"Well this nine pound hammer,is a little too heavy,Honey for my size,For my size..."Roll on, Pumpie! Don't you roll so slow...
No self-respecting Norse god would use a claw hammer.Ball peen hammer, by gosh!
I notice you've put all the numbers back in like ee or Jed, one, asked you to do.You are so über-responsive to your "people," Pumpie! And where did you learn that spelling of "tepee"?It's so COOL!Old style variant, no doubt?
Ben, I just gotta say, I watched MISSISSIPPI MASALA again last week and you can deny Denzel Washington a bank loan any day with more aplomb and grace than anyone. I miss ya, Ben!
You painting these? I mean without a Waacom?very cool whatever way...The patch is VERY cool!
Benny - YOU NOTICED! Yes, I did exactly that, for Jed, but did HE notice?Slatts - yes, actual paint on actual paper!Bissette - Benny could not post this love letter back to you (because stupid blogger was acting up), so he mailed it to me and asked me to post it:"Can't get bloggie to take my comment, so here it is:Awwww Steve, you're makin' me blush!I miss you, too, pal. Every time I think of Pink Flamingos, I think of you.But the old Jabberous makes me feel "connected". And "the MAN" ain't got nothin' to do with it!O-KAY den!"
I noticed, I noticed already! Talk about blog consumer satisfaction. I ask, I get. And this one is a good one, I like the collage stuff. You're clearly having fun. I envy you. Oh god, how I envy you.At the moment I'm contributing the greater uglification of America. Los Angeles, aparently, if it's possible to degrade it any further. I've got this gig where I trace photos in vector so they look like those pictures in the windows of hair salons where the hair has that lustery Lichtensteinesque paintbrush of a sheen. Just as you've revealed your numbers, I here, in turn, reveal this, my secret shame:A guy wearing a Sweatband on his head and a shirt with blue flames on it. He wears these proudly and without irony. A buxom blond is on his arm, her silicone orbits encased sausage-like in a referee striped sheer garment with the words "foul play" and a picture of a heart over one pseudobreast. I believe he's an athlete of some sort. Perhaps wintersports, Loojing maybe, or competitive disco kung fu. Whatever causes his forehead to sweat so, he is now rendered in cold lustery, shiney vector with airbrushed highlights. Soon, he and his companion will be mounted on canvas, and will hang somewhere in the home of their human counterparts, next a weight bench or atop a glass cabinet containing the complete DVD box set of "Friends". He's wearing a wedding ring, so heaven forbid, if it all doesn't work out, the portrait will have to go, to languish in a garage, and eventually a landfill. And some day on your next trip to the dump, after discovering yet another unmollested complete set of Universal Pictures monsters in miniature, you'll come upon this pair, sodden and abandoned, his blue vectory flames shimmering underneath a steaming pile of used condoms and urine soaked adult diapers. And you'll think of me. The mother of all whores.
Post a Comment