Old man, Hyderabad, originally uploaded by nimboo.

An elderly gent from Hyderabad delivers a startlingly American gaze over the top of his cigarette. The devil-may-care chomp on his cig, the vaguely Bogart brows. I wonder if he’d be willing to take us on as his newest brides, if he’s of that persuasion.

Wrapped, originally uploaded by Ectomo.

By Elene Usdin, from riotclitshave.livejournal.com/

Illustrator Ashley Wood — currently breathing new life into Jamie Hewlett’s post-apocalyptic girl power punk series Tank Girl — just released some shots of this gorgeous wooden robot on his blog, apparently part of the limited edition Zombie vs. Robots series of sculptures. This is the sort of robot that would look excellent in my bathroom.

Some Berties Shots [Ashley Wood’s Blog]

Female beetles are my kind of girl…

Female beetles mate to quench their thirst according to new research by a University of Exeter biologist. The males of some insect species, including certain types of beetles, moths and crickets, produce unusually large ejaculates, which in some cases can account for around 10% of their body weight. The study shows that dehydrated females can accept sexual invitations simply to get hold of the water in the seminal fluid.

My local pub is also filled with beetle-like floozies who also mate to parch their terrible, alcoholic thirst. I wonder: if I were to follow them back to the filthy, disused men’s lavatory in exchange for a beer, as they so often invite, whether their flab would gooily part, revealing the carabace of the Metamorphoses like insect underneath.

Sex Is Thirst-quenching For Female Beetles [Science Daily]

Naturally, the mad scientist implanting massive antennas in the brains of rats dapperly smokes a pipe throughout his experiments.

Radio Controlled Rats [Modern Mechanix]

Unfortunately, not that Christopher Lee.

The Beast is Back: The Works of Christopher Lee [Artist’s Site] : Ponchorama

Despite the fact that you — a genetic freak with pustulous boils erupting from your elecrtified fist — are fighting for your very survival, warily watching the ceilings lest a gravitationally defying spider splicer drop down and pull your guts out through your navel, dodging the monstrous drill bits of golems in antique diving suits that desperately yearn to chew through your sternum… there’s always time to kick back, chomp the stem of a cherry wood apple bowl and light up a fat bowl of heady latakia.

Prepubescent cephalophilia in chalk drawings. I can’t tell you how I got here, or what this scene portends, since it’s a significant spoiler. Let’s just say I refrained from splattering these darling girls brains all over the ground with my insanely overpowered wrenching skills, simply so as not to drown their happy squid.

Mr. Pegritz’ unfolding Lovecraftian epic saw its eighth installment today, and nothing more need be said:

“Ten days,” he sighed. “Just ten days. I was in my place. My hideout. No one anywhere; I went looking around but most of the cave’s flattened, man. Then this one day, I heard someone coming down the drop shaft, though it had to be you or Mike—maybe someone else made it too—but it was some kind of thing. Rager Morph. I didn’t even have time to grab my gun; started beating it with my rock axe. Fucking crocodile-gar-lookin’ motherfucker, almost bit half my fucking hand off.” The bandaged mitt. “I think I knocked it out but when I got back to my hole the fucker had followed me. I managed to knock it out for good, maybe, but I got together what I could, climbed up the shaft and plugged it with a fallen boulder. Motherfucker. But listen,” he grabbed my collar, pulled me down. “Got a new place now—that’s why I came. Pegritz, there’s a lake down here.”

Trois Freres, Part 8 [Footnotes to a Species Once Called Humanity]

Mute this video immediately. The music is horrendous.

A latex-ensconced French maid does her rounds in an antiseptic room, teetering on shiny black ballet boots.

The comments on all the YouTube videos of ballet shoes/boots are a strange melange of aroused fetishists and infuriated ballerinas. Ballet dancers are taught that their beautiful, peachy-pink pointe shoes are a sacred trust, handed over only when they have endured years of toil under the gnarled hands of supercilious instructors. It gives them the unspoken right to look down their suddenly elevated noses at the little soft-shoed students, still squatting awkwardly at the barre and shuffling with bent feet across the sap-smelling floors of the studio. As soon as they go up en pointe, the rest of the world becomes those little shufflers, seen dimly and far below, beyond the stage lights, the swans and the rat kings. They completely reject the type of fetish pointe worshipper seen above, and resent their intrusion into the walled garden.

Continue Reading…

Eliza has been playing these execrable Lovecraftian text adventures based upon Lovecraft’s Commonplace Book, a journal filled with his ideas for unwritten stories.

These ideas are about as fleshed out as Pig Latin haikus. For example, the most popular game on that page — Dead Cities — is based upon this impenetrable idea:

An impression - city in peril - dead city - equestrian statue - men in closed room - clattering of hooves heard from outside - marvel disclosed on looking out - doubtful ending.

Eliza played it. Oh yes, she played it. This is the start of her epic adventure:

Continue Reading…

Update: We’ve gotten one entry for this so far. Come on guys! We’re giving away a Cthulhu! You’ve got another week to enter.

Come up with the best Lovecraft-Ectomeme mash-up. Trepanation by tentacle, vagina coleoidea, Commie Cthulhu, Steampunk Nyarlathotep, etc. It only needs to be an amalgamation of something Lovecraftian with Ectomo’s perverse obsessions and can take any form: you can do a song, a photograph, an illustration, a movie, a story or just write a description.

The winner, of course, gets their very own Cthulhu plushie, plus the honor of being devoured first when Cthulhu slithers from the sea, rubbing the snot from his thousand eyes.

We’ll be announcing the winner next Cthursday. If your entry is something that you can leave in the comments here, do so, otherwise, email it to me.

Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!

When you see a plane standing on its end in the sky—or on the ground—this will be the one!

A radical new design, just granted a patent, is an airplane that can stick its nose up and act like a helicopter.

The craft has a plane’s wings, ailerons and enclosed fuselage. Three wheels extending straight back to the rear allow vertical takeoff and sit-down.

Of course, good luck climbing in without a gooey spray of brains erupting from the severed top of your skull.

Convertible Jet Helicopter [Modern Mechanix]

By Alexandra Blythe, courtesy of bikini-clad Brazilian blogger Bibi.