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.

VKlaus suggested “LICE PIANO”.

Round 2 upped the ante just a touch. I asked for Far Side-style captions, the sort that would go below a one-panel comic. I streamed the drawing process live on Ustream.

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.

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Reminding us that sometimes, you should just paint, and not worry about it.

Gene Guynn [via CGUnit]

[winterwolfstudio : Flickr]

The first glance at any appropriately “zany” product from the Far East isn’t normally a time for introspective reflection. And yet, when faced with the knit knockers above, I found I simply couldn’t help but ponder the greater questions a creation such as these is apt to pose. Compelled to question the warm reception these crafted casabas garnered from the ever-raging garbage fire that serves as my brain.

My suspicion was simply that if these had been the brainchild of Wee Kemp, TruckNutz magnate and entrepreneur extraordinaire, in an attempt to expand his anatomic empire, they would be immediately regarded as tacky and tasteless. Where as, by dint of (seemingly) originating in Asia, they are more likely to be regarded as “quirky” and “cute”.

Thankfully, ChristWire was Johnny-on-the-spot, as it were, rectifying my assumptions with their own take on the tit-scarf:

As if the Chinese weren’t the most veil [sic] people already, they have invented a new scarf called the “Boob Scarf.”

What sick and twisted people they are. No wonder our good friend Amber post the great story “I Am Extremely Terrified Of Chinese People.”

I guess the scarf is suppose to be humorous and I guess it is if you’re a sin ridden, freedom hating Chinaman!

Women’s breasts are for one thing only and that is to feed a newborn. Not to be shown off in a sexual or humorous way!

These commie, sex crazed, child abusing wackos need to be nuked. To bad our Christian leader George Bush still isn’t in office. He would wipe these low lives out with a holy nuke from GOD!

BOO China! BOO!

Lest you assume this “Soldier of God” is nothing more than a weak-willed loon with regular access to a computer, I direct you to the ramblings of one Mr. JWZ, reporting on these very same removable boobs a full seven years ago. Gaze in drooling, slack-jawed horror at the state of things, and feel The Fear wash over you as you begin to understand. The rapidly declining quality of the world as we know it is, quite obviously, directly attributable to these fiendish crafts.

Boo indeed, China. Boo indeed.

Boob Scarf [Street Anatomy]

The Three Laws of Female Robotics:

1. A female robot must always have perfect makeup, even if her arm is falling off.
2. A female robot must have at least one spare head available to her at all times.
3. A female robot will only find a mate if she follows the First and Second Laws.

All credit to the incomparable Susannah Breslin, Pornographic Cartographer, for the tongue-in-cheek homage to Asimov’s famous Laws.

Surely it’s a lovely picture, but I’m more looking forward to future images from this set. Rob Sheridan explains that he wants the robots to appear a bit more broken down, some even missing limbs, in the next few photos, which I think would help make these look a little grittier and, perhaps, slightly less posed. For those with any mechanical and/or prop-making skills, they’re looking for help. If you’re interested Rob provides an email address at which you can contact him.

Lastly, let me just say this: Do not be lured in by this thing’s demure gaze and vulnerable sensuality. It is a lie, meant to lull your primitive, lizard brain into a sex fueled stupor, at which point it can rip out your spine. Soft curves or no, dear readers, a robot is still a robot and, therefore, not to be trusted.

Broken Robot Girl #1 by Rob Sheridan and Tamar Levine [SketchBlog] : The Frisky : Chatarra

Virginity remains, in many parts of the world and to many people, a prized commodity; a trophy unsullied by the genitalia and bodily fluids of others. So sought after is this package in its unopened state that a surgical operation is available, the hymenoplasty, to reinstate or repair a woman’s hymen, once again restoring freshness with a newly minted vacuum seal.

For those who don’t wish to go through the rigors of surgery or who simply lost their virginity by accident, either by riding a horse or by tripping and falling upon a gentleman’s exposed penis, a Chinese company offers this home solution. The description for this ersatz maidenhead is set forth in perfect Engrish:

No more worry about losing your virginity. With this product, you can have your first night back anytime. Insert this artificial hymen into your vagina carefully. It will expand a little and make you feel tight. When your lover penetrate, it will ooze out a liquid that look like blood not too much but just the right amount. Add in a few moans and groans, you will pass through undetectable. Its easy to use, clinically proven non-toxic to human and has no side effects, no pain to use and no allergic reaction.

As you can see, the real selling point here is the products ability to release just the right amount of blood-like fluid. It is a testament to the manufacturer’s knowledge of deflowering, for surely nothing would be more embarrassing than, upon the insertion of your lover’s penis, a crimson geyser exploded forth from the depths of your vagina, flinging him backwards from the force and bathing him in faux-hemoglobin. At that point there might, I suspect, be some explaining to do.

Artificial Virginity Hymen [Gigimo] : Jezebel : grinding.be : #ectomo

We here at Ectomo are devout admirers of Edward Gorey, so much so that there is a small shrine to the man located in a former supply closet off of Eliza’s office. It provides a safe, quiet sanctuary to meditate or spout surrealist nonsense, albeit in a hushed, reverent tone. It also means that our supplies are strewn willy-nilly all over the rest of our workspace. As I write this I pause on occasion to eye the teetering stack of typewriter ribbons that casts a long, swaying shadow over my desk. To my knowledge we don’t even possess a typewriter, and yet someone, obviously, has been stockpiling them like so many cans of beans. I can only assume that at least one among us expects the post-apocalypse to be…verbose.

But enough about the strange hoarding practices of bloggers, this is about Edward Gorey. Many of you surely know his work as we do and yet the full breath of his output must still remain unknown to me for I was completely unaware of this gem of a title. In short The Recently Deflowered Girl: The Right Thing To Say On Every Dubious Occasion is a book containing advice for the modern young woman of 1965 should she find herself in an awkward situations following the loss of her virginity; advice that remains surprisingly relevant today. Said pearls of wisdom have been dispensed, the Editor’s Note informs us, by one Miss Hyacinthe Phypps; a maven in matters pertaining to correct feminine behavior.

What follows is Gorey at his best, a collection of the most absurd, nonsensical situation ever to befall a young woman entering into the strange, new world of bodily fluid exchange. They range from the humorous to the downright creepy, and many times overlapping — like the one after the jump— an ability the Gorey is well-known for. I confess the urge to simply post every single page but really LiveJournal user Bo-Bailey deserves the click-through for taking the time to scan the volume in its entirety. It is most certainly worth a read.

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The 1987 documentary on the life of Robert Crumb, underground comics pioneer, 60s icon, and the quintessential Dirty Old Man. Written by the man himself, it lacks the distance from its subject that made Terry Zwigoff’s Crumb more of a revelatory study in neuroses and emotional trauma and instead puts you squarely in the middle of Crumb’s gonzo world of misogyny and self-loathing and in that sense it is a much better illustration of Crumb the Artist as opposed to Crumb the Man.

Confessions of Robert Crumb [Google Video]

The favorite phrase of those that emerge from the opposite end of a tussle with their facade a grotesquery, “You should’ve seen the other guy.” Thanks to the obsessive cataloging of the Ectomitic, now you can. And you can be certain they enjoyed every minute of it.

Brian M Viveros [Hugo Strikes Back : Suzanne G :Artist’s Site]

After watching this clip of the Ross Sisters’s performance from the 1944 musical Broadway Rhythm one may be forgiven for wondering just what is meant by the phrase “solid potato salad.” You may be thinking that, certainly there is some ulterior meaning here, some sort of perverse inference to be made hinting at an unspeakable taboo; an act unfit for the polite society of your grandparents but universally understood nevertheless. Surely, you might think, they cannot merely be soliloquizing a starchy side dish, no matter how good it may have been.

To this I would respond: does it matter? After watching a trio of lithe nymphets fold themselves in half, does the meaning of such an innocuous phrase still bear contemplation? At the point that a sprightly girl twists and descends like a coiled snake to pluck an apple with her mouth, is innuendo even an issue? I would maintain that, should they have chosen to, they could just as well have read the back of a cereal box and still held the audience’s attention just as effectively.

Still, it must have been one delicious salad.

Solid Potato Salad - The Ross Sisters [metacafe] : Scribal Terror

I’ve seen the work of cheesecake illustrator George Petty scattered here and there but I never gave a good look to his occasionally questionable depictions of the female form. This one may be my favorite. Here we can see Miss April being driven mad by the rapid expansion of her skull. One can only assume that it was not long before the poor girl’s head cracked and split open like an overripe watermelon.

Pinups: George Petty’s Ridgid Tools Calendars [ASIFA-Hollywood Animation Archive]

Depicted here is the extraordinarily rare Zombie-Faced Mermaid, a creature not unlike the flounder and the fiddler crab in its stunning asymmetry, and voracious appetite for sailor sex.

Photos From the 2008 Mermaid Parade: Drag, Burlesque, and Little Girls’ Parties [And I Am Not Lying]

When, as a child, the existence of phone sex lines was revealed to me, I was immediately fascinated. Even though I barely possessed even a minor understanding of sex and its social intricacies I knew it was an act around which controversy swarmed. The idea that there were people out there making their living simply by whispering lurid nothings into the ears of pay-by-the-minute lovers was thrilling. It was as if there was a global conspiracy whose secret I had been entrusted with.

Now, years later, I still harbor a fascination with the industry; a fascination compounded by the understanding that, in all likelihood, the majority of phone sex operators are not what most would call sexy. A photography project by Phillip Toledano consisting of images of phone sex operators simultaneously refutes and confirms that assumption. These people may not be pretty, but they are (for the most part) fascinating, and probably know more about the psychology of sex than we could ever hope to learn.

Phone Sex: The Book [Thanks, Nissa!]

1960s Advertising - Magazine Ad - Fresh Start (USA) [Flickr] uploaded by Pink Ponk : Monoscope

Although Marilyn Monroe’s version of “My Heart Belongs To Daddy” is certainly not the most artfully wrought rendition of the song, nor even my personal favorite (Count Basie’s Decca recording of the tune holds that honor), it is elevated to sublimity by Marilyn’s ditzy vivaciousness and boom-boom curves, an opening monologue forcefully tying the song to Nabokov’s immortal nymphet and the insinuating leers of the perverts ogling her from the back row.

My Heart Belongs To Daddy - Marilyn Monroe [YouTube]