Thine jaw stands slack 'fore the mysteries of life

As an occasional connoisseur of horror both great & Z-grade, 'tis a wonder numbered among the seven that I've not seen until last night this awful piece of claptrap that commands a furious retch. Hath Plan 9 met its mighty match?

And that was the highlight of my weekend.

666 rpm

In honor of the dark half, the most interesting half, of the human condition, I'm off to watch this for the billionth time once I escape the Slab. Whilst I'm stabbing my heart with knife-wielding doom, spookify your life with this fake radio show if I had a radio show which I don't, hence fake, the perfect apertif to your candy scarfing or your rage at having to wait to scarf due to Gaia's rage, that's like rage squared and one of 37 reasons the gods invented metal, another one being raging at certain forms of slackerdom that even slackers scowl at but mostly a righteous rage contra zombie bigwigs and their crumbled up cookie days.

Frankenstorm meets Frankenberry and Frankenhooker 'cause Abbott and Costello are dead

Allegory, or, unexpectation sucks

One goddamn piece?

For the last three months, that's it, & a half-scribbled-in-class one at that. Even a serious post-witching hour carcass pick didn't salvage such poemetrick shit.

Perhaps a revisitation, a reghosting, a reapparitioning. Let's go with reghosting; the latter sounds too fiscally gerrymeandering to which Jake says ewww.

If only marrow was recyclable & nothing more than a quick snack for the ghoul on the go or a key ingredient in either compost or barbarian stew.


I do know what happens when I mix acids & bases, the same thing that happens when blood & brain aren't siphoned off by stanza & paragraph.

If only spontaneous combustion was a contest.

First prize is $500 & a year's supply of melodrama.

$500, you say?

Melodrama, you say?

If only an if only.

Yeah, these guys again, this time with some old Oldham. It's cold [ed. note: slightly cooler that it has been, but I'm ever th'eternal optimist], overcast [ed. note: shit, that's the sun, innit], & nothing's better than these dour Swedes for hoodie weather, but I'm certainly open to suggestions that I'll immediately ignore.

Put that in your pipe & mope it.

Sweet love my labor

Darkthronin', drinkin', prestidigitatin', & a bunch o' other things that end with n or are at least consonance-adjacent save conversatin' 'cause you know. Tried & true has left me blue. Period. Art jokes aren't as funny as bar jokes. Just watch. 

Gauguin, Carvaggio, Mauve, & Van Gogh walk into a bar. The latter says, "friend, Roman, countryman, lend me an ear." 

HOT TOMATOES A' FLYIN'.

An other bunch o' other things going on, but check the header. I can't fix yours, you can't fix mine. Need a fix o' something. This post is very leprechauny. Perhaps some perhaps imminent vegemite might help?



All this serious is seriously egadsing my soule's intestinal tract.

Never look a gift otyugh in the mouth seriously don't, or, talk to the hand

TPK dungeon mapping, here I come.
Holy shit, this flick can no longer be trusted.

Triskaidekaphilia

Sure, Laurie Strode's the final Final Girl -- brains + doobage = booklie discussions + The Wizard -- but Ginny Field's a close second 'cause duh.

Intensity for ten cities.

Escape from Yorks New, Michael, and that one in Ingerland

Off to that great maximum security prison in the sky.

Tonight only!

Oh sure, to reinforce geek cred everyone's gonna pick this --



or this -- 




but the true acting aficionado no doubt holds this most dear:

Halloweenie roast

Not in the spirit of much of anything nowadays,
but monkey dance at the keyboard:



I'll be watching this for at least one more October 31.

 

Here's some blood.





Here's some metal.

Guess Slayer would've been more appropriate --

oh, all right, you demanding dogs



-- but some Good News nonetheless:

Cleveland owns 12 cemeteries, 11 of them more than a century old. The cemeteries are home to about 400,000 departed.

Why is that good? Because

Census 2010 numbers released Wednesday show Cleveland's population has fallen to a 100-year low of 396,815.

Dawn of the dead, baby. Have a nice day.

Thirty days of suck III: obscured by clouds

But enough about me, finally,
though wait, this is animate. So what
if I lied, I like delta shuffling out of my mind
while still pining true for the other kind of Blue.

Tomorrow,  it ain't easy being green.


SPECIAL REMASTERED EDITION

'tis been three weeks since darkthroning mighty darkthroning, three, no more, no less. Three shall be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out. Where didst we go, right on?

Le cimetière, bien sûr. Excusez-moi, I'm a bit rusty.

A bit dusty.

Cleaning out the cobwebs.

Amazing how the muddy waters of work & faux scholarship are washed right out of my hair, though the rust did reappear. We strolled past a new Chinese restaurant/entertainment complex in the throes of construction which a nice older woman, after eyeballing us & concluding that we weren't a threat, told us is, hopefully, opening for business next month, glee to these ears, for the more Chinese cuisine, the merrier.

Approved snooping found odds, sods & ends; imposing Oriental baroque decor, the thick, gold & glass doors above all; grim animal statuary in a state of unpack; each scene immediately conjuring a Big Trouble In Little China motif, no more so than through the still-barred, second floor windows imprisoning the cooks whose wares, if not to the liking of the mahjong-shuffling Lady, would see them suffer a fate worse than the Hell Where People Are Skinned Alive: stuffed in a cargo container & shipped to an overseas animation studio.

Anyway, my shots were beyond poorly composed, we'll get 'em next time.

It's the heat

I don't feel like sharing with you solstice lovin' mutants, so guffaw instead.

Polish that Polish

What was originally scheduled to run --

Glass concerto in gutter minor.

Oui, I've got some Sobieski & Chopin in my veins*, but none of the former's martial prowess** nor the latter's artistic talent, but the Polish I'm talking about is lower-case, a synonym of the single most important facet of any human being's life, particularly in this post-postmodern life: image.

Given that doppelgängers are, like leprechauns, extinct, I cannot reduce yesterday's uncharacteristic feline outburst to mere chicanery, nor can I chalk it up to drunken idiocy because the flask in my desk*** is empty. But, the top priority -- hold all my calls, hallucinatory secretary -- is the careful repair of this fugly mug.

Thus, your humble host, true:

[uncharacteristic video]

Sniff, I've been living a lie. Sob.



*not literally as even if I was a vampire, a plausibility given my aversion to sunlight, they've long turned to dust & only Christopher Lee came back to life after being reduced to the contents of a vial.
**speaking of undead blood drinkers, I can beat the original Castlevania sans triple shot cross though probably not when really blotto but it's always good to challenge oneself.
***the reader can judge whether I'm bullshitting or not on one or both counts.

-- & all that was needed was an uncharacteristic video, had a few juggling in the cranium, but then serendipity's doppelgänger, apparently not extinct, rose up & in lieu of breathing fire or lightning bolts or toxic fumes or a cone of cold, cleared its garbled throat to demagogue Seriously® about, even money odds, image.

Specifically, the image presented in tandem by myself & a certain ethnic coworker when playing the role of the institution's public face, committing the heinous felony, the crime against humanity of -- enjoying each other's company.

Douchebag micromanager. Not pictured: the other douchbag micromanagers.

Given the walking, talking shells that shamble about the place in their soulless professional -- parse that hideous word & all it contains & become an alcoholic crackhead freebaser -- mien, meeting & strategizing & shifting paradigmatic conceptuals when not penning condescending emails to higher ups who in turn email their own permutations of condescension especially to one not me, not to mention those even-less-esteemed-than-yours-truly & rightly so members of the Peonage that cell phone the day away amidst other rank garbage that shivs in the back comrades sharing a time block of duty, 'tis comical that the appearance of a happy Peonage giving lie to the always-an-issue staff morale is the threat to the omnipresent Sword of Austerity's toady, the rotund Sir Overstaff.

"Smiling, laughing? At work? If thou set precedent, pandemonium! "

Corporate culture: making petty assholes feel good about being petty assholes.
Everything else: everything else.

Well, better contact all those students, staff & faculty that specifically come to us because we know what the hell we're doing that we are now dour professionals. What's a good color for a power tie?

Фармвилл! Or, The Son of the Return of a Semi-Famous Dead Commie Returns Again, Part II

We do?

In honor of this glorious occasion -- party demands to know what you're doing to celebrate -- the NAALP present:




Starring Soviet Ronald Reagan, Soviet Macaulay Culkin, Soviet Virginia Madsen. With special guest star, Soviet Groucho Marx.

Careful viewers take note of Soviet Trailer Park & In-Russia-Bike-Pedal-You. [ed. note: bastards better watch the whole thing. We did, in lieu of working, to put this post together for you, Damien, it's all for you! Fucking ingrate(s).]

Farmville of the Damned 

Enver Hoxha's (you can't keep a good corpse down) purple bromance With Stalin says that this worker's paradise was the man of steel's favorite. Decadent, bourgeois Amerikanskis scoff as they count their capital. 

It was love at first potato.

Li'l Bunker was right! La bibliothèque's never this dramatic. Swoon.    

Porn, pizza rolls, pulpy pages, penalty kicks & prestidigitation, parsimoniously.

O, Mighty Kasich, teach me how to slack whilst lifting loot just like you.

When you concretely know that carved in stone but with the skill of a free market disembodied hand not a haughty unionized (re: teachers, read: teachers, not the educational system itself, don't be daft diploma millerite. What DC United's angriest fan said, but cut the Tweedledums some slack. Tough to read polls when busy getting sexfully massaged by corporate, now back to your regularly scheduled pointless crap) jackhammer that collectively bargained lazy man vacation is on tap but not beer 'cause not a fan for a lazy man, yours truly in case you were wondering & whether you were or weren't I don't give a hoot, hard to give a hoot.

Diagram that sentence, correctly, & you can have one, one, pizza roll. Rumble, rumble, toil & misplaced essays from the library's lost & found! (I miss the worst ever piece on Miles Davis' Bitches Brew LP. What gloriously discordant putrescence that was. Sniff.) What's this, political turmoil in the canal kingdoms? Curses, slacking will have to wait! 

Hup Holland! 

So you thought the Netherlands was a democratic country? You thought human rights were being respected in that little Kingdom by the North Sea? You got it all wrong there. Don't you believe the Netherlands is a friendly constitutional monarchy with happy, loyal subjects tending their tulip fields and polishing their wooden shoes! Beatrix von Amsberg, the present queen, rules her realm like a medieval fiefdom, with an iron fist. Of course, there is a constitution, but in actual practice its lofty principles are not enforced.

Avengers, assemble!

In conclusion, Beatrix the Bilderberger has sound reasons to regard Mr. Lensink as a very dangerous man. His actions and contentions are a threat to the survival of the monarchy. Therefore, she had him locked up in her own version of the Bastille, the Vught Maximum Security Prison.

We must assault the Castle of Chortling Composition! I am prepared to lead the way with my +3 halberd of exclamation points! Sir-Mix-A-Lot, stop your crying! Beatrix the Bilderberger must be stopped! Don't scoff at being easily amused or your heads'll roll, too!



I - like - big riffs & I cannot lie. Tack, svenskar, for praising this glorious day.

Zombie Rabbit Apocalypse!

Documentary footage of my vacation.

What, you simply assumed I sat on my ass & watched Star Trek reruns, which I of course did because I didn't have to deal with a single human being except my sometimes-better-half & kids if I so chose did I mention that I didn't have to deal with a single human being except my sometimes-better-half & kids if I so chose & lemme tell ya that don't blow unlike the Browns who do who are you? fucking crap that's who.

A man can get used to life outside the electro-stream. I assume at least one famous yokel croaked (I don't know 'cause I really disconnected) & that The Man's system is sadly still without an omnipresent laugh track, & complete waste of police state dollars. Sadly, or happily, depends on the day, I didn't write a thing.

Except my signature on that ticket for indecent exposure.

*laugh track*

No way, José

I know, I know, I too am sad that Frank Drebin's dead.

Didn't see that coming.



At least he didn't have his nuts bit off by a Laplander.

Does such a comically grisly fate await Julian the Aussie Apostate, one can only speculate, that rhymes & you know that rhymes, Marge; depends on which nation eventually imprisons the little scamp, I'd wager. The Us of A? As far as I know, we zap sacks, we don't chew on 'em.

Re: the war machine being irreparably damaged (hint: it's not): 'tis irrelevant. Just because you can't stop colonization doesn't mean you still shouldn't tell everyone about the Cancer Man's alien-human hybrid self-preservation gig.

Happy TSA Day

What seer could have predicted that a time known primarily for a rash of couch potatoing that leaves a rash, extraoverconspicuous consumption & the attendant flatulence, belching & other gassy emanations would now become the naughtiest time of the year?

Move over, Mr. Blackwell. My sartorial suggestion, a sexy TSA agent. 

You scoff, but my faux bus driver threads keep my junk from being touched by unauthorized playmates. You scoff once again, but just you wait till a public transportationista device blows up real good.

On a sadder note, death, you're the real jive turkey.

This sucks.

Yes, Miss Pitt, it does.

Chumps, you best show some respect & hit your pigskin & charred bird carcass with a Hammer. Speaking of pigskins, I hope The Ohio The State The University's The New Duds look as swanky as these. Question: is the army (& by subtle extension, the entire military, & by subtler extension, the state) still of one or strong or some other mad men slogan of which I am unfamiliar?

In the meantime, have fun painting the devil on the wall.

THEKEYS OH THE KEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYS

Gun to temple, probably still my favorite flick.

What, art not a "substantive" enough post in the darkening shadow of The Most Important Election Of Your Lifetime At Least Until The Next One? Fine.

The State as Michael Myers. Discuss. I'm gonna go watch movies.

Clash of the Titans

Why wouldn't I put up this famous and wondrously captivating still of the lovely Ursula Andress highlighting a role that came from a flick far removed from said movie when referring to tonight's throwdown between The Mighty Cavs and The Fucking Lakers? It's all very logical if you think about it, dumbass. Don't make me force you to watch C-Span.












Thou shalt be slain, The Fucking Lakers! Do it for Ray's near-corpse!