Over the past few days, I have been running a call-in Twitter show in which I quickly (or slowly) sketch up pictures based on ideas sent in by the audience. I call it the Sweatshop, and there have been two rounds so far.
Round 1 was simple: I asked the people for a pair of words.
Kevin Doran sent in “This is why you’re told never to flush used condoms down the toilet.”
I’ve been asked to do another round on Monday night, around 8pm PST, to be streamed live to the DNA Lounge in San Francisco. Which may mean I’ll need to draw less nipples and robot twat, but we’ll see.
Hit the jump to see the rest of the horrors (some are not work safe), and latch onto me at Twitter to leech valuable nutrients from my skin.
It’s the first Thursday of the month, and for cities with a thriving art scene that means crowding into galleries for gratis, eating all the free snacks you can lay your grubby mitts on, elbowing your way through crowds of booze-boldened hipsters, perusing the works of local artists, and, of course, leaving without buying a god damn thing.
If you’re in the Seattle area this evening, stop on by Starfish Studios to take a gander at the latest series from local artists Libby Bulloff and Angel Ceballos. Eroticized edibles is this month’s theme, and while all the work on display is well worth the walk to the waterfront, the added prospect of seeing one fourth of Ectomo’s writing staff perpetuate the apocryphal sexual origins of porcine influenza should practically guarantee your attendance.
As an added bonus, the first few Ectomites to introduce themselves will receive an Octobee sticker from yours truly (while meager supplies last).
Long time reader Asa Gilmore reminds us that, in life, it is good to set goals for one’s self:
Someday, when life affords me the luxury, I too shall be able to lounge in the nude, sword in hand (no, not that sword you foul minded cretins), upon the skins of those beasts whom I have defeated. I’m pretty sure having a dashing moustache has something to do with achieving this goal.
I like to think that at some point young Master Gilmore will be asked at a job interview where he sees himself in five years to which he may then reply “nude and moustached”.
I realize that our readership, both domestic and international, may in fact be entirely fed up with what has been this year’s political “season” and know that I empathize. However, having been put in a position — by people exercising questionable judgment I should add — in which my opinion is at the very least seen by a large group of people, I feel that it would be remiss of me if I did not urge those who are able to exercise your right to vote. Seriously, go out and do it.
For those who are too young to vote or for those who live outside the United States, and who can only sit by impotently while we go about our business, feel free to hold pretend voting in your homes. Or, perhaps, you could go to your local market and grab two delicious options for dinner, say a chicken and some pork chops, and wander through the store asking strangers their opinion. Whatever makes you feel better.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled weirdness.
My sincerest apologies, ye denizens of the wonderful, monstrous Ecto-Nation, for the deplorable lack of content over the last few days. Your outrage at the passing of a Monday unmoustachioed is, of course, understandable. Had I been able to drag myself to my computer I would have most assuredly fulfilled my duties however, due to the fact that I am a young man in possession of the body of a centenarian, I could not. No, dear readers, the past three days have been spent on my back, the muscles of my lumbar gripping the delicate nerves of my spine in a vise-like death grip. Only through sheer willpower — and 10 milligrams of Cyclobenzaprine — have a been able to lurch over to the keyboard. I pray this will serve as explanation should my normal, typo-laden musings be more…laden…than usual.
That out of the way, on to the clip. The above is an ad for Nike Women featuring Nicola Sanders, who I assume is a runner of some repute and whose organs and muscles all have mouths which they use to spit gibberish at each other. Also, her brain wears a monocle, an image which is so fitting that I dare say I will be unable to look at a brain ever again without superimposing the eyepiece upon it. The whole concept is extremely simple and the animation takes it just far enough into weird territory to work without coming off as horrifying. That’s how it strikes me at least, your unmedicated mileage may vary. Creativity has the hi-res version.
A Bridgestone advertisement, chronicling a dog’s attempt to end his own life after witnessing his bitch’s infidelity, leads to an Ectomite brainstorming session, not regarding the sale of rubber radials, but intead selling the act itself:
I can see it now, The scene opens on a suburban housewife in a black and white kitchen, frantically chopping away at ( and missing) a tomato. The baritone male voice over begins over the scene. “Every day tasks are such a bother. Why not just kill yourself?” The woman turns to the camera, smiles, and then turns the knife quickly on herself.
I believe at some point in the past you and several other ectomites requested the Pope, a Gorilla and an explosion, I have done my best to make this so. So without further ado, if you take a look at the photobucket link above, I’m hoping you’ll be at least moderately amused.
Ironically, I keep hearing a newscast along the lines of “And in Vatican City today, Archbishop Bobo and the Pope celebrate the first successful test of the “Holy Hand Grenade” series of tactical nuclear weapons….”
In sheer defiance of the World Wide Web Consortium's will, Ectomo was designed using a non-web-standard font. Luckily, it is included in the excellent font pack released by the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society, which can be freely downloaded in Mac and PC formats here. Ectomo should still look fine without it, though.
