Some wars are timeless, their beginnings receding into the haze of aeons past. None are so bitter as the ages old feud between the regal unicorn and the gentle Monodon monoceros. Here, now, a final battle is to be fought, upon hallowed ground to which both claim as their birthright. Can anyone stop these two foes before the annihilate one another? Will Cecily and her trusty dragon-steed Windstar, make it in time to broker some sort of peace between these two? Why is Cecily’s boyfriend on a date with some other girl? The answer to these questions and more lie within Unicorn vs. Narwhal!
They should have just let Romero’s glorious moustache shine through, untouched. Running around made up like a clown is one kind of crazy, but running around made up like a clown with a moustache is a whole, different level of batshit insane.
Any commenter who posts “Why so serious?” gets fed to the weasels. You’ve been warned.
It is in the spirit of this week’s Noise du Jour theme, Sleep Deprivation, that I make the flagship post: too late, too little, and fobbed in with dolorous haze. I cannot recall when or where I posted this before. I am posting it now.
I am only dimly conscious of this being a Tuesday, though I typed this in the late-night-Monday continuum, club-wise (bass grinding my girders and garters at the Glas Kat, natch). Which is exactly the sort of music to which we are not listening, in this post. Here, They Might Be Giants do something beautiful en regard staying awake.
Let us chew over that ectoplasmosis is, in fact, the name of a disease. Literally translating, the office chair scholar would assume something sneezy and spiritual, but the writers here (New Scum and Old) have not been vaccinated, and manifest unghostly symptoms.
For example, my adopted, bastard brother, Qais Fulton, suffers from debilitating chronoxysms, during which he sleeps little, or too much; remembers little, or too much; and nightly wrestles with somatic terrors and blisses. Qais reports that he “loses time”, a classic symptom of encroaching Multiple Personality Disorder. The stabbing kind.
My own affliction, experienced maybe trimonthly, takes the form of twelve-hour blackouts packed around intense dreams. The dreams portray the basic cast, characters, and set dressings of my waking life, but coaxed into scenes still more believable, and enjoyable, than the smoked-quartz window of “reality”. Osmotically, dreaming and waking life reach equidistance, and I waver through bifurcated days.
Ross’ sleeping habits, like his parentage, are obscure. I hesitate to question the dreams of a man who contributes to such dark journals as the Weekly Geek. I assume he is at least burdened with insomnia, or hypersomnia, and probably a full set of shining groinal pustules (itchy).
As for my dearest Florian, nee’ Brownlee, his phlegmy slumber is well-documented, webcam-wise, from a trip we took to Tokyo. He jams his fez on, cinches the sash of his smoking jacket, and is snoring within seconds. I had to sleep in the hall, where maids politely trod on me with their tiny Japanese feet.
Matthew Gibeault was arrested for possession of drug paraphernalia in Ida County, Idaho which, judging by his mug shot, only moments before had been filled with some sort of incredibly potent stimulant. It would be unsurprising if, after checking for any known aliases, Mr. Gibeault was found to have been responsible for a string of what police described as “mad bombings” and numerous cases involving damsels secured to train tracks with sturdy rope.
The power of Ectomo is both wondrous to behold and terrifying to contemplate, as any ectomite knows all too well. Certainly it is a wonder closet of dazzling proportions but it also has a dark and unholy box perched on its top shelf, high up where little ones can’t get to it. Things lurk in this neat little package, things not fit for the minds of man, let alone his spawn.
One must assume, however, that some will find their way into Ectomo’s stash, perhaps when it was left out on the table; after all, these things do happen and the occasional moment of forgetfulness can be forgiven. Not so in this case, however. No, faithful readers, no in this case we must turn our stern eye of judgment toward one Nathan Myers, a gentleman with a wanton disregard for human life and a destroyer of innocence. Mr. Myers is responsible for the most heinous of crimes he has shown his no doubt wonderful and carefree eight year old daughter Ectomo’s secrets and wrought untold damage.
Once exposed to the tentacled, crawling blasphemy contained therein his once lighthearted progeny at once fell into a deep morass of babbling, incoherent madness; her eyes, no doubt, displaying the same dual irises portrayed in In The Mouth of Madness. Her mind shattered, she shuffled off and immediately took up a waxy writing implement and began to work feverishly, trying desperately to put on paper the horror that now assaulted her mind’s eye in a futile attempt to make sense of it.
The product of this sick experiment was this piece, entitled “Sun Goes Like This”. As you can see, clearly the dank recesses of Ectomo have wormed their way into every aspect of the poor little girl’s world, rendering everything a tentacled nightmare. A parade of transmogrified beasts — Shoggoth, perhaps — travel through an empty wasteland under the scorching gaze of a mindless, Cthulhoid sun, led by what appears to be a banished Innsmouth resident upon a R’lyehan death-horse. Truly a bleak and terrible world and a warning to all: the power of Ectoplasmosis is mighty and not to be wielded by those who would prove irresponsible. Take care, Nathan Myers, your daughter’s lost sanity rests on your head.
Let me lay this on you, Jim: Sometimes you surf the tubes, looking for strange diversions with which to entertain your readers. Sometimes you find something a little too strange. Maybe it’s a nude man. Maybe this nude man is wearing a number of different, inventive thongs. The aforementioned, mostly nude, thong wearing man may, perhaps, also be wearing a horse mask and maybe, just maybe, he’s dancing while he gathers, sautés, and consumes wild mushrooms. Make no mistake friend, when that time comes, you better be prepared.
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.
Knowing people, as I do, with what I can honestly call a Hello Kitty obsession makes the thought of the feline icon as a tattoo within the realm of my accepted, and unfortunate, reality. Said icon transmogrified into a horrific Frankensavior as the aforementioned dermal adornment, complete with a pledge of eternal allegiance, however, is quite a different matter all together.
In the battle of the sexes Aleyss K. Taylor may be women’s greatest asset. Her show, Vagina Power which is featured on Atlanta Public Access TV9, and which she hosts with her mother, is a wealth of knowledge concerning the “power of the vagina, penis, and sperm.” Or perhaps it is merely one woman’s autobiography of lust and depravity. I haven’t decided yet.
Regardless, if you are one of the many women with a cold vagina who yearns for a penis whose heat is so great that it can be felt through its owners clothes, I urge you to watch this clip. You will learn to control your, seemingly, constant urges without the aid of vibrators you sneaked into work in your purse. You will learn to never let a man find the bottom of your vagina, lest he ejaculate “all up in your brain.” And you will learn that a man should at least spend $2.99 on shrimp from Long John Silver’s for the privilege of filling your mouth and rectum with sperm. One can imagine my chagrin upon finding out that the going rate was, indeed, far lower than had been previously indicated. Ah well, live and learn.
I know, I know, it’s not even December yet, but when you’ve got Cthulhu in your heart every day is like Christmas; a waking nightmare of frenzied sub-humans, skyrocketing suicide rates, and brother turning against brother. But hey, at least you’ve got this Cthulhu ornament to clutch and whisper to, curled in a corner with the cheapest bottle of liquor you can find, waiting for the holiday season to pass.
It might appear at first glance that I have become some sort of cheap shill, a prostitute willing to debase my self at the mere suggestion of product, regardless of its quality. This is,
however, not the case. I am, as of yet, in no position to buy in sell out but I assure you that I await that moment with baited breath.
No, instead what we have here is a perfectly valid excuse for me to talk about videogames which, despite Eliza being of the opinion that my views on the subject are on par with, say, an otter suffering from Down’s Syndrome, is one that I love nonetheless.
Let me say, however, that it is difficult to retain one’s enthusiasm for for one’s hobby in the face of such cutting criticism. If you are “in the know” (or, similarly, “down with O.P.P.”), you are aware that the horrifically deformedblasphemous lovely Miss Gauger is an actual, flesh and blood games journalist, which is to say that when she “raps” and “tells it like it is” people will listen and, in some cases, moisten with incoherent and unearthly rage. She is, then, a professional and, as such, her views on my worth as a human being carry both weight and value, making them capable of delivering a swift and vicious one-two punch to my, admittedly, already emaciated and tattered self-esteem. Continue Reading…
Welcome to the Ectomo’s tenth compendium of two dimensional flimflam, computer generated balderdash, and stop-motion ballyhoo. A new name has not been handed down from upon high, where my masters dwell, so I’ve decided to go with what appears to be complete and utter nonsense, but which I assure you contains deep meanings. Can you find all twelve?
But that’s enough idle chit-chat and and semantic tomfoolery! To the ‘toons!
•The strange tale of The Maxxcontinues and the story begins down the dark, psychological road that would make it so unique. “You killed my hostage. You - killed my hostage. YOU KILLED MY HOSTAGE!…Never do that again.”
•”Crumbs, chief!” It’s Danger Mouse, a favorite of mine when I was but a small child. Today’s episode is titled “Tampering With Time Tickles” and, once again, Danger Mouse must thwart the nefarious Baron Greenback in his attempts to rule the world.
•Lucy, The Daughter of The Devil is turning out to be one of my favorite new shows on [adult swim], unsurprising considering that most of the Home Movies crew is responsible for it. “According to our studies, if the people of the world masturbate just eight percent more, civilization will collapse.” That’s why the Devil runs a dildo factory.
•Another episode of the underrated Big Guy and Rusty, The Boy Robot. Rusty upgrades his body in order to be more grown up. It’s not as dirty as that made it sound.
•Here at Ectomo, we’re big fans of Max Fleischer and his various and sundry creations. With that in mind, I present two of his most famous creations: Popeye, The Sailor Man in the fantastic episode “Goonland”, which finds Popeye on the hunt for the father that abandoned him, and Felix, The Cat in “Woos Whoopee” in which a drunken Felix makes the slow, hallucinatory walk home to his angry wife.
•The Boondocks, “The Story of Thugnificent”. Aaron McGruder is a genius. I said it; I’m not taking it back. Hip-hop phenom Thugnificent moves to the suburbs which doesn’t sit well with Granddad. “Did you just…congratulate me for reading?” “All the kids is welcome, muthafucka!”
•Lastly we have Mark Osborne’s More to remind you of your daily drudgery, lest you forget the true meaning of Saturdays. Enjoy!
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.
