Liquid Shitz are Go


For Kansas City, this is the now time.

Dyiter Pavement has been contributing to the local art scene for some time, but his latest breakthrough works are just that- a breakthrough. What Pavement has done this time transcends his previous attempts at transgression. Yet it’s so obvious, it’s a wonder people aren’t doing it all the time. His simple strategy calls for the attainment of a new level of physicality by using implements to insert pigment directly into his butt, and then excreting it Pollock-style onto the canvas or paper. He’s calling his new series “Awesome Liquid Shitz”, and it’s breathing new life into the painting medium.

The works question sexuality. What they say to it, I don’t know. Maybe just “Go shove some paint up your ass.” Pavement’s preferred pigment injector is a turkey baster. He says he got the idea from a common practice in the recreational drug community- a practice which has extended to some alcohol users- of taking certain substances intra-rectally. “Yeah, basically putting harsh bad drugs in my butthole 24-7. So I say to myself, ‘Just put the paint up in there while you’re at it,’” he says to a huddled group of admirers with his trademark self-deprecating charm. “I’m pretty sure that it’s not that good for you. But I love drugs, and I love to shit… and I love painting.” Pavement’s butt’s loss is our gain. His turgid color flows creep across the surfaces like the inexorable march of Kansas City progress! Go see “Amazing Liquid Shitz” while it’s still up.

-Kansas City, 2014

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It is sketches day, boys and girls

The J Meister Puma Dog Night out sketch CLassy dog sketch Delerium dog sket Devil dog sketchBed sleeper sketch

Lumpy idiots of the old west sketch Trapped in pizza sketch He who has everything has nothing sketch Wizard dog sketch Witch dog sketch Super duper star sketch Zooreal sketch Amphibious lump sketch Melancholy dancer sketch What's there sketch

I mock nihilism.  It is ridiculous.  There is no use for it.  However, there is no alternative.  Therefore, there is nothing.  Therefore, there is nihilism.  Therefore, I am ridiculous.  From this, we can infer that anyone who is not ridiculous, is simply naive.  Take a meaningless cosmos, then jazz it up.  (Feeble little men, whose lives revolve around the attempted sexual domination of those with wills even more feeble than their own.)

I’ve been stunned by the courage of existence.  But the single question is (and remains)- who has had the audacity to exist?  Many have deluded themselves into answering that question.  It is our job to- “delude” ourselves?- into asking it.  This asking, we are unstoppably destined to do.  Let the wheel of destiny turn!

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It’s to the point where I can even say this stuff now

Hey guys.  I’ve got some little paintings and drawings that I’ll want to put up pretty soon (maybe next weekend, depending on various minor factors.)  However, I just wanted to get some things out in the open, in the interest of being the handsomely smug SOB that I am.  I know a lot of you, particularly the more perceptive and genuinely underground types, have had some skepticism about my whole “artist” act for some time.  Some may even have speculated that I’m a fifth column sleeper agent.  Let me say right now that I work for the FBI.  Unfortunately for our boys, the cocaine really does a good job of reversing a lot of societal conditioning and unconscious mental blinders.

In spite of that little stumbling block, I’ve just heard from the higher-ups – and here I get really unbelievably smug – that we’ve done so well, and can be so confident in our mission’s success, that I can share with you kids our key tactic.  You guessed it.  We put gays all through the culture to weaken it up.

Oh yeah.  Planting gay moles left and right.  Gettin’ fruity and queer all through the underground to sap your strength.  Be honest, bro.  Do you feel as much pure masculine energy as you used to?  That’s an important component of a strong underground culture.  We got gays in your punk scene.  Your metal scene was nefariously infiltrated by fruity gay hipsters.  Even all the traditional core-values rock scenes were getting made fruity in the patootie from day 1.  What can you do about it.  We’ve got the radio waves aimed at you to help limpen your wrists.  Foil won’t even help anymore (try it, I invite you.)  It’s crazy lez city over at the graffiti bridge.  Hip hop held out the longest, but it’s going under in a big way, literally.

Oh, I’m smug.  I got that government snark.  You can  use all your methods to gain knowledge of our tactics.  But discerning our true allegiance and the fakeness of our tacked-on FBI brand identities, whether it’s through cocaine, rock music mentality, primitive homeopathic cave man life, super hardcore scum punk trash eating with fully on-board allies and bikes, or what-have-you- the douchy government power move of menacing homosexual sapping of your masculine energies and eventual getting of you to go to the homo side is just a fool-proof strategy that works every time to destroy vibrant culture.  Yow!  Baby.  I love it.

So that brings us up to the present.  With my presence declassified and our villainous mission considered a success, I’m planning on doing a little more art infiltration in KC, before basically packing up early November-ish and heading back to my true natural habitat- the Deep South.  Specifically a posh neighborhood in New Orleans, city of old traditions, where a – ahum – unfortunate, purely natural disaster has decreased some elements, but others continue to thrive…  There’s work for us FBI boys to do yet.  But may I say, even though KC is now pretty much in our Babylonian grasp, that I’ve been really impressed by what a good fight you guys put up.  It’s been a game well-met.

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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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