying than reading stuff people wrote about music? When I either can’t hear it, already hate it, or simply don’t want it pretentiously analyzed? It’s probably not as bad from dirty hippies as dipfip smirking espn-ites, but the hippies have a secret weapon for promoting their agenda: grubby, garbage underground comixs with an x.

But this is… so horrible I can’t… I must finish my other tangent.


Ehhh, but strictly regarded printed word articles, probably worse than music is people writing about their state. No, geheh, a specific tiny portion of that state, indistinguishable from the tiny regions of that state around it, indistinguishable from the tiny regions of the other states around that. Here’s a riddle: How do you know when you get to Maine? A sign tells you. It’s pretty, some of it, sometimes, but it’s nothing I haven’t been seeing for twenty-four years. Although I admit I don’t remember the first four so well; if I had spent that time in Space or Romania I wouldn’t know it. I know where I was in August, though, and it might as well be where I am now.


Where is this? I don’t know, but it lasts for a few hours.


Evidently Madison isn’t remote and stereotypically “White” enough for some people. You can never have too many 50+ year old grey haired men wearing sunglasses and baseball cap hats. At least a kook who fancies himself an admiral and dresses accordingly can be amusing. These people, though, I just find myself wanting to slap.

I will cut this off here before I resume whining about comix or start whining about food. The only reason I even mentioned that stupid magazine was because I referred to it in the thing I was supposed to put here today, and if I start talking about hating things totally unrelated to what I set out to talk about hating, we could be here all day. I me, I’ll be here all day anyway, anyday, but you shouldn’t have to be.



July 24, 2007
Everything I touch is food for my hunger!

QUICK AND DELICIOUS. IS QUILICIOUS A WORD?

I’m usually no fan of minimal effort vandalism that doesn’t lend itself to creative interpretation, like when someone sloppily sprays “GO” on a stop sign, but this was for a good cause, I think.

Despite considering the woman pictured on the sign a good endorserist, the donut dunkers anticipated me to have ill-knowledge of her, and thankfully added her name after a dash, in the exact same manner you’d quote Mark Twain or Ralph Waldo Emerson. However, CAM-RA was less than interested. I actually know who it is but will pretend I don’t until I find a reason that I should. If HACWAAL WAX be so concerned about using illegitimate words, she should strongly consider undertaking some research before participating in a national advertising campaign. However, I would not necessarily suggest a dictionary. Not a recent one, anyway. Merriam Webster loves nothing better than the dumpstery publicity he gets every time he announces (to whom I’m not sure) plans to add the likes of “google and “unibrow” to his special list. If bootlylicious is a “word,” now and forever, then quilicious might as well be, too. Right along with reagonomics and brigadoontastic. The only reason blimfenheugen is not a word is because I’m not in a dumb ad right now. I should be angry at such a weak justification system, but I’m not.

Blimfenheugen, by the way, is a content sort of resentment which results from famous types no longer having any perceptible skills or talents beyond their ability to be seen with which to imply they’re better than me. Homey folkishness is for sale, dupes and dipes are buying it, and I should be mad, but I’m not, because I’m so blimfenheugish over the matter. This reminds me of, years ago, I saw, on the back of a, let’s say Golden Grahams box, an offer for Scared Guy tea-shirts I could mail order and receive for some over-ten amount of dollars. I don’t buy dumb shirts anyway, not without matching pants, but Scared Guy looked like this:


(rough approximation)

And that made me mad. Even Big Johnson had a semi-conscious artist and something resembling a gag involved at some point of the production. Thankfully, despite my single nagging memory of one time seeing somebody wearing one, I don’t think many Scared Guy shirts were purchased, though Scared Guy himself went on to a lucrative career of endorsing the “For Dummies” series of books. As far as I’m aware, Scared Guy is of no relation to the fine gentlemen of Bizarre Webcomic, who typically have the decency to show me what they’re scared of.



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