I don’t know what’s in “Life Water,” but whatever it is it’s also in Imoxicillan, akadoko “the pink stuff.” My first experience with “vitamin enhanced water beverages” was seeing discarded Vitamin Water bottles constantly fallen, defeated, in the parking abyss outside Gateway Community College. Vitamin Water: It’s Baby-Makin’ Fuel.
I wondered what would draw people to an imbibable with such an unsettling name.
“Juice” sounds nutritious and decent tasting, “soda” sounds a bit empty but not disgusting. “Vitamin Water” sounds like how an alcoholic in denial describes the contents of a liquor bottle to a small child.
“Kool” Aid at least admits it’s something not quite natural, possibly made from cigarettes, and Sunny Delight‘s name is adequately Orwellian that sensible people know to keep away. Combined with the appearance, Vitamin Water just makes the stuff seem like there’s something wrong with it, but for some reason only to me! Water is clear, vitamins are clear, why is this goop pink? Something horrible must have happened to make this name obviously no longer applicable, but in the absence of any other identifier you no longer know what it is. And then that white and black big bland font label, it looks like something somebody would drink on an episode of Roseanne. Except on that show it would be peanut butter and bacon water.
But anywaw, this is not vitamin water. This is Life Water, which is even vaguer, creepier and lyingier. This is not water that brings forth life. You cannot revive Benjamin Franklin with it. This is not magic potion. Do not drink this if your red heart-count is low. Sure, it claims to have “100%” Vitamin C if you only drink 8 ounces of the contents, but so does a bowl of Froot Loops. Would you drink a bottle of Froot Loops? If it tasted like medicine? It is worth noting that I wasn’t aware of the “serving” tomfoolery, despite my past scuffles with it, and probably gave myself haemochromatosis by taking in 250% vitamin C within a single day. Yesh, I drank it all. This was just tolerable enough for me to not cry when tasting it so I had to finish it. I know, at least, that humans have the power to process it. I wouldn’t want to dump it out a window and poison some poor stray armadillo.
I should have known just by the awfulness of the associated advertisement –featuring yet another tired, exhausted lamo parodoy to the zombie dance from Michael Jackson’s Thriller, with the sequence being additionally creepy in a way that I guess zombies just couldn’t manage– that the drink would be bad. However, I did not associate the ad with the fluid until I tasted it and realized it was awful and suddenly remembered that the Sobe company typically represents itself with a lizard and there recently was a horrible ad with lizards in it which may or may not have featured a bottled substance instead of car insurance irrelevant to the primary horribleness.
White backgrounds are bad news. Computer generated characters are bad news. People dancing for no reason are bad news. Advertisements are bad news. Advertisements which think they are cleverly spoofing something are worse news. When you put all that bad news together, I wish you hadn’t. I should not forget to mention, this wasn’t but some effortless robotchickeny meme-enabled jerkwork on the internet; this cost many dollars to make and millions more just to debut, I’m told, during some major sporting event or another earlier this year. This is how our masters talk to us now.
If you had asked me in 1993 if I thought allegations of molesty behavior against Michael Jackson would affect his ability to license out his music for awful unfunny over-budgeted ripoffs, I would have asked you what “molest” meant. I was ten years old, I didn’t need that in my life. If you had asked me the same question in 2003, I probably would have pointed out to you that it hadn’t much mattered in the decade leading up to then. You ask dumb questions.
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.
MOUSE ANGRY!
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.
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.
Nuy.
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.
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.
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.
Boing
Wow, I can’t believe Meet the Spartans opened “yesterday.” Not so much that I can’t believe it would be allowed to open at all, I just feel like I’ve been seeing its ads for two years. To put that in perspective, I’ve only been seeing ads for Strange Wilderness for six months.
I’ll not give it credit for breaking the naming convention of its forebears, as that only happened because epic movie was such a failure, the unmistakable mistake of a sequel wanted to trick us into thinking it wasn’t that which it had no problem with being. I guess they reason, sure it’s obnoxious, stuffed with overused, underthought topical acknowledgments which aren’t quite jokes, all of which will be in the spartan-like assault force of ads, why don’t we give it a different name? Why they’d choose an even worse naming convention is just because they’re bad bad people.
Excuse me my good man, but is this the sequel to Epic Movie?
No, look at the name. It’s the sequel to Meet the Deedles.
Cor, what a scoop! Color me deedled!
Ha ha, fooled you! It really is the sequel to Epic Movie.
Say, this movie is swell! I’m glad you deceived me!
Carmen Electra is in it, that’s all the proof you need.
A better question, really, is why, if the previous fared miserably, and everybody hated it/them, it gets a sequel at all. Why are these being made? Who watched any of the previous movies and said “your antics amuse me. Here, have 30 million dollars to make another movie with.”? Ehhh, but that much is known. Part of it is said to have come from Regency Enterprises, which also funded a real who’s that of the movies I’ve complained about the existences of or merely wanted to plus Fight Club. Epic Movie, Firehouse Dog, Big Momma’s House 2, Deck the Halls, things I did not think there could be any connection between aside from my scorn. Regency also funds “Baby First TV,” and that stuff is always loathsome, with typically as much non-market research driven thought behind it. I truly do not understand. Let’s go to the phones. Klube from Mipwip Junction, you’re on the air.
Sir, turn off your radio, please.
Sir, sir, could you please turn off your radio! Oh dear.
Well that situation is unlikely. There are also a great many things I hate which Regency was not involved with. I simply hate many many things. They fund what they think people will purchase tickets for, and that’s as far as it goes.
And George Orwell, fortunately, was wrong in guessing men who want power would be able to by now have separated themselves from their undoing agent, the craving for wealth. “They” would never give us Epic Movie for free, and that is why they will always fail. Although some of the ads feel like two minutes, there is at this time no penalty for not watching them. Not horribly long ago I read some mumbling and bungling about technology to force unskippable ads into dvd movies, and it’s already implemented in some fashion, but it can’t force anyone to care. Not yet. And they only do it because they want money, not to make us hate imaginary enemies as a distraction from our real problems. They don’t respect us that much. Also, that would alienate potential customers.
Elections are a different matter, because only citizens may vote. The next time a politician insists gays are signing up children in the streets and another proposes a bill to ban streets rather than investigate the charge, and that the ghost of Saddam Hussein is after not just yellow cake but our vast natural deposits of chocolate cake as well, and so we ought to devote all our resources to producing a cake so big that it cannot be stolen, be glad you live in a country where the government respects you. And if you don’t you may also find things to be glad about. I realize this paragraph has no foundation in reality but I bet I could get applause if I ended a commencement speech with it.
Hitler still up to his old tricks:
I told you about this letter, right? You don’t have to read it, I will summarize it afterwards. Lazy loaf.
A more succinct version: “You took some pictures from my website and put them on yours, therefore you owe me 0.15 million dollars.”
The entry it regards was quickly stripped of the offending materials and I have not yet devised suitable replacements for them all. I made plans, but actually doing the act was soon sickening. I’ll possibly tell you if it ever happens. The offending materials consisted of a comic page, a comic cover and youtube frame all depicting the exact same character drawings arranged in different ways among seriously lousy 3D computer graphic backgrounds, and seen exactly as I found them, except for one whose background I altered (which they noticed, pog bless them). My point being that the whole thing’s an overpromoted ugly hackwork and true.
When I first saw the note on the evening of October 5, 2007, I spoke, aloud “well it’s about time.” I’m not one of those “ha ha, I’ve been banned from 37 forums THIS WEEK” people who gloats about being an antisocial gadshmap (I wish I would have gotten banished more often, back in the days, so I’d have stopped trying sooner), but one does wonder after a while if anybody is paying attention.
Almost right away I came up with some nonsense to say here, but was terribly paranoid about the whole thing and so kept it to myself. Fortunately, it’s totally the normal for me to mix new content with things I did years ago, so October is pretty timely. I am not convinced it’s possible to do time travel, but I believe I may be time travel.
I think with the facts that Capt’n Eli is a small operation and that I included Hitlerish imagery, the response is not surprising. While I could substitute the mustache-swastika-less Not Hitler from the Super NES port of Wolfenstein 3D, I think the intent would still be obvious, but if it wasn’t obvious it wouldn’t make sense. I could also replace Hitler with “call apogee say aardwolf” but that also wouldn’t make sense and would still have the ah… plaintiff’s drawing in it, and I certainly don’t want to fiddle about when people are threatening to take $149,837 I don’t have over a totally justified complaint. Yet I think if they obtained that money they could turn out a far higher quality product. If I had that money I could pay off my annoyances and turn out a higher quality product myself, making dumb comics fast enough that I wouldn’t have to write about silly things in the interim periods and thus this never would have happened. Stupid Eli.
I believe a lot of the trouble is that people on the internet have been largely desensitized against Hitler, to such an extent that I couldn’t imagine anyone – first of all, with gainful employment – bothering with my nonsense, and secondarily, having a legitimately off reaction, of such intensity, to the insertion of Cap’t Holocaust with other non-hitlery subjects. I thought it would be best to remove the thing altogether until I could devise of entirely generic and/or Hitler-free subject matter which still work with my own general complaints, which I think are valid. And I did that. I told you I did!
I suppose it was wrong to try and work out my annoyance at Maine, off brand soft drinks and web-comics all at the same time. If it’d been a picture of Richard Burton or Stockard Channing I could claim to feel wronged, but there aren’t any in Doom2 so the joke doesn’t work.
But that’s what this is about. It was quickly obvious to me that not the art theft, the thing they’re demanding money for, but what my friends up north are really mad about is the hitlerly of the second paragraph and, I suspect, even more just that I made fun of their soda, their website and their mediocre comics. And yes probably their state, too, knowing what I know about the people in that area. And many other areas. Otherwise, why would they care? The only other alternative is that they’re just nasty people, because clearly I have no power and no reputation which would give my words any great weight in a serious situation. They don’t really expect to get one hundred fifty thousand dollars from me, they just want people to stop talking spackle about Capten Eli and their precious “down east.” Evidently the irony of making crazy threats at being associated with naxis is lost on them.
Gah, no wonder the Wannawaf bofo didn’t want to sell that stuff.
You wouldn’t sue me JUST for copying a picture and putting it on a webpage any more than you would if I’d taped it to the front door of my house. That is not the first step (verily, you must climb four to reach the door). Yet this is the only real charge. Otherwise, the note implies that merely saving an image to my hard drive is a crime, and I must assume 90+% of internet users have been guilty of that at one time or another. Maybe it will come about that browser caches themselves are illegal. We already have a good amount of online video set so that it can only be viewed streamed. Oh well. As long as I can keep downloading roms, it shouldn’t be too much trouble. I wouldn’t be terribly surprised if the ope whose “kingdom hearts plot” guide I insulted a paragraph from came after me now.
I’m not angry at Jay Piscopo, the author. Not for this. Not that much. Because, for one thing, I don’t think it was his idea. I think maybe he found my entroid, and showed it to one of the shipyard brewers and said
It bothered me, sure, it bothered me a lot, but I came closer to crying when the ridiculous october weather here required me to rereinstall and rereuninstall my fan in the same day.
If I could go back and do things differently, would I? Certainly. I wish I had made Hitler be smoking a joint so the lawyer could inform me of the dangers of drug abuse. Or I wish I had titled the entry “Capt’n Eli is a crackhead” or “Jay P’scopo is a sobbing talentless trainwreck of a man” just to see that printed on the letter. Although neither of those things can conclusively be proven as true merely by the evidence available. And that would have made writing the return letter slightly more awkward. But oh, I wrote it. It wasn’t exactly groveling, but I think it gave in on more points than it should have. Every word is true, though. Words themselves cannot be lies, can they? I should have said every statement is true.
re: cease and desist demand
unauthorized use of copyrighted materials
Dear Sinclair Law Offices:
I am deeply troubled that my website entry was found to be offensive,
particularly by your clients, to such an extent that they would seek
legal action. I immediately complied with the demand to remove the
infringing materials, from all possible places. My goal is always to
amuse myself and potential others; never do I embark upon quests of
simple hate, so anything which appears to be such is most unwelcome at
bimshwel.com.
Though not seeking to excuse myself, I will say that the employment of
the Hitler image was intended solely to be ridiculous, as many popular
media have rendered the sight of him in recent years. The swastika was
to be thought of as incidental as the mustache, though in retrospect I
fully understand how someone could think otherwise. I myself have been
most dissatisfied with the lack of accountability among cruel and
rambunctious persons on the internet.
Please accept this letter as an assurance that the matter has been dealt
with in the requested manner.
Your humble servant,
Brendalyndalyn Cunninkhom
“Regardless of legality, I still think you’re a creepy and scary person for taking such threatening actions over the equivelant of having a hat and glasses drawn on your re-election poster.” is just one of several things I reluctantly removed before the final version. I’m glad the word “rambunctious” survived.
“Brendalyndalyn Cunninkhom” was the name those people or that person pulled from the public who-is database of internet domain registrants and then placed within doubting quotation marks in the letter which was sent to me but not addressed to me. Rather, the letter was addressed to my parental persons, whose credit card I used. Who owns the credit card is only relevant if you’re trying to make trouble. As I see it, this gang think I’m some stupid dumb kid and they thought they were going to get me punished in a domestic fashion with this business, and even if I had I wouldn’t want to think I let them have such satisfaction, believed I it within my power to control that. I’m not even convinced the “Sinclair Law Offices” exist.
I don’t have a credit card. Neither does my considerably more self-sufficient brother Eeple, but that didn’t impede some thug from breaching his myspace page and registering a credit card in his name. I’m sure it’s printed somewhere in the seven mile myspace privacy policy that they let people do that. It will probably happen to me, too, but at least when it does I’ll have a pretty good idea where the name was gotten from. Also, I like to think whoever sends a bill to me will notice it’s kind of wrong.
The vagueness of the dedication “dear sinclair law offices” is my fault, sort of. Unable to decipher the signature on the letter –and who signs a letter, especially an angry one, “sincerely by,” anyway?– I decided to seek out the law offices’ website to find a name that looked similar to the signature. Curiously, the office seemed to specialize in medical malpractice cases. The web page opened with a big five point internet font “INJURED?” I guess that also extends to hurt feelings, though that was not among one of the numerous injuries mentioned on the front page. “Bedsores,” however, shew up three times, and apparently you can sue your bed. And then I realized “oh, this is a DIFFERENT Sinclair law offices!” It has come to my attention that there are like 800 lawyers named “Sinclair,” most of them in Florida. And so I just searched for the address, which is either “harborview properties” or the center of a road, depending on whether I believe google’s text or map search more. So I’m either being harassed by a seriously small time operation or it simply does not exist. Yeh, they want $150,000 so they can stop renting space and pay someone to make a website for them.
If Eli and the Shipyard Brewers had followed Popeye and the Happy Co.’s examples, I would have just made fun of their copyright notices and we’d never have had this problem. Or I could have linked to DUDE, IT’S SHIPYARD and cried myself to sleep. This is what comedy is in Maine. It’s also in Mp4 format. I’m never one to say “get with the times,” but mice all-whitey, use a quicker imbedded video format. This is a couple boozos talking about boze, not mc escher the movie.
If I could give advice to you: don’t reuse pictures from other people’s websites, don’t insert Hitler into them, and most certainly do not link to the original website if you do the other two things. The only reason I did that was because I wanted people to see the scary, minimum effort, totally unnecessary Flash welcome. That these thugs found me means someone did, and I’m always glad to know people are clicking my links.
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.
Some guy called Saint Zartan showed me a link to these things back in October, some company called “choice shirts” selling various objects of personal adornment I myself would never choose. What follows is much of the message I sent in return, plus some other junk I was hoping to not to find when I went to verify that the link still worked. You know I’m desperate when I’m digging up my old email. I hate dirt.
I also hate the readily available font options in wordpress. I’m pretty sure I have to define everything in styles.css in advance and then I need to upload that and oh the pain. But ehhh,
Not only could I not cash the check, I couldn’t even save the tiny sample picture without dredging through my browser cache. They have the imdib amazon.corn technology which as anyone can see has stopped me from stealing pictures on many occasions. It’s an understandable precaution by the choiceshirts people, however: a real rebel wouldn’t pay for clothing from a website. He’d load up Apple Safari, download a picture, print it out, knit his own shirt and iron-on the design himself. All his friends will be impressed, not just with his home economics skills, but also when they see his pixelated, jaypeg artifact ghost pit-bull behind unreadable words reminiscent of what you see on that thar fancy bank paper.
What does this mean? Bimshwel scientists have deduced that the saloon/circus font on the big yellow ball reads “REBEL FASTPITCH SINCE 1861” but that doesn’t explain a whole lot, nor can I even figure out how the speed at which a low weight round object is propelled through the air may be inherently rebellious. I assume, and that’s all I can do, that the big woids mean any woman who attempts to toss a spheroid in a different fashion, id ehhhst, like a man, is stepping outside her place and by disrespecting men she therefore disrespects Jesus and is probably a lesbian too and Jesus doesn’t like that either. I’m just assuming. You know what Jesus loves, though: slaves country music.
That’s an order. You must love that country music. While I admit I’m personally curious as to what the hat and boots sound like, I’m comforted to know that whatever it is I must love it. Just like Evita. Those are some good songs, yo. Andrew Lloyd Webber, what a master. The kind without slaves, I mean. This is about heritage.
See, what’d I tell you.
Heritage, not hate. Being an ornery aynod whose clothing challenges other people to fights isn’t hate. It’s manning up. I think I just wrote a new shirt.
And then, of course, you follow it up with this. Doot, your heritage is hate. Even if you convince me it wasn’t, it is by now. Uck, at least those evil smirks in Detroit admit what they’re on about and pretend to have evidence which justifies them.
No no no, ignorant fop, you misunderstand completely. Their noble plantating ancestors loved their rightless servants. Trust me, they were very grateful for the luxurious master manors they were able to buy from the hard work they weren’t doing. They only took up the whip because they had to. Now then, would you like to join my cult?
Marco is right. The slave owners were so deluded they thought they were protecting their slaves. They weren’t smart enough to hate their slaves. Their descendents, to their credit, have learned to hate.
You’re saying I should be more offended?
I don’t know who’s a rebel these days, but if there’s a huge company printing asinine slogans and empty threats on clothing and making a disgusting profit selling it to anyone with their own credit card or someone else’s over the internet, and you gladly participate, it isn’t you.
What does this angry texas Skeleton pointing at my left shoulder have to do with God gracing anything? I thought there was nothing less godly than the undead making war on the citizens of earth. If anything, we have been forsaken.
Whip skeletons, not slaves! There is no bigger threat to our glorious union than flying skeletons.
Just this once, I’ll allow you to dissect the irony yourself. And no, I don’t even mean people still upset at the failure of a one-hundred-forty year old movement of armed defiance they haven’t the slightest grasp of the meaning behind complaining about crybabies.
I’m not certain what this says –but don’t worry, I’m pretty sure it’s something to do with rationalizing committing adultery with a poorly drawn horse you put makeup on– I just think the amount of reading required exceeds the maximum amount that is considered rebellious.
All right, very right, men have asserted themselves. What do the ladies think? Hopefully they can stand up for their own rights, maybe add a touch of class to the proceedings and remind us all of the famous Southern Hospitality that
Uhhhhhhhhhhh…
hhhhhhhhhhhhhh……
I’m fascinated by the idea that Southern Mom and Southern Bitch receive the exact same treatment.
I’m hardly surprised, though. Here’s something really special:
If you mess with my wife
I can forgive you.
If you mess with my truck or dogs,
I’ll shoot you!
-COONHUNTER
Seckshual objectification and misogyny/willingness to be objectified and misogyny’ed, mortal violence as adjudicator of minorest grievances, pride in one’s own laziness outside that category, inexplicable love for the scariest dogs and scarierest recording artists…
I can’t help noticing that the least pleasant people, regardless of their race type, have very much in common. Why can’t they get along?
Long time, part time or morphin’ time readers may know I have an ongoing feud with ducks. The Aflac duck, akadaka “The Aflac Duck” usually doesn’t factor into our dispute… I consider the rivalry to be of an honorable sort, or as closest a wretched scoundrel duck can come to that, but this duck is but a dirty uncouth rapscallion without even the minimal decency of its fethren. I’m sure some person, some place thinks it is comendable that advertisers attempt to make their filths tolerable to larger audiences then those who might have an immediate “need” to purchase insurance, but that ignores the fact that there’s no reason for anyone to watch ads or accept that they are shown. And insurance in general is a dire, dire
It’s bad enough when every fumblewig who can afford ad time thinks they’re so clever commissioning wooden puppets of themselves roundabout December, but this is… slightly more bad than that.
I don’t even like stupid rudolph the dumb red idiot nosed moron reindeer and I think the recent aflac ad, which I can easily embed in this page but never will, is, was despicable. Like worse than the other ones. I suppose it’s good that the ad was “unauthorized,” meaning whoever owns the rights to the characters and situations and such gave no assistance or permission, but it’s also bad because that means anybody can make a cheap daft Winnie-the-pooh-job ad with any characters they want and get away with it. Not that anybody really “owns” Santa Claus, but I think we’re smart enough to know when something’s an obviously derivative work which exists exclusively to sell a product or service and only attempts to be entertaining to distract us from that while it takes our nostalgia behind a barn and shoots it in the head. Fortunately, the ad is so quick and crowded -and I knew it was coming! I was mentally prepared in advance when I watched it online- plus the addition of that tiresome duck which never wasn’t annoying that no one could possibly like or excuse it.
Also, am I the only person who’s bothered by these vague “smart dates” that show up all over the place now? That really messes with the accuracy of my screen grasps if I don’t use them right away; all my rudolph abuse occurs past immediate relevance so you know I mean bidness. I prefer to see a simple calendar figure. It doesn’t matter to me if you put the month number first or second. I’ll figure it out from the context the first time and remember it after that. I’m smarter than I eat.
Even at the moment the dates are generated, when they’re correct, I have no immediate concept of what “four weeks ago” means. Was that in November? Was that in… no, that’s twenty eight days, right? Almost a month. So what about “1 month ago,” then? And how do I know when something occurred beween 1 and 2 months ago? As far as this system is concerned everything happened on the same day. Grapety purple, I need to know these things! We aren’t talking about veoh comments, after all. Stop trying to make the past seem like uncertain memories of insubordinate importance which are worth knowing with decreasing specificness the older they get! We have the technology to know exactly when these messages were left! If I choose to say an event took place one month, two weeks, three days, back to back law and orders and a belt buckle ago, it should be my choice! And it won’t be! Screebidy deebidy!
It seems like only last post I was talking about how it would be the final of the year. And so, we have another year, and with a new year come new opportunities, new adventures, new people, new ideas, 12 all new gladiators. As it has been often said, gone away is the rue year, here to stay is the new year, at least for another year. What inspiration will today’s year bring?
AARRRRRRRRRRRRP! bulletin
Everything’s the same as before! Everything’s just as stupid as it used to be! I was a fool to have hope!
But anyway, as this helpful, awkward, contractual obligaty cobranding moment –in which Terrence “Hulk Huggin'” Bolero appeared on the World Wrestling Ehhh for the first time in a couple years for approximately three minutes to promote his new deal and was never seen again– informed me not terribly long ago, the American Gladiators will be “””back””” on January 6ifth. Even though none of the same people seem to be involved. I’d like to make some proper comparison pointing out all the apparent differences which displease me, but in actuality I would not like to do that. And I don’t have to, because the advertising makes no secret of big changes.
This is not your grandmother’s American Gladiatort.
That from Hogan, Hulk Hogan, who’s almost old enough to be my grandmother. And what if it was my grandmother’s american gladiators? My grandmother had good taste.
But in reality, my grandmothers did not watch american gladiators. One of them was British at the appointed time and can not be assumed to have had the ability nor patriotic privelege to have watched. So they did not watch american gladiators. I did. When I was twelve years old. In the full time space of television it really wasn’t on regularly all that long ago. Therefore, I am my own grandmother.
What I always thought the show lacked were loud sparkly things and winners standing around boasting. Also, hosts who I know and/or will be constantly reminded the names of. I can’t tell you who or what hosted the other show. It may have been no one. It wasn’t important. I also like hosts who stand around acting tough but are totally uninvolved with any physical competition. The other host is Laila Ali, who is probably a preferable satiating of “the biz’s” un-stoppable/explainable nepotism hunger than Brooke Hogan.
I used to have some great pictures of the episode of Family Matters where Steve and Carl battle each other on the old geriatric American Gladiators, but even if I still do it’s anyone’s guess what I saved them as or where I put them. The internet also has a tendency to swallow up helpful websites where you can find episode specific images from tv shows and replace them with useless empty automatically generated subsections on various clone directories of nothing with “tv” in their urls. At no point in human history have there ever been greater collections of nothing by nobody for nobody than at whatever the current moment might be on the internet. If that’s not enough, they all want me to log in and write their pages for them. Like this is my fault.
There’s also no shortage of “hey, remember that episode of Family Matters where Carl and Steve were on American Gladiators?” comments saying nothing at all else turned up from dopey weblogs with probably as much substance, all regarding the new nbc program. Doesn’t anybody have anything unique to offer that’s not simply a regurgitation of non-information or an acknowledgment of a vague memory? Who let this happen?!
Like this is my fault.
Not that it’s the commentators’ faults that every not necessarily intended to be significant thing they say is recorded by search engines, but certainly the engines themselves could detect some distinctions among the various bits of data they collect, and additionally allow me to tell them which to tell me about. Ehhhm.
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.
It’s hardly a “holiday tradition,” only going back to 2005, but I do like to watch the 1946 film It’s a Wonderful Life roundabout the time when Christmas occurs. I did so recently, and I just thought I’d share with you a few of my favorite scenes and persons.
George Bailey, what a guy. He just wants to help people. You want the moon? He’ll give it to you. But I must inform you that the moon is deceptively large and it’s unlikely you could find any place big enough to store it.
George put his own personal ambitions indefinitely on hold to save the family business, the Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Building and Loan, and all the Bedford Falls citizens who depend upon it. Also present are George’s coworkers, loanmeister Sonny Chips and gardener Chief Tinko.
Ever selfless, he gave his own college money to his brother, Harold Barnabas Bailey, who is here just returning from several years at Meeplethorpe University, with a surprise companion: his new wife Bobo Rabadule.
Mary Escape Hatch irons the new wallpaper to impress George, the love of her life, and who can blame her?
Seemingly invetibly the two do become married, grow several children and enjoy many a Christastic Christmas together.
It’s hard enough watching a sincere yet not terribly hokey movie with modern, obnoxious ads in wherever they want to be, but do they have to be on during the movie itself? In color? Ironically, or perhaps not, that first picture occurs at a part of the movie which has no motion in it. Is that why? NBC doesn’t want me to think my set’s bust? On the blink? This is probably the oldest movie that gets shown on broadcast television. I think it could be treated better than a first run episode of Frank TV that didn’t have much going for it anyway.
Is that what you want? To be compared to something on TBS? The network whose name I cannot speak without giggling?
And this? Rainbow NBC logo? Wearing a hat? Tacky tacky tacky.
There’s a reason I don’t watch movies on the t v, and this isn’t even it. I don’t like the commercial breaks and especially that whole edited for time and content business. However, since this was made in 1946 and was granted a very generous, I thought, three hour timeslot, I didn’t expect too much to be missing. No, NBC would have to find some other way to make me hate it. Do these two events share the same audience? If I was such a big fan of that biggest loser that I forgot I wrote a web page two years ago about how much I hate it, how could I miss this bit of promotion the first six times it happened? If my eyes are that bad I wouldn’t watch a low contrast monochrome movie on a standard sized television set. And if I did I wouldn’t appreciate bright clashing neon Fruit by the Foot rolling across the screen all the time.
Ehhh, if I was in such a state that I spent my federal holidays watching the opening rounds of elimination shows 97% of whose conflicts, dilemmas, whineries and dumbfoundingly complicated gimmicks regarding simple acts will be irrelevant even within the show’s own irrelevant context in less than a month, I’d jump off a bridge myself. “What do you MEAN the significant lead I built up last week doesn’t carry over into this one?! What do you MEAN you’re merging the teams?! What do you MEAN only one of us can win?!” I’m going to the bathroom, now. When I come back this post had better be finished.
It has been suggested to me that the creature at the right is a dragon. I think that is simply not possible, as it has also been suggested to me, although not by the same people, that dragons are great, or at least kind of good at a few things*, which this personoid is not. You might as well call an aphid a cockaroach or a nanosella fungi a deinacrida heteracantha. Why would you do that?
*Obviously, this does not extend to appearing in feature films. Dragon movies are always bad news. Likely because the only people who would make dragon movies are themselves bad news. Probably people like this dumb lizard here.
You there, you’re supposed to be the ultimate all powerful beast and you just stand there and take that? Pathetic! You can’t even protest this occurrence, because your moping mouth is the thing getting bomped. How dare you shame my page with your presence twice over!
Obviously, this is not a “finished” picture. The finished one should have a fish in it somewhere. I have been too busy not finishing other things to tend to this.