Phasing into a Butt Dimension

IMG_0155 IMG_0165     IMG_0160 IMG_0161 IMG_0162 IMG_0163

The atmosphere of New Orleans is just redolent with ectojism this season.

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A Brief Primer on the Process of Corruption as it Applies to Women

The process of feminine corruption is highly interesting.  Initially, the girl’s spirit is pure, white and radiant.  Eventually she will have male sexual partners.  These partners will ejaculate in, on and around her, and their ejaculate will leave a spiritual as well as a physical residue.  The spiritual ejaculate, in contrast to the palish gunk of the material plane, is dark, phantasmal, ominous and dismal, and creates an aura of spiritual squalor where it accumulates.  As more of this stuff, which we may term “ectojism”, adheres to the spirit of the woman, said spirit will become corrupt.  The woman will then become worse as a human being on an objective metaphysical level.  Unfortunately, there is no known method to avoid this.  The girl’s spirit was white, shining and free, and basked in the clean sunlight.  The woman’s is strangely darkened, and tends to fade into the background and the shadows, making her prone to forlorn reflection.  Is this a mental influence brought on by the ectojism, or simply a natural psychological reaction to its presence?  Does ectojism have a mind of its own?  Does it dream?

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Look at my gross hairy leg.

gross leg

Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god.

I’ve got plenty of good artwork going.  Soon, I’ll have more of it up on the site.  Not today.  Today I feel the calling of an important mission- a desperate gambit to bring US (as in all of us) a little closer together in some small way.  Boys and girls, you’re invited to take in the fleshy, pale, stump-esque spectacle of my gross and hairy leg.  In fact, not only do I invite, I insist.  And I insist on it with all humility.

Oh god.  Oh god.

My gross hairy leg is a highly strategic thing for me to reveal to you in this way.  It’s precisely the humility of the spectacle that prevents it from merely being exhibitionism- my teachers and peers at the University of New Orleans department of fine arts are familiar with this spectacle on a daily basis, “will they or no“.  Sometimes I’m proud of my mighty wads of ambling flesh matter.  Sometimes I wish I was small and frail and regular, with normal spindly legs that didn’t stand out (though I rarely admit this to myself as such).  It varies with moods that are so mundane, you should be sleepy already if you’re paying any attention.  So what, precisely, is my gosh damned point?  Only this- that I invite you, my sweet ones, at any time you please, to share things with me that are every bit as mundane, trite, and insufferable as this “conceptual” lump of leg meat that I thrust at your beautiful faces!

What can I be getting at?  What am I after?  It’s normal to suspect I’m simply being strange for the hell of it, as is my perverse fancy, and indeed I am perverse.  But being perverse isn’t fun anymore.  I delved deeper, and discovered too much- I realized that I am broken.  While the seething masses suffer substance addictions, domestic abuse, mental illnesses of the sort that I, of all people, have no excuse not to appreciate the true hellishness of, and a legion of ills of the most painful and desperate sort, I am proud to report to you that I thrust my gross leg upon you and complain about being broken as a person.

You see, the problem is that I don’t listen to you.

And for that reason, without need of further explication, I say that I am a truly broken human being.  I could go into further detail, but if I start telling you about my childhood I may as well make you lick my damn leg!  Actually, please scroll back up and look at it again, this time more closely.  And know that it will take baby steps for me to get really “unbroken”, to truly start to listen to you without trying to put me all over everything you’re saying- my sweet babies, this will take time.  It will not be an overnight process.  We all come from a deeply… let’s settle with “repressive” background, and for all this time, I have had the silly arrogance to deny this repression where it resides within me.  And it resides so deeply- right down to my gross hairy leg.

I will slip.  I will fall.  And you will have to be patient- yes, not just me, but you!  Because it will be a messy process.  I’m forced to ask that, with all the other difficult things you have going on in your life, you bear with me.  Because otherwise, nothing will be accomplished.  I will fall, and my gross hairy leg will get grosser still, with embarrassing red bruises abounding.  But I will get back up.  You can depend on it.  Because, imperceptibly, I’ve begun my effort to start listening to you.  And I know that I can never go back.  Nothing can be the same.  When you see my gross leg in your path, know that I would never try to trip you.  It means I’ve fallen again.

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“Sunday Funday”? Try Filthday MILFday.

It’s bugs and booty in this later part of 2015.  Get ready to bounce.

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Toxic Rambling? Toxic Rambling.

New Orleans- land of my greatest dismay yet!

New Orleans.  Foul beast of decay.  My horrid naivete was in buying into your “cultural atmosphere.”  Let me explain.  Throughout life I’ve always thought of myself as a sharp judge of people’s faults, and everyone has many- myself included, of course.  I take a noxious delight in picking apart the human soul with the scalpel of my intellect, leering and rubbing my hands in glee like some horrible banker who hordes human failings.  (It’s true that I have nothing that could be called ‘honor’, but I don’t believe in the thing.  Perhaps that’s just a myth of our savage forebears.)  It was as I was in a parking lot late tonight, during an entertaining evening of practically bathing in diabolical human morbidity, that I realized I had done horribly poorly at taking simple directions to an opening.  (The fools there, as it happened, were among the most delectably pathetic.)  Prior to this, my usual glee had been cut into.  Without naming names, I have allowed myself to admire someone too much, sapping me of some of my callous power.  By some alchemical process, when I admire others it can reveal the pitiful dope underneath my callow armor to the paltry, giggling fools of the gossip circuit who I despise more than inveterate drug-users.  (Don’t ask me what they latch onto.)  What makes this situation almost breathtakingly upsetting to me is that when life beats the subject down further, in the filthy dark of the New Orleans night that’s like a fathomless well of slime, I absolutely cannot feel my usual disdain for the suffering of others.  My attempts to villainize the subject in my mind, on some level, have met with catastrophic failure.  This hurts me greatly.  Add to this the fact that I pride myself in navigating skills and preparedness- being a seasoned delivery driver- and was now far afield of my target area, and you can understand how my parade of narcissism was rained on for a night that was supposed to be cloudless.

I have become soft since coming here.  This is the only explanation.  Fortunately, “knowing is half the battle”, and as I sped back with cop-defying haste, I began to feel the sickly pseudo-testosterone that allows me to birth my warped creations flow more freely through my veins.  I was a bit more ready to meet DEATH, my beloved dominatrix, on the hot asphalt at night!  But I could not help but ponder- what had led me to this soft turn?  Why have I allowed such a tacky little burg as NEW ORLEANS, precious of drunks and buffoons- which I came to simply to delectate in decay- why have I allowed the place to put me in such a torpor?  How could I be so quickly duped?  And now I think I have some of New Orleans’ masterful evil figured out.  Only some, mind you- there are exciting depths yet.

You see, from before I came here, I was tempted by a myth so sneaky, so nefariously subtle, that nobody even sees it as it sits right in front of us.  New Orleans is certainly one of the places people go who are too weak to fight against the lure of falling into the utter delusion of a “dream life”, an existence of allowing oneself every comforting delusion, of being the “character in your own movie”- the “movie” being your mental reinvisioning of the remaining days of your unremarkable life.  Deep down, these French Quarter degenerates must know that their existence is essentially worthless, or they could not trick themselves with such skill into calling it “colorful”- this is the paradox of self-deception, and therefore of the human mind, which in all the cosmos is the greatest master of self deception.  The myth that I, that everyone, finds so irresistible, is one of petty compassion.  It is this- that it seems right, it seems “good”, that these creatures should have some place in the cold world to go to, to call their own, and to be delusional in peace.  Yet at the same time, nearly everybody has sense enough to realize that these people are assholes.

Now, what do you get when you take an asshole, give them a boob job, slap on a fake purple afro and fill their rancid carcass with hard liquor?

You guessed it, folks.  You get an asshole.

Because many of the dwellers of New Orleans are “colorful”, I wanted to believe that their flaws were somehow magically mitigated.  Because the culture of New Orleans is such an inspiration, I wanted to believe that when lame normal people mess things up over here, it was somehow a little less insipid to put up with.  In truth, I wanted to believe that the uniqueness of the place would allow me some degree of freedom from the noxious mundanity which we always know- that I could “game the system” by a small amount.  And yet, if I had seen these beliefs with the keen eyes that I do now, I would have been mortified.  Had I not continually reassured myself before moving that I was not so naive, that I understood that all places with humans in them were essentially horrible and that I could never escape that horror by a simple location switch?  I had.  But I hadn’t understood the depth, the subtlety, of New Orleans’ voodoo craft.  Only now am I beginning to.

Listen to me, you fools.  Do you think I don’t know that I’m the sick future of culture?  I know.  The mission is now clear to me, more than it has been in years.  The purpose, in these the TWILIGHT DAYS of this city before it sinks beneath the filthy waters, is only to exploit the culture that’s still left- with scalpel if necessary, with hammer if there’s absolutely nothing else, but above all STEAL, EXPLOIT, ASSIMILATE for my own personal use in the context of my mysterious larger agenda.  Holding to tradition in the United States is part of what makes New Orleans unique, and in the universe in which we live, it’s also what makes New Orleans doomed.  What does not bend, breaks.  When New Orleans bends, it is no longer New Orleans.  It is merely NOLA.  I find myself in the position of an Egyptian grave robber in the first days of European exploitation- I must hurry, before all the valuable gems and corpse matter is stolen either by my fellows, or by the haughty pale-skin archaeologists.  The glory days of Ra and Osiris have long been a memory- soon there won’t even be a relic!  Allahu Akhbar, and may the best man win- and I intend to be he.  As for the rest, all this sentimental nonsense, it can go right in the trash.  Down with all myths!  Down with all realities!

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I’ll be your Filthy Toxic Doofus for one dark evening

Cosmic Butt Duper Star CAM Reacher Mermind sketch Cowpoke-tastrophe Cowboiagenous Nebulous sketch

The unfathomable distances of cosmic space are nothing next to the distance between two human beings.  Look at relationships.  We see someone, and we want to possess them.  And we want them to be interested in us, and to notice the little things we do.  But at bottom, we know the things we do are worthless.  They’re quite like the countless other little things that countless little people have done before us, and will do after us.  And in the end, we’re all consigned to the same fate of disappearing from memory- a fate which is perfectly justified.  Secretly knowing this, how can we maintain interest in one another with any conviction?  And so, for our alternative, we choose baseless, meaningless, worthless anger at each other.  And realizing the foolishness of this, we become angry with ourselves.  But this shared spite does nothing to bridge the fathomless gulf.  What is it, I ask of you- I demand of you- what is it that can hold us together?  In my secret heart, even there I don’t know the answer.

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Ladies and Gents, it is Yello Geek Sundai

Starring Erasmus from QFG doing the old soft shoe, with special guest appearances by Sanic, Egyptian Backflipping Urchin and Young Miley!  It’s a nice Sunday for a Yello Wedding (to a geek).

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