I have witnessed the hobbit film and I do wonder why I fussed over the movie dorks changing the story to make it match the other movies better; that was precisely what I had hoped they would do. I had little interest in this film as long as I knew precisely what was coming next.
I still question the need to have “pretty” dwarves; when I saw those guys with human noses and no beards in the promotional image on the previous occasion, I just assumed one of them was Aragorn, the non-dwarf man from the other film series, whose presence would be superfluous and require me to accept that he was at least 90 years old in the other films. In fact, they are Kili and Fili Fili and Kili, who are indeed “supposed” to be with the company (which makes me wonder why they are deserting it in that picture) and, true to the source book, distinguishable from the other dwarves.
Obviously dwarves are not born old and bearded (right?) but surely they don’t abruptly grow fat prosthetic noses and British accents once they reach their prime ages. It probably makes financial sense, again, to have a designated “heartthrob” character, and rather depressing that we must absolutely bow to this whim. Anyway it works for Filly And Killy, who are designated the closest thing to that “role,” but I don’t believe Thorin, the boss dwarf, as a young type. His authority comes from his ties to the old dwarf kingdom, so he should be old, or at least really dwarfy. He gets enough screen time that he can be distinctive without looking like Aragaragorn. He has some nice battle wounds gained by conflict new for the film that only seems there to help him get battle wounds, but he is still fundamentally pretty. If you want to make a movie with pretty warriors who fight forever for no reason, adapt a Final Fantasy game.
My only real problem with this is those stupid boots pointing up.
As things are, the director Peter Jackson in his publicity attire looks more dwarfy and less groomed than Thorin does in full costume after weeks of marching, camping, and not bathing. I have also decided against posting any pictures of Peter Jackson on this web-page.
But that is all trickery! Movie magic!
let us talk about something natural.
Does this look all natural to you?
Does this look even partially natural?
The only thing I like more than creepy shiny symmetrical computer people are bright red open mouths. Also, that statement was insincere. This is important because I told you.
Now, with my school classes currently concluded, I do, in theory, I have time to finish some of the long and baffling incomplete website objects which I have accumulated in the past four months.
NO ME LIKE BAFFLING SERIES OF NONSEQUITURS WITH NO ENDING BETTER. ME PUNISH.
However, I will probably play old video games I have completed before and continue posting half-thoughts at about the same interval as before, now that I have gotten used to not doing it very often.
I am kidding; I can also play newer remakes of older games
Additionally I can play slightly older remakes of equally old games
I can play slightly newer remakes of slightly less– excuse me, am I boring you?
I can also play Wanderers From Ys
that’s what I thought. I am glad you are behaving reasonably.
Cards that were, I presume, used in a limited variety of areas to promote the “real” art show that will occur regardless of my personal involvement on Thursday of this week.
This, being legally Thursday, would be unreasonably late to make such an announcement, but I am unaccustomed to anybody I know from the internet having easy access to any of my locations. That is probably the best for all parties involved. I pose this out of compulsion. That is also a safety matter.
I am concerned that the only people I know will be showing up are people who could just come and visit me at my apartment. That would have saved much effort and one awkward, sleep-deprived bimshwel entry. However, the promotion promises a “holiday party for the arts community” which is probably the same group from the Summer “member shows,” and that is swell; it’s really not right that we should only have the opportunity to utterly not relate to each other only once a year. I never get tired of people who never get tired of dreary local landscapes and collages of random newspaper headlines painted red and put in frames.
The title is not my doing; when I saw “no, seriously” I said “oh, honestly.” However, I can be blamed for negligence regarding the name associated with my outgoing email. Beans cunningham because it vaguely resembles my given name. I would not use some internet alias for an important occasion like this because that would be silly. However, n ow that I have experimented with being called “beans” in person I dislike it also. I am too dull in person to be owed a name like beans. Fortunately, this is actually just that office again and not a real art gallery. Ah safe, reliable obscurity.
It is a nice office, though, and well-heated. I also approve of work being done.
The other side. The nemitz was not on the real card, I added it just now. Any sooner and NOBODY would be showing up. I couldn’t stand there being a white space. This modification is to teach me a lesson, then, clearly.
It is a reused nemitz; I am far behind all matters and not in a proper functioning state if I can’t take three minutes to draw a slightly different dumb mitz. That thing is SO PROUD and doesn’t even realize it’s a perfect duplicate of another nemitz. There is absolutely nothing unique about it! What a derivative scumbag!
The cover-claiming was similarly beyond my control; I would prefer to share it, for this setup here makes me The Establishment and a deserving target of resentment. I imagine enough as things are without actually needing to receive any.
I recently attended another art related “event,” and some of these cards were present there. A bit later, when I went to leave and get hustled for $3 by some guy outside waving a rake around, pretending to be the janitor (the real janitor would have, again, seen my pictures and known I couldn’t possibly have sold anything), I noticed the cards were all gone. That meant they were either all taken or deliberately tossed on the floor/into a waste receptacle. The first is good because it suggests interest in what I am doing and the second is good because it shows a triumph of taste and decency
The idea of people unknowingly bringing this into their homes is horrifying, and them doing it with full knowledge is worse!
Have you seen this? Have you SEEN this??!?
NO. NONE OF THAT IS FOR YOU.
Urt. That’s the first straw. nemitz is officially banned from space. nemitz doesn’t even get two straws. my policy toward nemitz is one strike and you’re dead, which I think is more than generous.
Look even Adobe Illustrator wants nemitz gone. What’s more, it strongly advises that nemitz not show itself again. Ordinarily I find the program very disagreeable. What changed? Not nemitz. This behavior is consistent.
A semi-recent comical tragedy item reminded me that it’s been too long since I publicly took nemitz to task on the topic of its existence. So try and comprehend my rage at not being able to do it for four months.
First of all I’m tired of nemitz pretending that it’s sensitive and conscientious. You’re not fooling anybody, dumb mitz. You’ll have to do more than make your ears go down to make my scumbag defense go down. it is not concerned about anybody but mitself. If we allow nemitz to get elected you can be certain of dopes in our schools within the term.
In 2012 am i truly expected to just stand by and allow nemitz to spell “heap” with two Es and take Grizzo’s name in vain?
Is anybody else hearing the GARBAGE that this thing is saying? I can’t be the only one. What is it pointing at? Nothing good. The only consolation we have is that whatever it is cannot possibly be nemitz.
How DARE it go before a national audience and proclaim “mcgoop”???! This I demand an answer, an apology and reparations for. Our brave men and women didn’t pearl chop zero at ground eleven so that nemitz could flaunt its lies in public. That’s the most slanderous statement I’ve heard since goop ohoopij. Which, incinemily, was also said by nemitz.
It would dare direct words into both a pine and ice cream cone at the SAME TIME. The center object appears to be a vegetable. That speech is NOT being broadcast! I had to change that picture after I scanned it because it was so dumb! However, in doing so I had to include actual microphones which means the message might get out. I condemn nemitz for being so insufferable that I had to undo its own sabotage against itself.
fact: nemitz is a career scumbag who complains about “gotcha” morality.
“Grebo screbo??!” nemitz you think just because that rhymes it makes some sort of point or even communicates information? Do you think that? I say answer me! And do it without talking to me.
And now: nemitz is so proud of itself that a jacket materialized in this position simply so that nemit could proudly clutch at the jacket’s lapel-things in a proud way. I demand proof of an act perpetrated by nemitz that was worth being proud over so that I can present counterproof to show this pride was also invalid.
As matters currently stand, nemitz has not claimed to have invented Red Star yeast.
Once you wear armor your fingers become obsolete. If you cannot solve a problem by punching it is beneath you. But that is beside the point. In fact it is beside every point. The points request the company of armor. All the more essential it be that we verify nemitz isn’t wearing it. Clearly, this robot is very proud of its urmor. Thankfully, however, we can rule out it being nemitz due to the less controversial leg type and its not insisting on smiling at us. Also, nemitz is allergic to boots.
Good old armor.
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I recognize the person who confronts me through mirrors but it is not someone I recall having been recently.
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One of my teachers today asked me what my major category of study was. Without having to ponder the topic I responded “discomfort.” The teacher seemed to accept the answer.
catch of dismay
Yellow Dr. Octopus boots advertise your wealth to the world. Don’t wear them in dangerous places unless you are prepared to defend yourself.
This is accurate to the best of my firsthand knowledge. With that knowledge in my mind I am afraid to go fishing and thus I never have.
The green stuff was supposed to be sky but something went wrong.
This is the sort of picture that makes me think I’m losing my mind. Or perhaps I have found it and merely lost someone else’s. I hope whoever that is does not come around looking for it. The person will be in no mental condition to search effectively.
I suspect I am bored by my own ideas now but not sure what to do about it.
I mentioned something last [occasion of updating]. If you read it you might have thought it odd how bent about I was becoming due to a “friend” and wondered if I am a totally unstable maniac. I am but that’s not why I said that. In fact it was, to me, a love sort of thing toward the masculine pronoun’d friend. And right now you might be saying hey i didn’t know you were- and first of all yes you did, and second it isn’t how you might think.
Perhaps I might be gay in some emotional capacity, but I have no fondness for very gay imagery any more than very “straight” imagery.
My open-mouthed grimace of disgust is not a thing that I bother to fake, much less while alone, yet I know it well.
While my infatuation was going on, I greatly wanted to say so publicly, but feared to, worried that the target might be embarrassed, or would not fully reciprocate it. And when it was over (meaning a year before I understood that it was) I again feared to say something because I had never made it relevant, and also because he might change his mind if I kept quiet and it would not be over, but it would definitely be over if I brought up my grievances, I thought. Rather convenient for him, I now suppose, who continued to confide in me some rather difficult things for another few months after I felt I had personally ceased to matter before he found another to take the job and I was reassigned to stable chores. For convenience let us call him “W.” It’s probably not difficult to find out what his actual name is and that it is devoid of Ws and yet he must be called something and that is the letter I chose.
It has nothing to do with this image; he only answered about 3 of the 47 or so calls I made during the relevant time period and I’d have been as fortunate to get such a frank summation of which behaviors of mine were undesirable.
Though the exact contents vary by the season, I have been having cyclical arguments in my own mind fairly consistently for the past two years as the relationship gradually dissolved into nothingness and then continued in motion to re-form into something unpleasant and indescribable because I absolutely could not let go of it. It may be the case that I must display such unbalanced vitriol and misanthropy in this place to totally ensure that not W or anyone would ever wish to deal with me again. I will be better for it, as will they.
I think the section below is mostly from 2009. A pity there is no date on it and the only image referenced prior to my finding and putting it here is from before even then (and I have forgotten who I stole it from). I kept something of a like, dislike-themed journal in a text file but neglected to record any dates. It is interspersed with personal messages for W, or pieces of them, which I never sent, prior to my devoting a separate file exclusively to messages I did not send once I no longer had anything to say to myself. Those are harder to read, because first of all just the way people talk when they’re in love is disgusting whoever either of them is, and then imagine how much more daft and infantile this is when only one of them actually is in love. But the sight of myself treating W in a merely diplomatic, sometimes reverent manner is now even highly upsetting, as is the thought of my not unloading every bit of honesty, of love or of distaste, at the soonest possible opportunity. For in the end I never had a chance to do either, which means I have to tell “you” or it will never go away, and I can’t do that without trivializing the issue with ludicrous edits and pictures, because I would think it boring otherwise, and I won’t post something that I think is boring!
Unless I absolutely have nothing else. Guess which today’s is? Thankfully I need to know somebody can read it more than they actually have to.
On Sunday, my mother asked me if I ever thought that I might be gay. I wanted to say I was worried that I might not be! But that is not what I really worry. I worry that I might be one or the other. “Gay” is a synonym for “homosexual.” I am not sexual. I do not want to be. I think naked people objects are horrible. I can experience love for people without that being a requirement. It is a stronger desire for companionship than a mere friendship, and that is why I thought it was love, but you can’t tell people that without them demanding a stronger confession. Nobody believes it. The only way I’m sleeping my way to the top will be if I take some Rufinol on a ferris wheel. That joke might be pretty gay.
Have I CONSIDERED it? Certainly, when you’ve had antagonists angrily informing you that you are for more than half your life you must have considered it.
Whatchoo lookin’ at, fag?
It had been deduced by some of my behaviors that I loved a man, and from some old biological evidence that I myself should have been one by this point. It may also have been considered that I went to a “furry” convention last year (the year before 2010), even though by and large I find that embarrassing. That is relevant because we met there. I was so glad to do so that it triumphed over my embarrassment for the first time in my life that I can remember.
No, of course I’ve known I’m “different” for a long time. I find “faggot” offensive because it’s a hostile word, and I find people who willingly embody the stereotypical “mmm-hmm oh thnap” connotations of the word embarrassing, much as I regard the “man up, toss me a beer uh oh THE GAME is on” oafs at the other end. This does not constitute me “coming out” of anything because it doesn’t make my life any easier. I do not feel liberated. I feel just as behind schedule and under-achievy as before.
Being GAY would be easy! Not as easy as being “straight,” but it’s easier than it’s ever been at any point in history. There is a clear cut niche in society for it that more and more non-gays are perfectly alright with having be there (and they’ll be ridiculed if they let it become apparent that they aren’t). There are entire towns for it. There is gay FOOD. There are gay PETS. If I were a gay, I could enjoy the highest rated program on television. All of these are stereotypes, but if I were gay I could get offended by them!
If I were gay I could pretend that many of the nation’s highest ranking celebrities were pretending to care whether or not I was legally entitled to marriage. And yet just as with furries, as with the aspies whom I’ve aborted at least two articles about, I do not feel one with the gays. I may share some of their fights, but I do not belong with them. I want to belong to something, but I have yet to find a thing that will have me and that I similarly wish to be had by. Many people do not find this in life, but force themselves to go along with whatever seems like it might work, and that may be my destiny.
In fact, I have more out-coming to do before I will feel any relief, THAT one isn’t going to happen except by accident (unless me from the future goes ahead and puts a potentially pertinent picture that I haven’t even made yet above this paragraph), and anyhow at that point I will still be a be an under-achievy behind-scheduler. I have odd fondness for things which do not exist which I cannot tell anybody about. Thankfully, their feelings cannot be hurt. And before you skip to conclusions, I do not spill fluids over the comics I upload here. But if I did that would never be the point and you wouldn’t know when. I really shouldn’t have said that.
The person that I appear to be “gay” at is not gay. I told him that I loved him, in a letter that I wrote (on real paper even), but I had to add disclaimers to the effect that it was largely deprived of meaning… I wanted to deprive it of the meaning that I did not intend, but I lost more than I wanted to. I wanted to say “I would like to see you every day and know everything about you,” but that’s weird. It’s like the “uncanny valley,” with artificial representations of human beings. It’s endearing up to a point and then it gets really creepy if it goes too far but doesn’t quite connect. The “valley” is the drop in tolerability between “sort of real” and “real” when viewed as a two dimensional line graph. That’s why nobody likes Cyclops. He’s the only one that’s really into being such an uncanny ex-man. I like his stupid poses in the unwinny-ble Super Nintendo X-Men game, though.
He (no not Cyclops (as far as you know)) knows I “love” him in the letter but I cannot casually insert “I love you” into conversations. I assume. I don’t want to risk it. I have historically been oblivious to when my own tolerability has run out, and now I take so many preventative measures that those become even less tolerable.
For example, though this memorrhoid continues, I am taking the measure of temporarily concluding it here instead of trying to edit the second note into comprehendability. It will be less effective when I do show it because I’ll have to spend three paragraphs setting it up again. And so I have failed. Who has won?
It would be the first time!
A few intervals ago I mentioned Al Terzi, and how I had no real memory of him post-1989. After typing his name into the Internet, I discovered that he scares me now.
in part, no doubt due to resembling the ghastly photograph-print on the old Lipton tea box, which scared me then. That scared me partially because of the dual tone, high contrast yet faded greys used, Terzi does not look like this, but he reminds me of other aspects of the lipton picture that didn’t necessarily scare me, so he is scary by association.
Though I implicated the colors, the angle, facial expression and hat are nonetheless alarming.
Once I found out where these were in a store, I couldn’t go near them. i would see the red and yellow from a distance and not go down the aisle. (this was at the time also a good way of avoiding a match with Hulk Hogan)
I used to love the lipton iced tea, but when I learned to identify logos and discovered this was the same as the scary guy company, I stopped drinking it immediately, and continued not drinking it long after Lipton had ceased to appear on his own packaging.
By now they’ve replaced the delightful plain white cans with some less forgivably gaudy rubbish (but at no point Lipton himself, mercifully), and I can’t find it in cans anymore anyhow, so I can never return to it and express my true feelings. Tragic.
And I distinctly recall some advertisement about the late 1980s in which a chorus gleefully sang the word “decaffienated!” while a camera momentarily fixated on a closeup of the troublesome box. I didn’t know what decaffeinated meant but I assumed it had something to do with my downfall. Thankfully “The Lipton Tea Man,” as one website I could find evidence of this labeling on refers to him (for he is fond of drinking the lipton tea tea), is based on a real person, of whom other photographs can be found which render him less inflexible, 2-dimensional and inhuman, and thus the one scary version of less permanent and menacing.
He is no less dangerous, but now lacks the psychological advantage.
We know he is the fellow on the left container, there identified as The Taster, (Nestle’s counter-argument claimed that he chose to not be paid) which shows a full head. However, the photographs were taken in 1986; the partial head was in use before then! I expect Nestle used this new guy because it was no longer on speaking terms with the fragment, which was upset more than likely over breach of anatomical context. Worse, behind the packages on the left we have introduced a NEW head fragment; attorney Eric Stokel doesn’t even have a mouth. Might I ever find peace through full accumulation of pieces?
But anway, back to my point: looking like Lipton is bad news.
I don’t even remember what this guy did (though Wikipedia informs me he used state helicopters to get to church) but he really doesn’t have to do anything.
The virility of this family is worrisome. Rather an elaborate scheme to keep us from realizing that they lost the secret ancestral recipe for spelling wharf properly.
It is far more than a mere arbitrary childhud fixation of mine. Somebody meant for me to be afraid…
And so it is portentous that they have teamed on this occasion. But what’s so scary about this skeleton? Nothing, really; this one has been injured and its Lipton cloaking drive damaged.
But when first it met Kuros, folklore’s bravest destitute vagrant, the skeleton was very tiny indeed. The smallest form is most alarming, because it looks like it is wearing a Lipton hat. Luckily pausing covers up the sprites so I never, as a child, until now noticed that the bones which are being thrown (naturally) resemble elongated backward ‘S’es. I wouldn’t have gone into stores at all if I knew there were little Liptons hopping all over the place tossing pieces of the alphabet at their detractors.
As the skeleton eats more of Kuros’ magical meatballs, the valuable protein causes it to grow and be less frightening. For with maturity (observe that the skeleton has acquired the wisdom to use an axe to cut the meatballs into reasonable bite-sized portions), the skeleton realizes it doesn’t have to look like Sir Thomas Lipton and scare people to get attention, but like most profound revelations it came too late and Kuros murdered the poor undead mariner anyway so that he could
steal the treasure and finally reassemble the fearsome Energy Zone robot,
who promptly resumed terrorizing the good shirtless citizens with its insistence on jumping for no reason. I told you Kuros was a bum.
Wednesday the 29: I have a headache
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Monday the 27: In my previous life I was a piece of string.
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Friday in the AM: It is potentially contrary to my own interests to give out cards with this url on them in a place congregated by some of the people who do the stuff I’m complaining about in it. However, I don’t actually expect anyone to read this. I certainly didn’t.
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Wednesday in the AM: Part of the ceiling in my apartment just collapsed. So if I don’t update this thing this week, it’s because I’ve been crushed and ceiling-murdered and not because I’m attending some frivolous gathering in Pittsburgh.
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Fur-affinity, I mention that a lot. It is a website that I post my silly drawings on. It is designed to provide a place for egotistical people with no imaginations to draw boring humans based on themselves who happen to have tails and animal heads standing around doing absolutely nothing. I already meet several criteria and they are generously working to bring me up to no standards. All the same I get more attention there than other parts of the internet. My comfort level with it varies; I feel less welcome than I did a year ago (writing stuff like this probably doesn’t help), but I’m not thumbing my nose at it entirely like I was four years ago. Once non-affiners learn about it, they can make a fuss over the website’s explicit content. I don’t like it either but in all honesty I’ve been having the unprompted, unwelcome sexual fetishism of other folks shoved at me my entire life. Ads for doritos, ads for telephones, ads for terrible movies, ads for cars mostly in ads. It is a classic unquestioned fact that this is a prime selling point of a fair quantity of products that are largely unrelated to naked dealings. Doritos in fact seem like they ought to have the opposite effect. Doritos ought to repel all potential company.
Including Reggie Wedgie, but only because this would violate his exclusive contract with Generico McDollarstorito brand.
I think one of the reasons the risky business business and the talk show show so so irked me is that I have long taken issue with underpant exhibitionism in general.
I hate “cute” words for underpants. Under-panting of this sort only exists to restrain the perspiration and any accompanying negativeness of the traditionally least ventilated place on a clothed person, and covering it with such a small object only makes it less ventilated. The reason it does not get ventilated is because that is in addition the part excrement[s] (also incredibly not cute) come out of and few people take the time to thoroughly scrub down everything that touched it after it’s left. They scrape paper against it! It’s horrible. Why draw attention to it with garish colors?
This is also the only section of a humanoid in which three or more large independent units converge, and the friction heat generated by standard bipedal locomotion cannot be understated when one equips winter layers. One essentially cooks one’s own pelvic intersection by walking. I find nothing enticing about the thought of the thing we use to contain this. Imagine if you found a discarded cow intestine that had been rotting in a desert for a day. And then imagine you put it in a bag and carried it around with you. Why would you do that? And why do you call the bag “Finkledy?”
On a more easily arguable note, I hate the use of pluralization to refer to what is obviously a single object. An underwear triangle is not a “those” or a “these.” It is a that.
The furry junk, I’m allowed to screen out the inarguable pornography (so long as the uploader has properly tagged it), but I can’t do anything about the incorrigible bonanza of nearly naked triangle-clad beasts doing absolutely nothing. Triangles are jerks.
This is not a nearly naked triangle-clad beast, but it’s almost worse and will likely lead to that anyhow.
Even if I had conventionally normal inclinations where physical contact with other beings was concerned this would bother me. Wouldn’t it? Perhaps I am wrong. Maybe I’m in denial about all this.
Facebook seems to be trying to tell me that I am sex.
Sex: ALL OF IT
Prior to such a revelation I’d have been surprised to find this outside my apartment.
*(don’t type that in the comments here. It will get eaten and porn doesn’t taste good)
And yet it is not enough. I must have more power!
More and more power!
ABCDEast and west, going on a POWER QUEST
I must exceed the incredible power of Norton and Sandy Duncan!
Feed me power food!
Feed me ULTRA power food!
You FOOL! Give that to me!
At last! Aw haw haw ha hwah uh!
What are you getting at, fiend? How dare you appear before me in such a powerful pose!
No!!! Natural human reproductive inclinations! My one weakness!
If only… I had not acted in such haste…
I suppose this is part three of a series. A year ago I would have stayed up all night making sure they were all in one post. Ha ha, I was such a loser then. Now I have 600 watchers on Fur Affinity. I am hot stuff. That’s almost half as many as the guy who draws popular cartoon characters on toilets. By the way, he thinks your fetishes are weird.
Donkey Kong’s trouble with premature gravity reminded me of another ad type from past years, the “game” that orders me to do some misanthropic act which I should never do in the hope of earning a reward which has no possible connection to the deed. There is probably a proper retrospective of them somewhere. Me not looking for that and inevitably having a problem with it will help ensure there is no part four.
There was one, though, that instructed me to “SLAP SANTAS BELLY! YOU LOSE!!!!!!” Whenever “I” “lost,” the creature representing me, and I know it’s me because it says “you” on it, was flung forward, apparently painfully, for no reason. That’s not important, I suppose. What matters is that I LOST at SOMETHING and therefore my pride is impugned and I am an inferior being. I must play until I WIN. I don’t particularly need a ringtone because I prefer my device in vibrate mode but after watching that animation I have become strangely opposed to the idea of vibration. “Participation required.” It doesn’t even imply that my participation is required to win the prize. My participation just IS required. It’s like Stations of the Cross when I was in Catholic School. Nobody knows why it happens or who it benefits or who demands that it happens.
Or even WHEN, apparently. You’ll never see it coming. It’s like Bat-Man. All we knew for certain was that we couldn’t go home until 3 pm instead of 2:30. We all had these corny books from the 1960s with these illustrations of kids carrying grocery bags while the priest’s posse inched around the room ringing creepy bells while others took their time taking turns standing at a podium giving verbosely worded and completely emotionless accounts of Jesus having a lousy day. It took at least an hour, and happened three or four times roundabout this point of the year. If you didn’t go to Catholic school then you’re probably exactly as confused and bored reading my vague allusions to it as I was living through it.
Anyway
Slap Santa’s intestinal shell or be physically abused! Clearly there is some sado-masochism thing going on. Much like with how fun Christmas should be, Santa and Jesus have differing opinions on the merits of being assailed with polearm weaponry by way of pre-ordained destiny (and it is arguable whose got the better video game) and when Santa doesn’t get his precious pain he inflicts it. That explanation would almost amuse me, except there is no animated object that appears to be flinging the character that I remind you is “you” who is me. It is propelled entirely by the shame of losing this strange contest to the rival Santa’s team. I assume if I actually participated in the ad-game the other character would eventually be punished, and… how did I get myself into this? This goes against so many of my personal principles.
Obviously this one doesn’t even have the rival santa which either means I misremembered or somebody thought this idea was good enough to rip off. What kind of a world do we live in where I have to hope my mind isn’t working properly?
…………………………………………………………………………………..!
Oh, jolly good. Except this is a totally different santa-slapping apparatus.
Hey kids, set Santa’s head on fire! He’s in no financial position to tell you not to! He spent all his money on
Too many people spent way too long painting these.
But how many watchers does it have?
A LIE TOLD 100,000 TIMES IS THE TRUEST TRUTH
Wow, I think you might really be on to nothing! Nice work remembering the comma in 100000, though. I might not have had respect for you otherwise.
what about one told 99,000 times?
The actual line is “a lie told often enough becomes the truth,” often attributed to Vladimir Lenin, which puzzles me, given this sector’s clear aversion to commie ideology evident in replacing vodka with generic booz. I don’t know if Mr. Lenin actually said that, but the line itself is always the same. It is important to include the part about the lie becoming “truth.” A change is occurring and it’s sort of a sinister change. The other way suggests that it was true all along, and there’s nothing sneaky about it, and that it may have been covered up. It’s the truest truth there is. You’ve missed the point entirely. Lenin was explaining a way to control people, and you’re just enthusiastic about being an idiot trying to seem smart by getting quotes wrong.
R’AMEN, BRO
I’m sure Lenin would have appreciated your religious convictions.
Eyyyyy! Thums up.
It was not I who added the R before the “AMEN,” because I do not approve of standard store-purchased ramen noodle packages due to the high sodium content. Yes, I will regularly eat entire pizzas with similarly outlandish salt content and in with much larger portions, but not out of dinkity little wax paper cups. I am a glutton with class.
I really have put this off for far too long.
While I don’t doubt the work they do is often undervalued, this seems to suggest that the janitors being underpaid has led to the asinine grafitti not being cleaned up. I think that merely means we need new janitors. There is a difference between standing up for your rights and doing a deliberately shoddy job.
Revolution! Rise up! Rise up! Disgrimeament is the ideal of soapcialism*
Nooooooski! Don’t listen to him! This will only lead to a new elite ruling class of complacent fat cat janitors!
Aw beans.
On the plus side I’ve been waiting years to test my secret weapon.
*you’re lucky I tried at all.
everything I want to talk about today insists on transitioning into another topic which I do NOT want to talk about, and yet I hate to waste a decent transition.
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Generally, i am not scared of BEARS.
That’s generally, and not for my life.
Smokey’s not like the cartoon all stars or the ninja turduckens or Kirk Cameron*, who will plead with you to not use drugs and tell you about some fictitious abusers who had hard times. Smokey will point right at YOU and tell YOU to cut it out, lest he maim you with mining equipment. Smokey is scary and he knows it. HE’S not going to prevent forest fires, but he’s going to make you wish you had. Smokey doesn’t beat around the bush; he beats you into the ground for lighting up near a bush. Or maybe he’ll just eat you and use the shovel to dig a ceremonial grave for any bones he doesn’t fancy swallowing. There was an ad recently in which some dirtbag is smoking a cigarette and someone else TRANSFORMS INTO SMOKEY and starts leering at the smoker. Sure, this is because of the FIRE risk of DISCARDING a cigarette carelessly, but it would not be a hard transition to make for Smokey to just hate smokers in general. They’re getting a little too close to his name. Only YOU can prevent Smokey’s lunch.
I have to get a painting painted and framed by Friday. How did that have time to happen?
this wrathful oaf by the time I was paying attention. Forty years of people continuing to start fires anyway will do that to you.
To be fair, however, the same group was using Krauts and Japs to scare childrens around the same time and probably figured bringing in an angry forest beast might be excessive. Or worse, encourage kids to start more fires to burn the brutes alive. Kids these days lack the initiative to start a fire out of spite for a cartoon bear, much less go to a forest for any reason. They’ll drive to your house and murder you for talking trash about them specifically on facebook, but bears are safe.
I stole these off of the slow loading Smokey the Bear website, and I give it credit for not pretending they didn’t stereotype America’s enemies back when that was kewl. However, I’m still not linking directly to it because apparently Smokey is copyrighted and the only thing worse than setting his home on fire is cutting him off from his royalties. It’s been over fifty years by now and Smokey still hasn’t made enough money to retire.
*Kirk Cameron once starred in a drug awareness video which featured Kirk showing kids in a class room other videos of other kids turning into cartoon characters when threatened by drugs in some sort of parody or SLAM to the other drug videos but it didn’t really work because the “real” examples were considerably less entertaining and not a whole lot more plausible; those kids just said “no way man, you jerks aren’t COOL.” and that was the end of their troubles. True enough; nobody’s going to chase you down and MAKE you eat drugs for biting your thumb at them; that stuff’s expensive. They’ll probably just murder you and call it even. Additionally, In order to gain access to the kids he imposes his videos upon, Kirk outwits and outmaneuvers a bumbling hall monitor who for reasons that aren’t stated but I can fully understand does not want Kirk Cameron in that classroom. That doesn’t put us in the right frame of mind to compare fiction to fictitious reality. You might as well have brought Moraff in there.
Also, based on the online appearance of and reactions to the “nobody turns down drugs” scene from the video within the video, nobody also turns down realizing or caring that this part is supposed to be ridiculous. This clip, incidootily, was blatantly ripped out of another youtube video featuring brief strange clips from uncited sources, in which context it could be argued, due to its presence not being announced (6 minutes, 13 seconds in), this weirdness is far more effective (apart from the annoying “static” transitions, but that’s irrelevant because the person who reripped out the drug clip didn’t bother to omit the annoying fake 1970s static).
I’d like to tell you what the film is called but I forgot approximately the moment I learned it back in 1995 (and I had to watch it twice!), and Mr. Cameron may have since lobbied to have it removed from his filmo graphy. He’d much rather be known for classics like Firepoof, featuring a wicked computer screen that creates pornography to tear a marriage apart so that nothing less than Chick Fila product placement can heal the wounds.
I assume this is some gimmick to get people to click on a video which does not actually depict a suicide occurring. It potentially even scolds people for daring to look at it. However, the idea that the promise of video of suicide, real or not, gets one million people to watch it does not give me comfort. Even if some outrage group linked to it with “this is disgusting and should be banned but watch it anyway” that wouldn’t likely account for more than a few thousand additional views. Somebody influential has FEATURED this.
Whatever’s in the video, the real tragedy is that anybody takes this guy’s recommendation for anything.
Aye yi.
Otay, fine. I’m old enough now that I’m used to being told somebody I’ve never heard of is the world’s newest and greatest humanoid. Hillary Dorf, Lindsee Lohan, Paris Ilton, Zach F. Ron, Jennifer Anniston, Bennifer Lopez, Beneful Love Hewitt, Tim Conway… It’s happened before, and it will happen again. I don’t know who or what Justin Bieber is, but I do know that’s about the ugliest professional photograph I’ve seen on a magazine front since that one cover of that magazine that was in my bathroom for two years showing Matt Damon brushing his teeth. This guy doesn’t look like he’s smiling, he just looks like he’s breathing heavily. This guy looks like a 1950s ventriloquist puppet. He looks like a nutcracker. He looks like that Peter Pan guy whose website everybody made fun of 12 years ago. He looks like The Partridge Family. He looks like Final Fantasy X.
Well gee, excuse me for not being famous! I’m busy getting stuff DONE!
Nice try, but i already know how.
There are a number of questions that arise when an image such as this appears, such as why that kid ate the neck of his guitar. Foremost among the others: shouldn’t he be playing/eating a piano? Also, this aisle is not cat specific; this sign could have said “Bennie and the pets” and had a better rhyme. Although that depends on this actually being a reference to the Elton John song “Bennie and the Jets” and this kid having any idea who Elton John is, but not knowing enough about the song beyond the title to realize “Bennie” is supposed to be a female person because I didn’t raise no sissy. In any of these situations, assuming one of these figures is Bennie, there is only one other accounted for who the pet could be, meaning it should be singular! Ha ha! GOT EM.
OR, perhaps the “BENNIE” IS the cat and the “CATS” is…
That is not so bad. It’s only from 2002! What IS bad: the amount of rubbish I write in a week would have gotten me through four months back then!
I feel like I learned a lot, but not as much as I should have. I hope there won’t be a test.
I wish ALF was on this quiz. THAT would be tough to guess.
Well I do NOW. Thanksh a bunch. They should provide a “forfeit knowledge” option.
Oops. If I’m forgetting my own birthday, is it at all responsible business practicing to let me use a credit card online?
You put on a brave face, but I can tell you’re concerned.
77777777777777777777777777777777
This could be the most important decision you ever make.
I, personally, have a policy of never accepting waterfowl from persons who willingly wear red buckled boots. Conversely, when I am offered red and/or buckled boots by a duck, I generally turn down the offers.
baconbaconbaconbaconbaconbaconbacon
Because I insist on doubting myself, I watched another dreadful aspiring president debate. Somehow much of what discussion there was regarded how many taxes a plumber named Joe would be required to pay and whether he’d be cold at night with winter coming and whether he has enough fiber in his diet.
As I understand it (and you may find that I do not), plumbers work out pretty well with the dollars. Among professions popularly regarded as “blue collar,” whatever that means, they make kind of a lot of money. The only time I knew of a more lucrative like-hued collar it was on Scooby Doo. I’m not filled with sympathy that this one will have to wait a bit longer to buy some company. Additionally, the most successful plumbers often go on to highly profitable careers in fields such as turtle stomping and brick punching. Some discover that they earn enough floating gold currency to last several lifetimes.
One of my major problems with the democrat club, and why I can never fully assure myself that they’re the best we can get is their willingness to play along when the opposition makes huge deals of asinine childish nonsense like this. “Joe, I’m talking to you! I won’t make you pay any taxes ever! And gays have to wear beekeeper suits and you can keep your land mines out all year and I’m appointing St. Francis of Assisi as secretary of public nudity and making Mexico illegal.” I’m trying to wrap this up because I want to take a nap.
It has been pondered who will portray Joe the Plumber in an inevitable Saturday Night Thursday sketch about the debate which I rather wish I wasn’t in such a position to actually understand. Shelly Goldstein, who I don’t know at all but whose name I think sounds kind of funny suggests John Goodman in the very last sentence, but knowing that show, it is my belief that Joe will play himself and be rather awkward once the “wow! That’s the real Joe the Plumber!” excitement wears off. And then why even live when we can’t have that anymore?
By the wuh, I hate those ads for the Thursday supplement always showing Tina Fey pretending to be Sarah Palin pretending to play a flute. Hey, citizens! Tina Fey will not be appearing on the Thursday night version! She’s not actually employed by the program anymore, hasn’t been for rather some time, and I doubt they’re going to waste such an apparently big draw on a variant of the program less people know about! Oh, hey, and have you seen some of the sketches they’ve been putting on after Tina gets out of there? I interrogated the one other person I am in contact with who watches awful comedy shows, and she seemed not to have. And so I said to that “verily, a ninety-minute length may reasonably be perceived as superfluous” because I’m even phonier in person, and I optimistically pondered such an eventual horrible presentation that I at last could have no more of it. And then NBC invented a version one third in length just so I couldn’t say that was a good idea first. So I’m not telling anybody about my great idea for a pumpkin flavored dessert.
In Canada, I’m glad Stephen Harper was elected to be the prime minister again. It took me years to remember his name.
I must warn you that this here website entry is more conceited somehow than usual. I’ve been insufferably self-satisfied since I figured out how to change text color with css in a manner that is at all useful. We now join the entry already in progress, if we want.
But violence spawns so many great ideas. Like video games.
The beta versions of Pong were actually pretty peaceful compared to the malevolent moral landfill that was released to the masses in 1972.
Precisely my point. Nobody really wants peace any more. Except maybe you.
It sounds like you want a “piece” of me, Jumbiliusu. But the one called queg at this time fears no challenge. I will travel a fine distance and engage you in a combat style of your choosing on any date.
Then we shall poke each other with Q-tips to the death (or at least the knockout) on September 3rd, 1492. On a pirate ship in the Arctic Ocean.
Be serious! We both know I have an appointment with the barber-surgeon then!
Let’s just get it over with on this day in 1492, then.
We did!
Never mind who they are for the moment, nor the blatant anachronism of suggesting the existence of barber surgeons 48 years prior to the Company of Barbers joining ranks with the Fellowship of Surgeons, know only that it led to me one day coming across “Epic Battle of the Arctic,” in which a green thing engages a blue thing of vague familiarity in a contest of sorts.
That being a totally new experience for me, I was unsure how to deal with the situation. At some point in the future I or someone pretending not to be me countered with this.
Perhaps you’re wondering: why, if I was free to reinterpret the scene as I saw fit, under no obligation and having stated no willingness to participate in such silliness, would I choose to again represent my end of the conflict with a thing so stupid it could lose a hand fighting with Q-Tips? And have that not be all it lost? There’s even a character shaped similarly to the green one which owns a similar hat who would surely make a better adversary and is also blue. But then I might as well make them be on an ironing board fighting with chip-clips and then why even bother?
And it might seem to you that certainly, anybody could be confused when there are two like-hue-skinned, pointy-eared smiling morons under three feet tall, but that I, if no one else, ought to know which wears a bow tie. You do raise good points.
Some time later, a person known not only as “Bridgeport Cat” let me know about this pog. And so I eventually responded with this cat person, which I assure you was relevant to the situation. If you look you’ll notice that it’s somewhat less intricate than my previous such rebuttal. There’s really no excuse for such inconsistency, but I’ll give you one anyway. I have a much easier time lerping out stupid smiling imps I’ve made hundreds of times before (as the totally unnecessary image above I assembled specifically for this page update should tell you) and things structurally similar to them than… anything else. And with my writers on strike good ideas are hard to come by. But it’s good to be challenged.
Ehhh. Hopefully I won’t ever get a picture drawn by somebody whose electronic identity is a background which appears in four consecutive panels. But if you are one and have one then I’d love to see it. I used to say I’d hate it but when it happened anyway I had to feel just a bit of elation. Not that I think I’m entitled to another, or even those I’ve had already, I’m just making it known that I can refuse nothing. But I’m no ho.
Internal struggle: Are these “art trades?” Am I gay anew? Do I have to fahv that awful picture of the DisneyR Princessestm traveling through time and space to meet up and make rude faces at an imaginary camera now? Or the anime simpsons? Must I hail neko yasha? Do I have to draw NEMITZ from the torso up glancing perturbedly sideways while taking a bite out of a boot, myself knowing all the while that in the end I will have no choice but to step forward and declare that such a thing cannot under any circumstances be enjoyed?
IT IS NOT POSSIBLE!
I sometimes read comprehensive explanations of things like that and still come out utterly baffled. Three months to ponder this one did not help. Possibly because it is baffling and also that this time I read it on the thing called “encyclopedia dramapickle.” I will talk about that now.
Unlike wikipedia, which invites the occasional gang of twits to write embarrassing articles of mass inversely proportional to their significance, encyclopedia dramaphrodite is written entirely by the most spiteful, unstable, hypocritical trendthugs alive, often at odds with each other, and as such just as bad as much of the subject matter it complains about. However, it is only by attracting them that we can draw out explanations and origins for the worst things online, however alternatingly, schizophrenically biased they will be presented. I don’t even want to link to the thing I’m describing because I’m afraid it will hack my brain and plaster photographs of enormous phalluses end to end along the outside of my house, each accompanied by an Impact-fonted caption you’d have to be the mature-aged equivalent of a crack baby to find meaning in. But trust me, it’s crrrrrazy!
A man called Root once referred to it as “hostile to humor” or something like that, and so somebody made a page about him on the site with that quote on it. Ha ha, got ‘im! Another agent once called him doot instead of root. So you can see why I’d be afraid. They keep their opposition in check. I’d go a bit further than Rodo and call it hostile to everything. It’s that sort of presentation where I feel like whoever wrote what I’m reading is angry at me. Who needs that? Not I! No sir. I get angry enough at myself for eating my weekly Raisinet/Chex Mix ration in one day without worrying that the time Ronin stole Jack Trades’ password and said he was going to punch Opt202 at Gorbocon six years ago might just make me a redneck gay redneck.
I have to assume the articles making fun of teen-aged weirdos who killed themselves are in the minority… but yih, there are some. Or there were, anyway. Something like that probably becomes a legal liability over time. That is, assuming real people have more rights than Capt’n Eeeeeeli. And… apparently I’m not over that yet.
And all this time I believed that was caused by an iron deficiency.
Next week: English lessons for domestic pets.
If all goes according to plan, this will be my final note of the year. If all goes according to plan. I’ll believe there is a new year when I see it. It still has five-and-a-half hours to change its mind before it reaches the standard eastern time zone, and if it did decide to turn around, I could not find fault with it. I would do the same thing if put in such a position.
Or don’t. Fine. It’s not my problem. I’m perfectly well being ware on my own. Stupid animal. Like I wanted your company.