Apparently, the unimaginative dullards at Man’s Life — not content filling the pages of their rag with scintillating tales of sexy, suburban deviants — have begun to pilfer tales from my own life to entertain the hordes of myopic misanthropes that patronize their dubious ilk. It’s been downhill ever since Mogo the Mugger, erudite caveman extraordinaire, left Man’s Life. Though in all fairness, filling the monstrous shoes of that ill-mannered Lothario is no easy task.

Ectochat: A place for small children [Thanks, Oddessy!]

As a nearly mute, painfully shy child I always dreamed of a future filled with polished chrome, hover-boards, pill food, and high-minded people that knew better than to natter on endlessly. One out of four isn’t bad, even if it’s not quite what I expected.

Shut Up Tape [cribcandy]

The dwindling bee population is an issue that concerns us greatly. Not only do we enjoy the sweet fruits of bee labor, but the glorious gardens through which we wheel Ross on his day trips from “the home” would cease to exist were it not for the hard work of our striped mascot’s forebears.

Adam Makarenko is a photographer that grieves the tragic loss of the bee with us, producing stunning photographs of the world of Langstroth Range, a bee paradise in which they drift lazily among fields populated with only the most rare, delectable plants and take on a monstrous size more in keeping with the pants-shitting terror they inspire in the uninformed.

There remains no explanation for the mysterious disappearance of the bees, but if there is indeed a just and loving Creator in this universe it has transported them to this wonderland free from cell phone death rays and douchebag frat boys with a freezer and some string. Now if only I could find a saddle and a way in.

Adam Makarenko [Cool Hunting : Artist’s Site]

Meet Max Gogarty, the latest addition to the Guardian’s company of travel bloggers. Don’t let his appearance fool you. Beneath those £400 sunglasses, that meticulously tossed coiffureage and the carefully cultivated stubble perforating his lilly-white androgyne throat throbs the lion’s pulse of an adventurer. The most obvious allusion is to a swarthy Richard Burton, carving away his foreskin with a dirty flint in a cave just outside of Mecca before bravely entering the holy city where white men feared to tread. But more so! This is the face and soul of the adventurer, the hero, the titan.

But like most titans, Max has already found himself the target of a swarm of small, envious Lilliputians. After a few short hours of his introductory post going live, Max has received over 500 outraged comments from the Guardian’s readers: a cacophonous roar of shrill, petty voices from which only the words “twat”, “git” and “wanker” can clearly be discerned. His lithe, twink-like muscles are restrained by the flossy ropes of jealousy. It irritates the gossamer lanugo of his alabaster skin. This incessant biting, of the lesser, lice-like humanoids, sucks the radiance from this Herculean man-of-action.

But what’s the rumpus? Who is this homoerotic love child of Achilles and Adonis? Who is this avatar of colonialist adventure, hearkening back to an age of heroes? Who is Max Gogarty?

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