Boys and girls, don’t forget about the power of Imagination

Fantasy Muscle Urban Desert Stuka When Satan Dances Mellon farmer sketch Keep on keepin on sketch Pizza time sketchRobo boy sketch Some guys sketch Guys jam sketch

I know you have the rights to the emotions, and the rights to not tell them.  I know emotions can be subtle.  But I need more than a hint of subtlety.  I need an inventory of all the emotions, in clear and exacting terms.

Give me the list.  Cease obfuscation.  You must dramatize for me the emotions you had in that instant.  Because otherwise, I have nothing to make of it.  I want to give your feelings proper consideration, but your lack of clarity makes this impossible.

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Big Queasy

Big Queasy was a simple man. He grew up in suburban New Orleans, and in order to give his regular life a more adventurous flavor in music, he painted lyrical pictures of fetid swampland and referred to his hometown as “Nawleens”- a figure of speech which caused merriment among his peers. While he enjoyed rapping, his real love in life was “bulking”. This is the practice of attempting to add a maximum amount of bulk unto one’s person with a minimum amount of corresponding sag. The idea is that instead of going to one’s belly and drooping more and more, the food one eats is evenly distributed throughout one’s body, and stays firm on the bone even as it balloons outward. This is in contrast to the old traditional “muscleman” culture, where fat is almost always considered undesirable- here, it’s the ratio of fat-to-muscle that’s the issue, and rather than be entirely eliminated, the fat simply needs to be kept in check while an understructure of muscle can be built up, in preparation for more consumption.

As a major proponent of what he called the “Nawleens bulk boy” culture, Big Queasy had a very specific and rather unorthodox strategy. “Listen up, honey-poot,” he would say with an air of authority. “First comes the chili verde. I spend all day slow-cooking my famous Nawleens chili verde until it’s neighborhood-perfect. But the real key is the brown rice. The combination promotes maximum bulk with minimum sag, because both items have high protein, but the good fiber in the brown rice helps the body flush out the stuff in the chili verde that might produce sag. When the swamp community realized the potential here, we bulk boys were just constantly eating chili verde and brown rice. I mean all the time.”

A key component for Big Queasy during these massive eating orgies was a large container of lemonade or iced tea, which he would guzzle with huge gulps regularly. He explained that “Lots of healthy fluid- little sugar or caffeine, no alcohol yet-“ suffused and massaged the insides, preventing harmful clumping and avoiding a digestive traffic jam. The diuretic properties of the fluid had the added, unstated benefit of moving along the massive amount of gas building up in Queasy’s system, in a stress-relieving Niagara of meat vapor.

After a timely and prodigious BM, the next stop before naptime torpor set in was the important weight training component of Queasy’s regimen. For this, a soundtrack both mellow and energizing was needed to help the body into the proper rhythm. Queasy nearly always went with old-fashioned funk tunes from his enviable vinyl collection. He tried many other types of music, including some of his own rap albums, but funk was the clear winner. No “marsh-home bulk boy” would deny its effectiveness. Sometimes ladies would drop by Queasy’s front porch to admire and encourage, but due to the nasty farts, it was generally only the toughest women, and even they tended to keep a safe distance.

This would continue until Big Queasy was compelled to fall asleep, and it has to be said that it was a remarkably successful regimen for his purposes. He always encouraged others in his peer group to try it. While they had great fun affectionately mocking his manner of speaking, few denied that his methods worked for “building up bulk”.

Big Queasy had a fairly good life in the underground rap and bulking scene, but he always felt that as long as he was in New Orleans, he would be something of a butt of jokes, however good natured and well-meaning. There had also cropped up increasing domestic problems in his life. Too minor to even mention, they still told on Queasy’s rather tender psyche. One day, on a whim, Queasy decided to hop aboard a cargo train and try his hand at drifting. He had the clothes on his back, a wad of money, and a pistol which, needless to say, he never used.

He spent a few months in St. Louis, where he gained a rather better reputation as a rapper than he had had in New Orleans. His very scarce older recordings even became mildly sought after. Still taken with wanderlust, but not wanting to go too far afield in hopes that word of his slight St. Louis success could keep up with him, he stopped by Kansas City. There he branded himself as a romantic modern-day “gangsta” vagabond. In truth his drifting gave him more practice at avoiding criminals than committing crimes. But it was a novel enough approach to get the interest of a naïve young Cunning Keith, who painted Big Queasy in his imagination to be a cunning man of the shadows, rather than a furtive skulker. Queasy, anxious to be seen as a role model for more promising (but in this case far less likeable) young talent, taught Cunning Keith everything he knew about hip hop. Keith would know Queasy for about 3 months, but he would never stop telling stories about him thereafter- stories that naturally grew more colorful as time went on.

There was a dispute over a drug deal, the details of which remain murky. In the month of December, 1989, a few drifting punks claim to have seen Queasy safely board a cargo car on a westbound train. Thereafter, Big Queasy disappears from the records and, for all intents and purposes, from the face of the Earth.

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Having the character of indolence, intractability, and criminal tendencies

Flowerbed A Villain Cranial Swelling Accosted by a villain sketch Junk Sandwich sketch Small head size sketch Figure obscured sketch

Darkly mafiatic neighborhoods.  Rebelliousness persisting long after the conventional end of youth.  Intractability.  Criminality.  Brazenly womanish qualities, like quickness of emotion and sympathy with suffering in others.  Long and unkempt hair.  Ill-fitting clothes.  Lazing the day away on dilapidated front porches, in dark alcoves, peering without humility at those passing through.  It was a scene of villainy.  Of that, you can be sure.

Wretched indolence saps the life blood from villains, causing them to lie in torpor all through the day.  Unashamed in the sight of God.  Frequently peppering their language with almost unconscious blasphemies- they can tell their own kind by the ease with which they blaspheme.  When a young one who’s fallen from the path attempts it, they cannot suppress a quavering of the voice, an excited manner, to be uttering such iniquities.

Sitting darkly alone in foul dens.  Given to the most loathsome feelings of emotional self-indulgence.  Creating endless excuses for their lack of backbone.  These are the criminals, the bad people with rank odors which warn us of their hormonal volatility.  They would like, in their supreme impertinence, to accuse us!  But we accuse them.  And we maintain ourselves with wholesome and vigorous activity all through the long days, eating heartily, and praising the Lord our God that we have avoided being trapped in this eternal adolescence of futility.  May villains be noted wherever they lurk.  And what’s more, may they not be allowed to taint the ears of the good and simple people with their poisonous lies!!

There.  That’s your philosophy discussion.  Discussion closed.

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Zeta Gundam – Quattro’s Gambit

Quattro Bajeena is pretty much the coolest guy ever. Everybody looks up to him. Kamille could have told people that Quattro was actually Char. Kamille doesn’t do that sort of thing. We don’t know how people’s respect for their great hero Quattro would hold up if they knew that he was just antagonist bullshit. Kamille looks out for his friends.

What Kamille has to look forward to from his friends, is being hit by them often. Gundam: abusive relationships. Glorifying the great people who abuse their friends. Physical intimidation is okay when it’s Kamille, because everybody loves to beat on no good piece of shit arrogant little bitch boy Kamille. Because he’s weak.  They are proven correct in their assessment. For, as Kamille gets older, he does not have the backbone to reverse the dark trends of manipulation. He becomes a filthy rag of a manling. Sure. Pick on old Kamille. He’ll be your emotional trashbag. Maybe you think he likes it.

Quattro has a fun time, getting his jollies by enjoying watching a nefarious old Chinese businessman called Wong beat Kamille until he has to be hospitalized. We all clap for Quattro. We all want to see Kamille get beaten so ruthlessly. We think it’s fun to see him lying there helpless. Quattro’s friend Wong must be a great guy. Let’s just smile at him when he jokes about it later. Because that’s the kind of toy soldier we are.

Gundam. This is Kamille’s formative period. This is everybody’s favorite show. Yoshiyuki Tomino, old Japanese Hirohito-esque lover of ruthless abuse of women and children, doesn’t ever need to be questioned on any count. Ol’ Gundam Gramps here loves using old Kamille as his pet toilet and example of worthless bitch kids for all of time. Nothing but an eternal child, to hit ruthlessly for the pleasure of it. Sure. Kamille will do your dirty work. Say “good job, Kamille,” like it never happened. Pet the spoiled toilet child.

Kamille still respects you.


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Kansas City Piece of Shit

KCshit1 KCshit2 KCshit3

Warning – contains crude language and a piece of shit.

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I’ve seen some pretty okay minds of my generation destroyed by madness.


I recently realized that I’ve become caught up in a dangerous and consuming mental condition.  That condition is existence.

Please be cognizant that I’m a pro.

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Chiggers Got the Martians

Yes, son. I saw the Martians once. They’re absolutely right, you know, when they say that the Martian race exceeded mankind in every respect. They came down in droves, after the Galactic Council was established. Our Earth government welcomed them- said it was good for the economy to have Mars currency flowing through our markets and our delis. There was only one thing on that glorious races’ mind, only one reason why their great civilization would ever take notice of our backwater world. When the “picnicking season” started on Mars, family rocket flyers would swerve out of the ancient pyramids in droves, and all the Martian families would be fighting one another- in their good-natured, enigmatic Martian way- for ideal plots of land on Earth’s public parks. For out of all of the cultural achievements of all the history of Earth, the one thing we’re noted for in the galaxy at large is our ideal picnic locations.

At that point, hardly any native Earther ever went on picnics. Oh, it was a combination of the popularity of the then-new home holodecks, and just plain not wanting to compete with all those damn Martians. Some say the government was subsidizing holodeck production to keep people happy, and keep Earth hospitable for Mars dollars. I don’t know about all that. But boy, did they picnic. Groceries had to start stocking Martian favorites during the season to compete. As boys, we would spend a bit of our allowance money and dare one another to try a bite of the nasty stuff.

And they came. And they picnicked- boy, oh boy did they picnic. They trundled on their hulking, strangely gangly Martian limbs over Earth hills and beneath Earth trees. Little Martian and big Martian, young Martian and old Martian, they came. They came with big, ornately carved Martian picnic urns chock-full of goodies. And they swam in our pools and our brooks, their strange limbs flowing and swaying in our Earth waters. And they spread their strange Martian spreads out on big Martian blankets dyed with odd, eye-deceiving Martian arabesques. They ate. The Martians picnicked.

Insects were merely interesting to them. Strange Earth curiosities. They had heard stories about the plagues caused by our Earth mosquitoes. But the Martians had built their immune systems up with painstaking genetic experimentation, allowing them to live for thousands of years. What did they have to fear from a habitat that even creatures like us could survive in? I suppose you could say it was that haughtiness, as much as the chiggers themselves, that did them in. Who could have guessed that, being immune to the bite of spider and mosquito, fly and flea, it would be the lowly chigger that would bring down one of the greatest races ever known to this galaxy?

It started simple, and slow. Floated right under the radar of even their advanced medical technology. Little red splotches on the skin, just like you might expect. It seemed a little funny that their carapace didn’t resist even that small bite. Would you have thought much more of it?

What scientists didn’t yet realize on either world is that chiggers actually contain a strange trans-dimensional isotope that all life on Earth has grown immune to over the eons. Well damn, boy, hell if I know the exact science behind it. The upshot is this- over time, in full sight of all their friends and loved ones, the Martians would just- disappear. Become transparent, and fade out of existence. And I’ll be goddamned if there was anything anybody could do about it!

They faded. One by one, they faded. Erased from existence, their very molecular substance rotted away by the dimensional instability that had been brought to their digestion, and then spread through metabolic functions throughout the rest of their body. And the great old pyramids went silent. Through halls that had housed some of this galaxies greatest minds- hell, through halls that had housed living, thinking beings, capable of forming loving family units- now there only swept a cold, bitter, lonesome Martian wind.

The last Martian faded away, and that was that. The chiggers got the Martians.


You know, boy, it makes you think. With all the achievements that those Martians made. With how beautifully their society was crafted. How healthy and strong its members. And then, all the other great, strong, healthy and just civilizations of the galaxy that had their day in their respective suns. But it was all only to meet in the end with fathomless oblivion, and the forgetfulness of time, bringing only distant and heavily distorted echoes of their great learning to races too savage and petty to even really take proper advantage of the scraps. Races like ourselves. If those societies, which surely pleased God so much more than we ever could- if even they, even the Martians could sink so easily, how much longer can we possibly hope for? Yes, boy, “the meek will inherit the galaxy.” Perhaps our place in God’s scheme isn’t all that different from that of the chigger. Perhaps mans’ greatest virtue, the thing that makes him favored in His sight- is mans’ humility.

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