Meet Danny. Danny is lonely. Danny just wants to meet a woman; a woman who’s attractive. She should have features like eyes, legs, and, perhaps, automatic windows or at least a cup holder. Danny wants to take you out on a romantic date, complete with a candlelight dinner, roses, hand holding, music, and, because he knows how you women folk jibber-jabber, lots of talking. On the beach. He has a wild streak as well, once having run across the street without looking. He’s a wild man alright.
Watching this video I wonder just how closely related the man’s parents were or if the place where they made their home was riddled with high levels of radiation. I also wonder just how honest Danny is being in this video. Does the key to the city of his town even exist? Does he really want to talk or is he just looking for a real life woman to replace he crusty, worn blow-up doll? Lastly, do specific features matter or does he just need them to fill out the ever growing collection of body parts he stores in his basement?
One of many pieces in the Prinzhorn Collection at the University of Heidelberg:
“The core collection comprises approximately 5000 pieces of art created by approx. 450 patients of psychiatric institutions. These pieces comprise mostly drawings, water colors, writings, like letters, notes, drafts of books and exercise books, which were often self-manufactured, as well as oil paintings, material manual work, collages and 70 wooden sculptures”
The collection inspired Max Ernst and Pablo Picasso among many other artists and features the work of mostly schizophrenic patients, between 1880 and 1933.
Wicked Wicked is a hyperbolic piece of advertising/film bullshit for a process known as ANAMORPHIC DUOVISION, a leap forward in movie technology that is gleefully touted as being as amazing as sound and color. Indeed, it was so amazing that the trailer can’t even show this wonder, as special projection equipment is needed. The reality of DUOVISION seems to have fallen well short of its revolutionary claims, simply splitting the screen and showing two different actions at once. One assumes that this is the reason for the stuttering, nonsensical title.
The plot seems equally insipid, revolving around a series of murders at the Grandview hotel. All the women murdered are blond who, shockingly, “arrive at the hotel with luggage.” The women are brutally butchered by what appears to be one of the hotel employees wearing a rubber mask made to resemble a scrotum. I don’t want to reveal any more of the plot as the trailer does a much better job of it. Needless to say, this was the first and last film shot in ANAMORPHIC DUOVISION.
The late 1970s/early 1980s saw the birth of some of the freshest pop music ever created by Humans without the aid of alien technology or Machine Intelligence. Landscape’s “Norman Bates” is probably THE catchiest little jam ever written about Psycho, and one of the best synthpop jams ever created: if you do not find yourself bopping around all damn day singing “My name is Norman Bates, I’m just a normal guy”, there’s something not wrong with you and you should never read this blog again.
Good luck finding this music on CD or mp3, though. As far as I can tell, Landscape’s catalog only ever appeared on vinyl. I managed to track down mp3s of most of their tracks, but I’m an obsessive music freak and will gladly pull an Indian Jones and raid mysterious Mexican jungle temples filled with old vinyl and mysterious BitTorrent trackers to find what I desire. It’s Out There, though!
Ripped from the very neural simulation spaces of Qais Fulton’s mental “barn o’ bad-assed bestial boning” comes the above video, a complement to his most recent post about the guy who died from horsey/human butt ballet: purportedly a clip from a documentary that aired outside the United States concerning zoophilia and all manner of weirdos who have all manner of weirdo sex with their pets, we get to watch a be-mulletted blonde guy and a lady who looks like she should be behind the counter of some “quaint” roadside Americana store selling Yankee Candles speaking very candidly about how they…well, “go ’round the world” with the lady’s miniature stallion. Discussed are their first date, in which the woman decided to try the “shock factor” on her prospective beau by ducking under the horse for a quickie, their marriage, and their current sex life…with the horse. At no point do the two ever discuss actually meshing genitalia in the traditional human-on-human approach, which leads me to believe their marriage is actually a farce–indeed, actually a threesome, in which one member is, well, a horse. Do I hear charges of bigamy?! Going once…going twice…?
I’ll bet ANY reader Out There in Ectomoland that one or both of these horse-humpin’ honkies are furries, as well. So, to anyone checking out that event in Atlanta on the 29th, keep a keen eye out for two people in horsey costumes, who may be rubbing up against each other in a manner thoroughly inappropriate to a family place like a bowling alley. If so, approach with caution: they were last sighted trying to make a campfire and chasing each other around with leathered donkey dicks.
(BTW: What the hell is up with me an alliteration these days? Damn!)
Iä! Whilst these other wastrels pursue their abhorrent moustache-fetisch in order to satisfy their sublimated homosexual urges (see Kraft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis, the famous, if hard to find, Third “Moustache Raiders” Edition, for full details), I bring you nonstop cephalophilia and warnings from my buds, the illustrious Great Old Ones. The loathesome and no doubt fungous, shambling horror known as Michael Martine hath shewn us the inevitable and gruesome miscegeny between LOLCATS and Cthulhu worthsip–I present to thee, shudderingly: LOLTHULHU. Another sure sign that the hour of R’Lyeh’s rise is near. Gentle readers, be sure to take this as an early warning: report post haste to any especially deep caverns so as to render yourselves immune to the deleterious mental radiation that some have dubbed “The LOL of Cthulhu.” Be warned!
The best first-personal account of attending a Pentecostal service I’ve ever read:
When Reverend Bud’s preaching reached an end, the organs would suddenly blare and everyone would hop to their feet. The singing and the clapping would swell to a crescendo and the children would titter excitedly in their seats. The fever and shouts of religious undulation would continue until the crowd worked themselves into a literal frenzy and then…
…..THWAK!
Sister Ruth, an older woman with long silver hair, would collapse onto the ground in the front row. Experiencing her own special brand of religious ecstasy, Sister Ruth would wriggle and writhe on the Church floor until her skirt hiked up over her hips to reveal her panties. Farm Animals. Sister Ruth’s panties always had pictures of farm animals on them…
At this point in the service, the adults would collectively lose their fucking minds. They’d hop around in circles, screaming. They’d hysterically cry and hold their arms up towards the heavens. They’d gyrate around on the floor and speak in some unintelligible language: Bugga bugga boo! Oh, I love you Jesus! Yada gabba doodle boo boo wak!
I once dated a girl who was in a Pentecostal church. I went to service one time and remember marveling: far from the subdued, rather drowsy 45 minute service of my local Congregational Church, the service went on for hours. It was like the Jenga block Tower of Babel at the local insane asylum had just toppled over. I remember distinctly the strange, ape-like dance of a retarded man in the first row, who would begin hooting, tearing at his clothes and screaming at the sky. Word had it that he was an ex-CIA agent who’d been shot through the head, and a pink, hairless mass of scars at the back of his head seemed to support this hypothesis. It was awesome.
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.
The best first-personal account of attending a Pentecostal service I’ve ever read:
