the great transcendent horror

EXTREE! EXTREE! Challenge a Draw! Urine-Hoarding Recluse Buys Domain Name Over It!

2009-07-23T14:50:00.004-04:00

I think it's safe to say I speak for everyone in declaring this A-Z Challenge officially a draw. All the entries were so good my mind is still coming apart like saltwater taffy in a dishwasher just from glancing over them again, so instead of having to buy any crazy shit for anybody this time, I've decided everybody should get a prize. That's right, we're switching over to a full domain , complete with our own hosting, and what looks to be a much less retarded publishing system than Blogger (hard to believe, I know). So far it's still very rough; all the posts have been copied over but the design still needs to be, well, re-designed, so stay tuned for updates. Everybody's posts still match their authors and I've copied us all over - usernames are the same but I had to set temporary passwords so IM me for those or something if you haven't already.

And, on that note, here's some utterly senseless flash-flash-fiction inspired entirely by a souvenir-ashtray caricature:

He’d never considered just how well a cartoon bubble-letter exclamation point could capture that particular, waxy, solar glare-shine only pristinely bald Asians and freshly buffed school gym floors seemed to have in common. But then, he’d never considered the true implications of what 300¥ could really be worth, either; at least, not until it found him 6.5 mouthfuls of vending machine espresso, two empty rainbow-tinted aluminum cans, and one ambiguously fascist, mystical, beverage-hocking caricature reanimated as an English-speaking and in fact quite belligerent floating skull on the empty pillow of his Shibuya Hilton bed later. And when the phantom sneeringly introduced itself as ‘Bozu,’ he never considered it could mean anything but ‘The Boss.’

A-Z Challenge: Mutant Edition

2009-06-30T22:07:00.004-04:00

Another movie-themed entry and another "bl'noooo", although I really wish I'd finished this earlier so I wouldn't have to follow the Enemy Mine poem.

Professor Xavier, kidnapped, retrieved-
Quickly, interlopers vamoose.
Surging water unleashed!
Airplane obvoluted, zero lift!
Jean Grey nobly egresses
Monstrous tsunami, frozen
Yet, her certain demise.
"Bl'nooooooooo!!"

A-Z Challenge: Earthman, Your Mickey Mouse is One Big Stupid Dope!

2009-06-30T20:09:00.007-04:00

You know something, Jerry? Your great Shismar ain't shit!

Awaiting virgin life,
It’s heavier than fat, Dahhhweeeech—
Zammis crowns, whimsically
queefed out through gaping reptilian
Enemy Mines, sacrificing Uranus;
You xenomorphi—
Pregnant Jerry, killed? Bl’nooooooooooo!!!

A-Z Challenge: Italian Delicacy - The Hot Italian Sausage

2009-06-30T17:01:00.012-04:00

Alright, I'm game, let's see if I can actually compete in this.

Hot italian sausages
Foreign delicacies
Xenophiliac Europeans
Love to put on,
Mustard, zebra cum, and bread.
Very nutritious, great with yogurt
Romantic under quilts

Just kidding

A-Z Challenge: a Common Dessert has an Eye-Opening Experience

2009-06-30T17:01:00.009-04:00

Well, what was I supposed to do? Write one about Zorro rescuing a spicy sausage-mountain village from the Brits' sinister nuclear scheming? Or...something? Please. I know my place around here.

Forsaken, rendering quickly,
a hapless confection weeps;
Violent butter-pecan tears
splash unsuspecting lips...

O epiphanous joy-kaleidoscope!
Yowling zealot needs Xanax -
My god, I'm DELICIOUS!!!

A-Z Challenge: Special Delivery

2009-06-30T14:45:00.008-04:00

This feels like a failed attempt now due to the lack of hot Italian sausage, but I was struck by a lame idea on reading the first post and dammit I'm going to follow through on it.

Unearthed vintage "Zorro" comic book issue-

Last page advertisement:

Quaint kitsch readily dispersed.

Six to eight weeks hence, X-ray glasses.

Jocular novelty! Yields only myopia.

Fuck.

A-Z Challenge - RE: Hot Italian Sausage, Care Of: XANADU

2009-06-30T14:15:00.010-04:00

Barrel-chested ranchers pace
under keenly zealous desert glare,
empty mouths yearning for
nourishment, quickly losing vigor—
then, just ahead—

hot Italian sausage!—
whispers of Xanadu...

A-Z Challenge: British Colonialism Rules + Hot Italian Sausage

2009-06-30T11:56:00.017-04:00

Zulu warrior horizon,
Xenophobic Redcoats prepared for battle,
Artillery engaged, young men dying
calling towards justifiably upset mothers,
Nevermore keeping life sustained,
Going out in vain.

Quiet...

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Update: And for bonus points...

Bright xenon-krypton gas lights,
Undergrads roving nighttime Worcester avenues,
Parked over yonder junction,
Mediterranean vendor zealously exchanges cash
for hot italian sausage,
Quite the delicacy.

The A-Z Challenge

2009-06-30T11:13:00.012-04:00

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ - look familiar? Good. Now write a 26 word poem, each one starting with a different letter, in non-consecutive order. Go on, I dare you. Come up with something better than my shitty attempt, and I will personally buy you a very unusual and mysterious present.

A flaming wreckage of cherubs—
xenophobic, messianic nativity,
doused in taxidermic liquors—
burning raw Euclidean geometry,
yawning jealously under hypodermic
seeds, vacantly-kilned decoys—
quivering, palsied; zenic.

PS- Bonus points for anyone who manages to pull one off entirely based on Hot Italian Sausage (I'm looking at you, Colonel)

Panachio pt. III

2009-06-27T12:08:00.003-04:00

Well, Guido comes to a solid 20 or so hours later – pretty average for when he'd been harfing down fistfuls of vicodin between drinks like stale bar-pretzels – only this time, his crusty eyes hinged open on a scrawny stump of a shadow, hovering right over his rattling skull. For a minute he figured he must still just be conked, about to get the familiar night-terror treatment, until he noticed the monster headache rattling his brain around like cheap oriental dice. Guido’s first instinct is to spring up and bolt for the handsaw on his workbench, and go for the fuckin’ jugular of who- or what-ever’s staring him down like county lockup fresh-meat in his own goddamn house – he still can’t tell it’s Panachio, remember, since his eyes are still all full of that crusty crap from sleeping.

But, since he’s still all fucked up and practically sweating moonshine, he decides to take it slow and easy instead of going more apeshit, and starts slumping toward his fridge, just kinda ignoring the little bastard, still hoping it’ll just go away if he can find a couple morning swigs of Irish mouthwash – until he hears this horrible clunking right behind him, following him straight across his clusterfuck of a kitchen, and when he finally turns around, he sees the blank, accusing, soulless goddamn toy soldier stare of his creation shooting right back at him, into him, through him – this deadpan, mechanical glare that he was pretty sure he hadn’t even carved out in the first place, frozen on with killer determination like some shark that just spotted a nice, meaty cloud of ripened chum. Three more heavy, wooden clunks toward him, and Guido finally managed to choke out a response:

“F’chrissake,” he growled. “Who the hell’re you, and what’re you doing on my property, you…punk?!”

Suddenly the puppet stopped, and its face slowly tightened and twisted up into a crooked kinda grin. The knotted grains of splotchy wood covering his face bent and curled up, like some little goddamn Discovery Channel flower stretching out for sunlight in elipsed time, or whatever they call that creepy fast-motion nature shit, you know what I mean. It looked like he was either trying to be friendly or just got tricked into polishing some neckbearded guy’s knob in the back of a paneled van or something, but either way he didn’t really seem threatening anymore, and Guido, suddenly more curious and self-satisfied than homicidal, dropped his saw and cocked his head to the side, giving the kid’s details a once-over.

“Hmmm, not bad at all,” he mumbled into his palm, “I’m getting pretty good at this shit I guess. But how the fuck did I get him walking around like that? I don’t even remember finishing the damn knee joints…must have gotten more blotto than I thought, dumped some clock parts in there or something? Or made some gay little wish and somebody actually bought it…eh, who cares. Genius Guido, fucking genius, even you almost shit your pants! Those government cheesedicks will never know what hit ‘em…”

Now the puppet’s just trying to kiss ass, staring up at him and giving him the old puppy eyes, which I guess it’s really saying something for Guido’s carpentry skills that the doll’s face can be so, y’know…expressive. But that shit don’t fly with Guido, right, ‘cause he’s obviously not the sentimental type, and he sure as shit wasn’t gonna go soft just from this hollow twerp making googly eyes at him, even if he hadn’t been too busy practicing sympathetic yarns to spin for those neckless pricks at the welfare office to notice. But you can bet your juicy ass this was the happiest he’d ever been in the same zoning code as anything even resembling a little shithead kid – and that’s when it hit him. Something still seemed off about this creepy oversized woody mugging up at him like a Brady Bunch understudy…it seemed to be studying him right back, sizing him up, looking him over like it was actually…thinking.

Guido’s throat hardened into a lump and splashed down into his stomach like a monstrous turd that took weeks to squeeze out – this wasn’t just fucking clock parts, not even Swiss, and yeah, that’d been a stretch, but a guy who drinks as much as Guido and can still piss anything but blood gets to believin’ he can pull off just about anything from time to time, and besides, he didn’t believe in any of that frilly, twinkledicked, pixiekissed fairytale horseshit. But if this little lump of deformed hardware scraps was somehow thinking, that had to mean it was alive, which meant it must be some kinda real, actual kid – a pouty, whiny, sticky, needy runt…a 100%, bonafide, disgusting crotchglob – standing in the middle of his fucking house. And just when Guido’s startin’ to thank fuckin’ god that at least in this fucked up dream or hallucination or, Christ forbid, real thing that was happening, at least the little shit is quiet, Panachio pipes up, in the worst, most goddamn annoying, shrillest eunuch-y voice he could have imagined:

Panachio pt. II

2009-06-24T12:16:00.003-04:00

Where in the hell was I anyway. Oh, right. So the point is that the sonuva bitch is going to pull an all-nighter that'd make…damn, now I forgot his name…that faggot from Titanic played him in a movie…and, speaking of which, you'd better not go and turn gay on me or I'll blow my fuckin' brains out just so I can haunt you for the rest of your turdburgling life. Crime against nature, two men rollin' around like that, and so, you know, I'd better not catch you eyeballing any juic- Wha? Ah, right…but I mean that shit, don’t you even think about it. Fine, and so our buddy Guido's pulling an all-nighter, double-fisting red bulls and vile, cheap, caffeine-infused vodka he grabbed at the store for a coupl’a dago dollars, and he's really juicin' to get the job done so he can cash in on this welfare thing, and of course the added bonus of getting to dip his greasy meatballs right in Uncle Benito's morning espresso by cheating those government fat-cats out of some of those dirty colored-monopoly-bills those people call money. No, not literally in the coffee, jeez, it's a damn figure of speech. You really take after your dumb broad of a Mother sometimes, you know that? Now settle it down before I whack you upside the head again.

Come morning, then, Guido’s big block of bargain-bin pine’s shaping up to be pretty close to actually looking like a kid, a Christmas fuckin’ miracle in itself, considering his blood alcohol level, and how his hands are just about shaking like your mother’s little battery-operated friends from all the caffeine he’s been chugging…No, never mind, it’s nothing a kid your age needs to know about – for the last friggin’ time, enough with the goddamn questions! I shouldn’t have said anything anyway, court warnings and whatnot…just forget about it, he’s just jittery, which, if you don’t turn out queer and God save you if you do, you’ll realize one day what a bitch it is to operate power tools when you’ve got hangover shakes. Point is, Guido’s somehow got a pretty convincing wooden boy sitting on his workbench, so his all-nighter’s paid off, and after throwing some oily, puke-stained rags on it and tacking ‘em on with safety pins to cover its sexless wooden shame, he’s good and ready to guzzle his daily tubful of homebrew and pass the fuck out.

As he slumps over, just before he really hits the blackout zone, he looks one last time over at his creation, and even though to him there are like three or four wooden kids staring back at this point, he can see how well the little bastard turned out, with his working joints, realistically fuckin’ huge Dago nose, and eyes he even went through the trouble of scribbling blue with the only working ballpoint pen in the place. Guido stares at it, all cockeyed, maybe even more cockeyed than usual, and says – and this is in his own filthy pig-dog language, obviously, but translated, what he says is something like ‘Ain’t yous jus’ a hanssssome lil fucker…like your ol’ man, aren’tcha? You got…whazza word…panc…panache, kiddo. ‘Niiight….Panachio!’ What? Who gives a shit if ‘panache’ is a real Italian word? Suspend your goddamn disbelief, you nitpicky wuss, it’s all made up anyway. Christ…so the dumb wood doll gets his name, and Guido, fucked as a firefly in a hurricane, keels over and stays down for the rest of the day – and all night, too, the lazy shit – with plans of haulin’ ass to the nearest welfare office right away once he’s just sober enough to remember how to turn his friggin’ doorknob.

Guido should be just about in the clear now, since as it turns out, Panachio’s lookin’ good enough to fool whatever twats’d probably be running the welfare place, doling out the checks and stamps for free pasta and that crappy pizza with tomato slices on it instead of sauce. What he didn’t count on before, though, was the little whore of a fairy who’s evidently been watching him the whole time, carving away at those little wooden fingers and toes and pecks and all that, and actually she’s probably been watching for a helluva lot longer than that…Christ, I dunno where from! She’s invisible when she wants, maybe, or maybe she’s in bed with Jesus or something, how the fuck should I know! If you think it’s alright for me to finish my goddamn sentence, I was gonna say she must’ve been nosing in for a good while, ‘cause she knows just what a sack of triple-distilled crap Guido is, exactly what he’s after with making Panachio in the first place, and especially how much he fuckin’ hates kids – can’t say I blame him all that much, sometimes, when I remember what annoying little naggy interrupters they can be.

So Guido would be good to go when he regained consciousness, if only tiny Miss Tinker-bitch wasn’t gonna throw him a nice face-smashing monkey wrench to make him pay for what she sees as his wrongs, since she’s apparently on a giant fuckin’ moralistic high-horse, like your—whatever. And since she’s also all about ‘just desserts’ – and before you ask what that means you’d just fuckin’ better not – she figures the best way to punish him is to exploit his total hatred for children – and their selfish, snotty faces, and the kicking and screaming and smartass mouths and goddamn interrupting – by sprinkling some of her pixie dust and glitter or whatever on Panachio while Guido’s still out, transforming him magically into a real, flesh-and-blood, wise-talking brat of a kid, and one fuck of an unpleasant surprise for Guido come morning.

I need a hobby.

2009-06-20T01:34:00.011-04:00

All this talk of glorious Nippon has made me get this funny, swelling feeling in my testicles that I can't even begin to describe. So instead, I'm going to contribute to this gay pride parade of words with my own haiku, on things close to my black, shriveled heart.

Running like the wind,
Vaults rockets like a bunny,
Abuses voice commands

Soldier has a trick,
Soars through the sky like eagle,
Bursts into giblets

Sets up an ambush,
Waits to jump the-aack!
Forgot to spy check

Faces down sentries,
Runs in with an uber charge,
Fires 'nades wildly

He fires his gun,
Furious storm of bullets,
Didn't hit a thing

Tink tink tink tink tink,
Tink tink tink tink tink tink tink,
Engineer is hard

Attacking the point,
Medic has a charge ready,
He runs like coward

Shooting from afar,
"Heh, I'm just too pro for you,"
Bottom of scoreboard

Sneaking by Blu team,
Waiting for moment to strike,
Red team has five spies

My dearest Nippon, please find enclosed:

2009-06-18T08:38:00.010-04:00

'10 Haikus. That's right, Ten (one-zero, ten ones, one-tenth of two hundred half-ones). I'm no Matheologistician, but I'm almost eleventy million percent sure that's more than 4. In fact, it's literally more than twice as many and respectably near 3 times as much, if you think about it. Are Haikus gay? Of course they are. If you chuckle at any of these does that mean you're some kind of meany racist poopygums? Probably, but you've got bigger things to worry about, strutting around calling other peoples' poems homosexualized just because you're too white or gainfully employed to 'get' them, you gaybashing homophobic cocksuckers. As soon as I escape from Canada, which is actually very much like the computerized videopuzzle 'Wolfenstein 3D,' and honestly I still have quite a few levels left to go because mom keeps calling me away for delicious kielbasa rings and curly fries and sometimes to take out the trash, but anyway when I get through up here you're in for a world of hurt. Ever gotten the shit kicked out of you by a guy in flannel jumpers with a wispy, nonchalant French accent? Well don't worry about that, because I'm going to sue your ass. I'm going to sue off so much of your ass off that it's going to fall right out of your buttcrack and come sleep on my pleather sofabed until the papers go through at which time it will almost definitely sue off the asshole it forgot to bring and possibly even some colon for punitive damage.

I'm going to sue you until your whole lower GI tract is working for me on retainer to help me sue what's left of your ass until you have nothing left to sit down on, and you'll really need to sit down at that point because of how much money you just got sued right through your ass-fingers, and people will probably draw mustaches on your kodak.com albums and talk about how much you're Hitler (I'm betting it's a lot), and your wife or mom or 2nd cousin's cabbage-hat suzie doll is probably going to kill herself(ves). Their brains are probably better off spackled all over a stucco wall like that one can of mini-raviolos that just wouldn't fucking open so you just put it in the microwave anyway, just to see what would happen, just for a little while. Well I'll tell you what happened, it died, like your family is going to, from all your fat-faced hatemongering lardass swine-esque hateful flammable water-chumming hate-swill chunks. So why don't you just drink that in, tubby, and settle down next time before somebody who mopily pretends to care about you every other weekend with social worker supervision gets hurt. Yeah, that's what I thought, faggot.'

Love,
-The Editor

Art perfect as zen
TETSUO?!? KANEDA! OH!
Eat shit, Picasso.

Welcome, Dr. Jones,
to the land of rising sun!
Time for nipple wax.

a culture of shame,
it’s not rape with blurry balls—
shhh, that’s just lotion

not just kawaii
we have many great culture,
foods make us giggre

letters and numbers
coin slot hungers, giving treats
Refreshing!, panties

Stilettoed bovines
swaying like koi in the tide,
texting vacantly

Today's top discount-
Hello! Kitty rape-kit purse-
buy 12, get one free!

Browsing through The Loft,
designer seizure orgy;
pedophile stickers.

acid-washed t-shirts
Engrish baby-talk, still better
than e.e. cummings

desu ne’s and ugu~’s
phonetic streaming kite tails
that’s what I’m saiyan

Panachio:

2009-06-18T02:46:00.007-04:00

The Beloved Children's Story About a Wise-Cracking Asshole Guido Puppet Thing That Turned Into a Real Little Son of a Bitch Boy That I Hucked Stolichnaya Bottles At From the Den

-Part I-

Something like awhile ago or so, in a town called F-, guess the name got smudged a bit here, must have been that fucking bridge mix your mother always has to buy, F-, Fl-, F-L-, I? Looks like F-L-I-, c maybe, Flic-something, starts with Fli anyway, doesn't matter, it's not importa-- for Christ's sake it just doesn't, now do you want me to read it or not? OK fine, good. So anyway, in THAT town, there was a little boy called Panachio, and let me tell you, he was a real fucking piece of work. And I mean literally, because he was still just a big friggin' stupid block of wood at this point. His old man was one of those whittler carpentry type guys, see, but he was a real drunky, I mean a real wino lowlife jobless no-nuts sack of sunkissed hobo-shit, but boy could the guy ever drink. Every kind of townsfolkperson – big and small, fat and thin, old and young, married and divorced but living-it-up-no-strings-attached-the-real-man's-way-wihout-having-to-take-any-of-that-bitch's-naggy-bullshit – would travel in from all over the land, and carpool there with coworkers if some numbnuts rookie cop they're gonna call the lawyer on TV next week about suing for every clean shaven, spit shined faggoty blue dime had shredded up their license for no good fucking reason that time he just had three sips of wine at dinner with his friends. Anyway, point is this guy could drink, and that's no BS. I mean this guy could build you a table with one hand right there while he was using the other one to drink your sorry ass straight under it. If there were an Olympics for drinking nobody else would even bother showing up. His idea of a cocktail was grappa mixed with everclear, and his idea of a chaser depended on how many filterless Marbos left in the pack would fit in his mouth all at once. He was completely bald from head to toe, smooth and bare like belt-sanded glass from all the times he'd got himself caught major-league on fire nodding off with lit ones in his teeth, or squatting too close to the fireplace with his 150 proof breath.

Anyway, this guy, this shiny, drink-withered nut-face of a wop, Gill—, Gui-e—, Gu—, neh, we’ll just call him Guido – Guido Rossi – he gets sick of the scrambled porno on his no-premium-channels relic of a TV, and even sicker of buying his morning fuckin’ Mad Dogs with heaps of loose change or trying to slip plastic handles of whatever down his pant-legs [and the grenadine he sweetens up his rocket fuel with in the morning when his taste buds are still – Jesus F. Christ, kid, the shit Mommy puts in those faggy little Shirley Temples you like so much, now QUIT IT before I get fed up and slam this shit closed so fast you get windburn, serious?]. What I was getting to was – right, and our old boy gets to scheming on how he can supplement his crappy carpenter’s income. Ain’t no one coming into his whittlin’-shack and demanding mahogany four-posters and armoires or whatever like they used to have in Fli – shit, let’s just call the town Flitville already, for convenience’s sake – not in this economy, that’s for goddamn sure. So with no wife to milk for bread from her cute joke of a kindergarten teaching job, and no other skills anybody’d pay shit for, ole’ Guido’s stuck up Jim Beam’s ass without a tumbler, so to speak. But like a squirrel shitting golden eggs, like in the most totally unexpected moment, he gets an idea when he catches this episode of Law and Order (or one of those other ‘hot fuzz’ kind of shows about some broad bleeding the state dry by bitching and moaning non-stop – heh, do I know all about that shit or what, huh kiddo?) – about how she can’t support her boy on the singles she gets shoved under her knockers at her Legitimate Dancing Job, and she starts getting checks every damn month – taxpayers’ dollars, though what would you know about paying for jack, right?

So she’s fat and happy and dropping much bigger digits on see-through platform heels than in the days before God’s golden shower caught her in its charitable thunderstorm – until those smarmy detective-types figure out the kid she’s been bitching about not being able to afford’s been dead since like a week after it popped outta her meal ticket…if you get me. Yeah, the kid who’s supposed to be like five at the time she’s whoring it up with the government! Well, no shit, Guido thinks to himself, and the liquor-rusted piece of shit wheels in his head get to turning a bit, and before you know it we finally get to the Panachio part of the story, ‘cause Guido figures, shit, if it took these TV ace-detectives that long to crack the scam, see that the kid they were bleedin’ out for was fuckin’ dead, how long’d it take Flitville’s finest to realize, if he whittled himself a pretty lifelike-looking kid and tried out a similar arrangement, that they were getting conned by a guy and his fucking leftover firewood? Long enough to score him a cupboard full up with Jack, a couple handles of Stoli for special occasions, and enough instant mashed potatoes to last the rest of his life, he figures, and right then hauls his decrepit ass out to get some pine and the right color varnish to match his sickly, dried-out, yellowish foreigner-type skin – y’know, like father like son and all that crap, so as to sufficiently fuck over anyone trying to check out his case.

So after 5 hours or so dicking around at the market – why so long? Because he was being a real stubborn hardon pain in the ass, just like you, now shut up – so he finally gets the shit he needs, and stumbles back to his dingy-ass workshop. He sets it all on his worktable, pretty fucking pleased with himself for coming up aces on his latest plan to dick with the King of Italy, or whatever cute little Chef Boyardee titles they've got over in that third-world urinal of a country, and gets his whittling knife and sandpaper or whatever the hell it is carpenters use, I don't know – I just told you I don't friggin' know, ask me another dumb question and I'm gonna smack you in the mouth with all my rings on – No you can't have another Hostess, I told you 2 was it, you'll get doughy frosting tits and fudge your pewee football stats – well I don't care what "Mum" says – "Mum?" is she still feeding you that Canuckian wannabe British fairy trash? – when it's Mom's weekend you can suck down gallons of moose & maple syrup ice cream in your PJ's and cry about your wingless pads and braid each other's hair in hot pink sleeping bags, for all I friggin’ care. Now you said you wanted to hear the story, so clamp your wussy little play-doh jaw shut or I'll get you drafted into the Marine Corps – Of course I can, Uncle Joe says he'll have you in Jalalabad inside a week, I just say the word, so just keep testing me, bud, you can go learn some manners digging through the sand for cluster mines with your bare little sausage hands. You sure? Well OK then.

While My Cucumber-Bell-Pepper-Carrot-Trumpet Gently Weeps

2009-06-17T12:06:00.004-04:00

Talking robo-shitters and now this? Touche, Japan.

*trembles, topples king*

Cucumber trumpet
red pepper bell toot toot toot
sounds like a kazoo

To learn more about Japan, see:

D - Wanted: an exceptional (male/lesbian) artist who is ready to shine

2009-06-10T15:12:00.002-04:00

I have recently completed my long-awaited novel, the Saga of Silky Harriet: a Wild Woman’s Triumph and Betrayal, and am looking for a talented artist to provide the cover and illustrations it deserves. I will wish to begin our collaboration at once, as publication will likely be in the VERY near future – negotiations with publishers for this very special manuscript will end quickly, as I anticipate it will be in extremely high demand once I have opened to negotiations.

‘Silky Harriet’ is the story of a strong and beautiful Southern woman who is born to a self-made millionaire and her husband, a sinister lumberjack who is also a closeted homosexual. The story has elements of fiction so as to enhance the narrative through metaphor, but is mostly autobiographical. When Harriet is 9, her and her mother are sold as sex slaves by the father, who uses his machismo and burly, domineering ways to cover up his crippling sexual repression and true identity (which I won’t get into here, for copyright reasons). The novel follows Harriet’s struggles as she is constantly and brutally raped by the social patriarchy, her noble perseverance and recovery, and how she is ultimately crushed by the weight of a society too menacingly masculine to function.

Some influences for the story’s ambience (that’s “flavor,” for you non-literary types) include Erin Brockovich, Disney’s Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron, When She Says No, Pride and Prejudice (the film, not the book), Thelma and Louise, and the poem, the Wasteland.

The person I am looking for must first and foremost be a technically AND EMOTIONALLY gifted artist. The cover I am envisioning would be in beautifully blended watercolors and pastels (or similar) yet would still have impeccable detail. Illustrations inside the book would be similar, if the publisher allows color printing (this can probably be negotiated, as extra printing costs will almost def. be recovered within first few weeks of sales). I would like the image on the cover to depict Silky Harriet (details to follow) in a pose as if she is running, with some type of danger approaching in the background (probably some kind of phallic menace, to use symbology).

The Silky Harriet character is very near to my heart, and deserves to be illustrated in a glowing, sexy and magnificent way that is also accurate. This is why I need the artist for this project to be either an EXTREMELY sensitive male, who can recognize and appreciate female beauty without degrading her IN ANY WAY, or a lesbian (lesbians can see a woman’s beauty, but because they are women also, they know what it’s like to be debased and humiliated by male objectification). No one who does not fit either of these categories need apply.

Interested artists should send a sample drawing of Silky Harriet: she has very delicate and fine features with full lips (see photo below), she is unusually tall with long, shapely legs and is quite slender and curvy, with large breasts (big C or small D), however her breasts must look NATURAL, and NOT ALTERED AT ALL! We are not trying to lure people into buying this book with a “hot chick”! it will sell itself, but accuracy to my vision of Harriet is important. In the scene you are depicting in this sample, she is escaping her abusers, so she is dressed in tattered rags and high heel shoes.

If you are selected, I will ask to interview in person so I know you are the right kind of person for this job. If you are, you will then read the finished work so you have a more complete idea of the type of art and scenes I will need (of course you will need to sign a non-disclosure agreement before I lend you a copy of the manuscript, NO EXCEPTIONS!!! I will not be ripped off)

Respond soon with samples…if you are the right person, your life is about to change forever!!

Sweet D Writes 4 Haikus About Japan

2009-05-31T13:01:00.004-04:00

pachinko parlor
florid neon street outside
a frail blossom falls

a vegan nightmare
raw horse cut like red paper
oishii desu-neee

going the wrong way
hold onto pole, the bus turns
learn to read kanji

sordid skyscraper
tentacles under doll’s skirt
top floor, my nose bleeds

damned fine gentlemen

2009-05-28T05:03:00.003-04:00

Greetings and Hetero-normative gestures, fellow gentle souls. It is I, J. Hughleth Phunderbluth, illustrious esquire of all things judiciarical and juridical, both enforcible and decreed, robustly aged veteran of His Majesty's House of Ecclesiastical and Worldly Writs and Edicts for Utmost Jurisprudence. Yet today I bear my discourse to you entirely upon my own behest, and must betray a tittilating personal arousal and all-around generally tickling amusement with this evening's most pressing topic of affection. My blathery, of course, falls to the subject of modish and new-fashioned gadgetry, known in the avant-garde circles of today's exceedingly Bohemian youth simply as "cellular telephony."

Yes, dear compatriots, gone are the days where flocks of blushing maidens wander to and fro, tittering away with one another through callow cup-and-string like exotic Guinnish game hens. Now are the days of wireless applied sciences, where men and other men, or women and other women, or men and non-married or otherwise previously engaged (and of course properly doted and debutised) women, may converse with one another over distances far exceeding the reach of even two entire human arms.

Even as I write this I must struggle to keep my primly waxed mustache on an acceptable incline, so great is my enthusiasm for this wondrous modern wizardry. For some of these newest science-faction marvels, verbalization is no longer even required, as petite and cavalier key-tables have been mapped out for actually sending the remarkable language of text from one telephoner to the next, WITHOUT the bungering and fumfiddelry and tomfoolishness of old-fangled ink and parchment. Of all the models and varieties in vogue today, two clearly stand above the whimsicality and downright sillishry of their competitors: Alfred P. Houlihan's Astonishing Miraculous x36LA2 Talkamajig, and Filfrith Munster Jungenheimer's Spectacular Staggering Walkity Talkerator SZ453. Both employ cutting edge pixelational wizardry and are a wonder to behold, able to chit-chat and gossip for up to 3 1/2 minutes at a time, allowing you to travel and converse whence and whither with narry a vexation, snap daguerreotypes of your chums and colleagues and humorously supine domesticated pets in a lightning fast 45 minutes, and come with a replacement Tesla coil charger kit and instructional manuals in six compact, handsomely leatherbound volumes.

I implore you to march right down to your nearest boutique or grocer or emporium as may be the case, and enquire with yonder shopkeep about either of these exquisitely crafted devices the next time you're out for palmade and salted fish stock. I solemnly vow you shall not regret the endeavor.

Yours to hold and keep at a socially appropriate distance,
J. Hughleth Phunderbluth, Esq.

Zebras are, like, nature's fucking Gogurt

2009-05-28T04:59:00.002-04:00

“A pregnant woman is tour-guiding in a cave at the beach when she becomes stuck in the mouth of the cave on the way out. She will be fine when the tide rises, because her head is outside of the cave, but everyone stuck inside will drown unless she unblocks the hole. Someone has a stick of dynamite; the pregnant woman will die if they use it to break out, but they must or else they will die because she is wedged too tight to get free. What should they do?”

-well obviously it’s a trick question becose a) if she’s blocking the hole how can it full up with water and drowning everybody?? and 2) obviosly dynamite is just going to blow up every one any ways, so irregardless it’s either just commen sense, like even if the hole cant fill up their still stuck in a freakin CAVE so they’re probably going too starve to death or get pieces of them bit off slowly by sharks or poisonous eels or something…so they literarily have no rationalizing to not use the dynamite and die less painfuly, that would be like the crazy vegan pregnant moms or whatever who wont take the painkillers wich is obviously just freakin, retarded. OR theres a lot of other info you would need to know the right answer, like

-how pregnant is this woman
-what part of the ocean is this (some parts are lower/higher or have more deadlier animals around)
-what kind of dynamite do they have and how big it is
-does the cave have any secret underwater exits that could be just hidden down there
-how good of swimmers is every one there
-does anyone have cellphones and how good is there reception??

dear craigslist.com,

2009-05-28T04:15:00.002-04:00

I am in dire searching for different kinds of artist, of which the types I imply am currently finding myself bereaved~

I have just in approximately this last very moment, now concluded, the final consummation of my opus maximus ultimate novel, a titanic masterpeace the likes of which will blind the world’s fragile virgin reading eyeballs and crack the glasses of ignorant with a distilled sun-ray beam of genius, and thus parting the heavens of literature itself…that’s’ all just writing speak but it should give you an idea of what your be in for LOL, but really it means I need to forge the mighty allegiance with glorious arts to be complete, in point of fact at least several or a few of all sorts…ink, pencils, charcoal, brush, oil, canvas, image, picture, digital, paints, watercolour, sketch-drawing and photoshop, I’m looking for all the right kinds so don’t “be shy” – this is a one’s in a lifetime chance to rise up and be the king of all superstars and get your name out there & spelled out in shining headlights like J&K Rowling or Hansel Adam…

This novel is one huge armada of transcendent beautiful sublime rapture: suspense, thriller, horror, comedy, romance, humor, action, chills, dramatic, adventure, fiction, and deep deep philosophy – it’s all here, 19 volumes worth (plus a hidden bonus volume written in all the way diguised in the back after some blank pages), and it is literally going to make every human insane and murder them to death with special kinds of genius that blank out the sun for 1000 years of groveling in it’s vary shadow so you DEFINATELY want to be a part this fantastic thing, which will have more than dozens of movies deals and be the most famous in history, I have foreseen it with mine own visage; the kind of people I’m looking for:

1 – must be highly creationist, imaginative, and motivated artisté
2 – extensive experience with and access too every known colour of the Spectrum perferred
3 – someone with working knowledge with books, their covers; & what they look like a CRUCIL must…this can’t be conceivably euthanized enough, I fear

The working title is “Twilight Iris and the Dawning Pedals of Mars: an Eclipse of Sorrow Threw the Blind Eyes and an Symphony of Angels Fallen Upwards at Crimson Sky when Midnight, Volumes 1-19” so make sure to have letters on the cover and on the back and sides and little parts where they fold in, all other arts should be regular book-size, preferably like a best cellar’s list one (Stevan King has many good examples, and Clive Cussler, FYI). The “flavor” should be kind of like these movies but in book form:

1. Requirem for a Dream
2. Akira/ALL Kurosawa film
3. Iron Man
4. (?) The Beautiful Mind
5. Fern Gully

Sample images needed:

Pitcture the 1st – Inkblock print – Portrait of a katana tang with a dragons’ face wheeping blood (pref a single tear but i’m open to ideas :D) with the sun coming up at a battlefield of slayed/smoted dark foe’s surrounded by crane and blossomings… work should be a long the lines of Ike no Taiga, Ralph Steadman/Jackson Pallock, Andy Warhol, Akira Toriyama & Van Goh, pleas

Picure the 2end – Invisible ink/Holograph? – PART I some kind of seen with a fare-faced male child and his scar like the mark of Buddha on his forehead riding an atomic nuke bomb down onto the high majestic peaks of mountains AND PART II a huge mushroom cloud coming of a little marble filled with pictures of the earth and with large ants and/or bees stand overhead grinning a bedeviled grin of sorts in the shadow of a huge grain of rice above them, and maybe off to the side a guy dripping with toxical poisons/black death like Hexus (see above..) throwing up all over his feet made of trees and with all the specks of puke being individual lifesized fruits and vegetables of a rather unusural nature. Part 2 and part IIa (Hexus guy) should only appear like an op-tical illusion from one side (think Sotchi gallery {look it up])