Wednesday, August 31, 2011

The Smashed Eye Says...

(click to enlarge)

Insert eye pun here. Eye'll get you started.

"Eye can't believe it's not bloodier!"
"Damn, girl, you best put some eyece on that."

Mine suck for sure, but hey, puns aren't my bag.


Klaxons - Echoes

...because for whatever reason, the lyrics Echoes from the other world turn horizons into endless ever present reminded me of the picture (or perhaps the picture reminded me of the lyrics). Go figure.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Of the Party

You probably should have dialed 911 a few minutes ago, but we'll get to that later.

As per the standard, a traditional 'double-ought' buckshot shell contains eight lead pellets, although steel is a relatively common substitute. Regardless of the pellets' composition, said munitions are designed to spread out when fired from an appropriate device, thereby increasing the likelihood of a target being struck and, ideally, disabled if not killed outright. Buckshot pellets, unlike birdshot, cannot be poured into the shell due to their comparatively large size; that being of a magnitude sufficient for taking down bigger game, be it deer, moose, or man. Dimensions of ammunition and target notwithstanding, buckshot has an effective range of roughly thirty to fifty yards and one need not be an award-winning physicist to ascertain the reason for such limitations. Beyond fifty yards or so, the pellets are spread too thinly to cause much damage, though to say they lack any stopping power whatsoever would be an egregious error, albeit a less-than-catastrophic one.

Someone's been shot, yes, and you're right, precious time has been lost. Nine. One. One. It's that easy.

As stated earlier, distance plays a critical role in determining the amount of damaged sustained by those on the business end of a shotgun blast. At thirty yards, for instance, a round fired from a break-action, double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun manages to pelt its intended victim with five of the eight pellets available, namely in the throat, face, and upper chest, boring into flesh and bone alike. A second round from the very same gun discharged at point-blank range, however, effectively obliterates whatever lies in its path - a human foot, for example. Both injuries are, theoretical considerations aside, grievous indeed yet the former is, statistically speaking, far less likely to result in death whereas the latter, barring immediate treatment, will invariably prove fatal.

You're a mess! Just push the buttons. You know, if you hadn't jumped the gun, as it were, and shot me at such a distance, we wouldn't be having this conversation.

Friday, August 26, 2011

For the Slow Mutants

The Killers - Everything Will Be Alright

I'd totally have your back if I weren't so preoccupied with shooting it.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Fruit Flies for Mr. Cookieside

Contrary to what you've been told, I don't keep up with kids' stuff. Video games, comic books, Pixar films, pop-up books, Boba Fett, Sweet Valley High, Cheetos Puffs, New Edition, Harry Potter, Electric Six, Big Trouble in Little China, action figures, graphic tees, bathroom humor, etc. notwithstanding, I don't know much about the lives, times, tribulations, and television shows of children and their wild-as-a-wine-spritzer parental units; so yes, it came as a surprise to learn that everyone's favorite embodiment of free choice and unhealthy living, better known as the Cookie Monster, had been domesticated a few years back. (I wouldn't go so far as to suggest the poor beast has been neutered because, well, I'm uncertain as to the existence of his reproductive organs in the first place.)

I became aware of this distressing shred of absurdity not by surfing the Internet or watching television (like you'd ever find me engaged in something as pointless as that) but while having dinner with a friend, her husband, and their two-year-old daughter.* Said friend and I were discussing her daily routine (which is of some interest to me since I don't have any children of my own, much in the same way I enjoy talking to people with real jobs) and of course the topic of television was raised and of course I asked about her daughter's favorite TV show, which was (and perhaps, still is), in fact, something other than Sesame Street, but Sesame Street was the only one I recognized so we kept talking about the show, yet as it turns out, I guess I don't know much about Sesame Street since, apparently, it's okay to butcher the Cookie Monster's core identity and mold what remains into a grotesque, fruity** simulacrum.

To reiterate: I was told, in no uncertain terms, that Cookie Monster now, at least officially, considers cookies a sometimes food and what's worse, 'foods' such as asparagus, broccoli, and watermelon are on his dinner plate. I have nothing personal against the aforementioned items, yet even so, I was floored. I mean, what the hell is going on here? If we'd been talking about the Cigarette Monster, I'd be less aghast*** but as things stand, it seems a case of political correctness gone disgustingly awry.

You won't see me denying that media exerts considerable influence upon society but for producers, writers, executives, deranged parents and others to claim that Cookie Monster's obsession is somehow endorsing or actively contributing toward childhood obesity is ridiculous. Let it be said, here and now, that I'm willing to embrace the notion that my idea of child-rearing is askew. Encouraging Allowing a four-year-old to watch Terminator 3, for example, probably wasn't my finest hour (I say probably because shit, my original plan called for Commando and/ or Hellraiser II and by comparison, Terminator 3 is Fraggle Rock) and I get that, just as I understand my parental ineptitude; despite such flaws, I stand by my assertion that Cookie Monster's behavior scarcely deserved modification. Anyone so very worried that a Muppet's eating habits will send kids to the house that Rotundity built (with cookies and a whole lot of cream, no less) should have their head examined. (Seriously. They, alongside anyone who complained that Bert and Ernie's living arrangement promotes a gay lifestyle.)

Furthermore, what of Cookie Monster's feelings? Doesn't it matter that he's been reduced to a mere shadow of his former glory? I can imagine how that went down.

(Just after the big staff meeting.)

Cookie Monster: What... What just happened in there?
The Count: One! You've just been stripped of your identity.
Prairie Dawn: And then some. The suits just handed your ass to you!
Cookie Monster: I know, right? Telling me to refrain from cookies is like ordering Big Bird to stop being so big 'cause it inspires kids to do steroids.
Big Bird: Steroids? Ridiculous! The only thing to worry 'bout with the Bird is me bangin' the broads. Wilt the Stilt ain't got nothin' on me.
Grover: Yeah boyyyyyyyyy! Happy hour at Applebee's from five till eight! From there, who knows?
The Count: Two! You've become the Sesame Street punching bag.
Cookie Monster: Exactly! We all have problems, but I'm the one everybody points fingers at. Big Bird is the poster child for STDs and Grover's been an alcoholic for twenty-six years but nobody complains since a bottle of Jim Beam a day keeps him skinny as a rail.
Grover: Come on, guys. Mark Wahlberg's gonna be there.
Prairie Dawn: No shit?
Grover: Indeed. I offered to give him some tips on acting and his people called my people the day after Planet of the Apes was released.
Cookie Monster: But what hurts the most is the lack of solidarity and respect. Kermit just sat there, his mouth shut the whole time. You'd think he'd have my back, what with him dating Ms. Piggy for so long.
Prairie Dawn: You know that bitch is behind all this crap. She's been the butt of jokes for so long that she's looking to take out anyone with a penchant for food. Kermit? He'll do whatever it takes to avoid the beatings at home.
Cookie Monster: Yeah, but did she have to be present at the meeting? She doesn't even work with us! Secondly, did she have to finish a box of Twinkies while there? That's just cruel.
Oscar the Grouch: Dude, I've been living in a garbage can, drinking malt liquor and eating dog food for the past forty years. Shut the fuck up about the fucking cookies already!
The Count: Three! That's the number of hate crimes I've committed today.

* For those curious, I enjoyed a hot ham and cheese on pretzel bun and it was pretty good, though the fries left something to be desired - I like my fries firm and battered, after all.

** And I mean that literally. Cookie Monster's sexual orientation is of no concern to me, but his diet is another matter.

*** Tangentially, I just spoke with Cookie Monster's surly, just-out-of-prison brother and rest assured he's still a two pack a day kind of Muppet.

Thursday, August 04, 2011

Lite Brite

A few suggestions about this evening's video:

1) Watch the performance in fullscreen 1080p (if possible) because it deserves to be seen that way.

2) Let the video load completely, as to have it get stuck midway would really kill the mood.

Spunk Tales! (The Ghoul)

Silversun Pickups - Rusted Wheel

     In the backseat of a midnight blue Lincoln Town Car parked at the dimly-lit edge of The Red Lion lot, to the right of a sighing Rodger McCormack, the woman with the multicolored mane sits stroking his erect penis with detachment etched upon her face. She told him that her name was Megan; and it’s not so much a lie as it is a matter of trivial concern, for her name could be anything -Aunt Jemima comes to mind, if only because the situation elicits vague recollections of procuring syrup from a bottle- and it wouldn’t make the slightest difference.

     Rodger mentions something about being quite fond of her hair, to which she nods as she continues working diligently on the task at hand. It’s so terribly disinteresting, this situation, but it’s something she needs, something she craves, that which is contained within her libidinous friend. Megan’s right hand, her better hand, grasps his manhood firmly; twisting, shaking, and shifting, her fingers imbue pleasure upon the appendage and its fleshly mooring, though she herself feels only the faintest flutter of anticipation. She had felt alive, truly alive throughout the extended karaoke performance but here, atop a plush, spacious seat, she harbors nothing short of utter disdain and yet continues stroking, eager to behold the viscous results of her labor.

     Rodger moans as he runs his fingers through roots dyed blue. Hoping to take things a step further, he tenderly attempts to push Megan’s head toward his crotch. This time it is she who sighs, and she calmly grips his wrist with her left hand, dragging it down to the seat. Though he surrenders, her hands remain in their respective positions, each a testament to who dictates terms.

     She tries to remember the taste of semen. There is a word that comes to mind, but it can’t be right, or can it? She simply must know, and so she assails Rodger’s penis with increasing vigor, all the while paying the man attached to it no heed whatsoever. He grunts repeatedly, and amidst the shadowy interior of Rodger McCormack’s automobile Megan spots the first droplet of semen emerge from the tip. For the first time since they took their places, she smirks; since here and now, as one hurtles toward orgasm, the scent creeping into her nostrils is excessively familiar. She knows exactly where Rodger has been, but that’s not the only reason she’s in the back of a Lincoln Town Car.

     Accompanied by a series of harsh groans, milky lava erupts from Rodger’s throbbing penis, spurting onto his exposed stomach and then, in a series of less profuse discharges, upon Megan’s still-moving hand. The woman with the blue, white and red hair slows down, allowing him to finish peacefully, after which she runs her fingers across his flesh, gathering the excess ejaculate till said hand is dripping wet, and sticks a gooey index finger in her mouth only to remove it quickly.

     “Hmm” the woman muses aloud, not quite disappointed but terribly so. “It’s just not the same,” Megan laments, staring at her finger dejectedly. Rodger expresses confusion regarding the matter, and she’ll grant him that. “I mean, I remember it tasting, I don’t know, somewhat metallic, I suppose.” He laughs and questions her judgement, to which Megan responds “Yeah, maybe. Try it and tell me what you think?” alongside an appropriately devilish grin. His face scrunches up with revulsion. “Oh, come on. You have no idea how hot it would make me,” she coos seductively, “and it’s not like you have to put my whole hand in your mouth or anything. Just let it touch your lips, okay?” After a moment or two of head-tilting, eye-shifting and what she can only presume to be a tumultuous internal debate, Rodger acquiesces, albeit reluctantly, to her proposal.

     Gingerly, Megan’s soggy hand creeps across Rodger’s chest, neck and comes to rest with the palm beneath his chin as her fingers dance across his lips up to his nostrils. From her vantage point, she watches him squirm at the thought, taste, touch and smell of his own ejaculate with a an ever-increasing azure twinkle in her eyes, and Megan can scarcely resist the temptation to snicker at the atrociously sublime spectacle as she sticks two fingers into those very nostrils he most certainly holds dear. He recoils in disgust, yet her hand only follows him, pushing his head against the back of the seat while her other hand, still clasping his left wrist with a strength surely unforeseen by her salacious companion, pulls his arm in the opposite direction. The woman’s palm presses harder, forcing his head to tilt toward the ceiling and at this point, as people are apt to do, his disgust transforms into panic, for Rodger undoubtedly knows what he should have known from the very beginning: there is something horrifically wrong with this situation.

     “Come on, Rodger!” she whispers with artificial zeal, “Tell me what you think! Is it sweet, sour, or does everything simply taste like chicken to a guy like you?” even though an answer is impossible, for his jaw has been forced shut and his teeth are beginning to crack. As she pushes and pulls harder and further with preternatural force and manufactured glee, her slender fingers tear into the skin just beneath his nose. The flesh slips from the bone like steamed pork at a barbecue and thus Megan’s reddened fingers readily progress into the gum line of Rodger’s upper jaw, there encountering firmer resistance. “Questions abound! I know, I know,” Megan says, continuing her mock enthusiasm while Rodger’s free arm attempts, however ineffectually, to break her spidery grip upon his face. “It's like, is the arm or neck going to break first, or will you simply bleed to death? Such a conundrum. On top of all that, I can only assume that you're ever-so-curious as to how we arrived at this very moment.”

     Megan tilts her head in mirthful observance of the convulsions his body exhibits before offering an answer of sorts. “Well first of all, your” -snap- “neck will be the first to go ‘cause that’s how I roll and besides, it’s the most humane of available outcomes.” Guiding his flopping neck and head downward so that his fading eyes, once so deliciously vibrant, meet hers, now so maliciously ablaze, she continues. “Now I’m aware that on some level you can hear me, if only momentarily. The thing is, my good man, is that your dick has been all over the place; and all things considered, you simply wouldn’t believe who had requested my assistance even if I were to divulge such information. Seriously. In other words...” she begins, but his eyes have grown dark, lifeless as they are wide.

     Her fingers, now bathed in several fluids intertwined, return to her lips for the purpose of savoring the amalgamated flavor. It tastes better, more metallic yet flawed; which is to say, not quite divine. Typical. Gazing at the man’s flaccid penis, Megan’s teeth begin to grind, for although she has long since given up trying to galvanize the loathsome denizens of this decrepit town into recognizing just what -or perhaps, in a manner of speaking, who- slowly gnaws upon their collective sanity, the fact of the matter is that old habits die really, really hard.

Tuesday, August 02, 2011