Category Archives: art

The things I do when I’m not here: secret winners and very impressive artworks

I’ve been supremely lazy the past couple of days, to the point of seriously not wanting to do anything but sleep. But! Important things need to be discussed, dammit! So I am DISCUSSING them! THEN I will sleep like the DEAD! Well, except of course I will wake up. Dead people don’t often do that. Except maybe zombie-people.

First, thank you all for making the royal rumpusness of my second bloggiversary week a rousing success. Two years! Huh. That’s impressive, right? And kind of scary.

I wanted to do SOMETHING for my readers for my bloggiversary but I am out of oomph. My oomph up and left. My oomph hit the road, Jack. Left me a Dear John Amy letter on the counter and hiked it on outta here. One could, I suppose, keep waiting for one’s oomph to return, but that doesn’t seem likely. So I suppose the only fix is to go around oomphless. Or do things DESPITE the lack of oomph. Kind of as a big eff-you to that dastardly leaving-me-high-and-dry oomph.

Dammit, oomph. Why you gotta hurt me like that, yo?

Dammit, oomph. Why you gotta hurt me like that, yo?

SO, I conducted an unbeknownst-to-you top-secret giveaway over the past week. I KNOW! How tricky was THAT? I didn’t even tell sj. And I tell sj almost EVERYTHING. (Not everything, though, because sometimes I want her to be surprised, and sometimes I do embarrassing things that I don’t think she needs to know.)

Everyone that commented on any of the posts over bloggiversary week got entered into a top-secret drawing. Well, no. FIRST, you all got put on a LIST. Then I wrote everyone’s name on that list into that randomizer website that people use when they want to do giveaways like a grownup.

(I realized after I did this I probably should have taken screenshots because I always get at least one person who’s all “YOU CHEATED! Ha ha just kidding” but I don’t think they really are. I believe the technical term for a comment like this is “passive-aggressive.” The technical term for what a comment like this makes me is “stabbilicious.” But I didn’t, because I was very tired and not feeling the best and did I mention I HAVE NO OOMPH? OK, great, just in case you missed that paragraph, awesome.)

So, the randomizer (which apparently randomizes based on the earth’s atmosphere or something, I don’t know what the hell) did its work and TA-DAH! We had a WINNER! Out of the 21 people who commented all week, A WINNER!

(Now don’t you lurkers feel bad about not commenting? You should. You could be entered in secret giveaways and NOT EVEN KNOW IT!)

Our winner is…drumroll please…




Now, before I totally embarrassed myself and Heather by writing this whole post, I of course had to contact her, congratulate her on winning a contest she didn’t even know she’d entered (that makes me sound like one of those spammers that sends you an email that you’ve won the U.K. Lottery, doesn’t it?) and see if she was down with giving me her address so I could send her a prize.

WHEW! She totally was. She loves secret giveaways. I’m so glad Heather didn’t think this was all a scam so I could either stalk her or get her bank account in order to drain it of all the cash moneys and go to Aruba.



I have a secret prize all picked out for Heather. It’s not going to be as oomphy as last year, because as stated, NO OOMPH. However, it is going to be awesome, and I know she will love it (and I ran the idea past sj, and SHE knows Heather will love it, as well.) I cannot tell you all what it is because what it will ruin her surprise-factor, but once it arrives, either she will tell us, or I will. YOU WILL BE KEPT IN THE LOOP!

Thank you for accepting the winnership of the secret prize, Heather! I’m so glad you were excited! I hope (KNOW!) you will love it when it arrives!

OK, next, who wants to see art-time? Oh, you all know you do. Art time was ALWAYS the best part of elementary school.

So sj and Susie are having a contest. It is a zombiecorn contest. If you write a short piece of zombiecorn fiction, you can win any one of a plethora of prizes. A PLETHORA I TELL YOU!

(I think sj spells it zombicorn. I randomly throw that extra e in there. That’s the way I roll.)

A zombiecorn, by the way, can either be a zombie that is a unicorn or a unicorn that is a zombie. It’s totally up to you.

Anyway, I was in charge of the third-place prize. Originally, I was going to draw a zombiecorn, but I realized about a week into that plan I can’t draw worth a shit. I can draw trees. That is all I can draw. Obviously, a zombiecorn is not a tree.

However, once upon a time, I was playing with collage work. Once upon a LONG time ago. And I wasn’t terrible at it. So if I couldn’t draw a zombiecorn, I could maybe collage one.

So I went to the weird Christian craft store and I got a plethora of paper.



Oh, you know you want a closeup.

Ooh, aah!

Ooh, aah!

Then I had to sketch out a unicorn. As mentioned: I can’t draw. So I hit the interwebs and found this site where they teach you how to draw a unicorn.

I don't know why it's half-gray, ignore that.

I don’t know why it’s half-gray, ignore that.

Read that text at the top. “You must get it PERFECT in order to get a unicorn!” Well, that’s scary as shit.

I did my level best.

(My unicorn was fatter. He’s a chubbicorn. But I was super-impressed with his most prestigious mane, and I think it’s the best part of the sketch. Maybe I could get a job sketching manes for a living.)

Then I started to put paper on the unicorn in various combinations based on the outline.

At first, I wanted to do a lot of different colors. But I didn’t like how this looked once I did it. (But I DID like the shiny rainbowy horn.) Luckily, I hadn’t glued anything down yet.

My second attempt was MUCH more pleasing.

All I kept, as you can see, is the horn, mouth, and eyebrow. I had this pretty pearly paper. It seemed more unicorny. Also I decided to use all the different colors in his mane. He’s kind of a punk unicorn. He’ll be a zombie later. (That sparkly paper is the bomb, yo. I got a whole lot of that stuff.)

This is him done, without any flair. He has skulls for hooves. And he’s pretty badass, no? But wait til he gets his FLAIR. (He doesn’t like to talk about his flair.)

DONE! He has ALL the flair now. Bloody flayed places. Blood coming out of his mouth. A skull tattoo on his…um…I don’t know, what’s a horse’s hip. His flank? Rhinestones all up in his business. And he’s FLYING THROUGH THE AIR, YO! I know that’s a pegasus thing but you don’t know what zombiecorns can do.

And here it is framed and hanging on my wall that looks like a barn wall. No, I don’t know why I have a wall that looks like a barn wall, either.

You totally know you want to win this and have it in your very own house, right? RIGHT. It looks scary, but it would totally protect you from all sorts of bad juju. It wants to belong to you. Also, I signed it so it’ll be worth a billion dollars when I’m murdered by the clown in my closet.

And, in news of sometimes my life surprises me with the awesomeness, I might have the opportunity to do one of these things for someone for a larger audience for…gulp…money. Yes. This is a thing that randomly happened to me the other day. I KNOW. I’m not going to talk much about that until it’s done, because a., it’s not my thing, as much as it is the person who’s paying me’s thing, and b., that reeks of chicken-counting to me, you know? But I’m fairly sure if I got paid for doing art, it would make me an artist. And when I told Dad tha, he laughed and said “YOU WILL HAVE A  GALLERY SHOW OF YOUR VERY OWN!” Hee! Yep. Of zombiecorns and ghost dogs and possibly robot wildebeests.

OK, I could ramble more, but I’m sleepy, yo, and I should get some sleepy-time in. I have a long post in draft-mode that I’m hoping like hell to have up for you tomorrow if all goes well. Have happy Thursdays, all. Write some zombiecorn fiction, and who knows, you could be the proud owner of your own protective badass zombiecorn. I think you could even name him Larry if you wanted, but I’d ask him what he thinks about that first. He might be more of a Raoul. And if you DON’T win, well, I might be well on my way to being a fancy artist now, maybe I could make you one. You never know what might happen. My life is filled with utter adventure at every turn, really.

One day the black will swallow the red

There is only one thing I fear in life, my friend… One day the black will swallow the red.

I see a lot of plays. I get paid for it now, for one thing. But I don’t just see plays I get paid for. I’m more than a little addicted. I see as many as I feasibly can. We’ve discussed this, at length; as a child, I always dreamed of living the kind of life where I could go to the theater whenever I wanted. I am lucky enough to live that kind of life now, and I honor that wide-eyed teenager every time I buy my ticket (or am blessed enough to get a reviewer’s comp) and sit in a seat in a darkened theater and let the actors spin their web around me.

They’re not always good. That’s the thing about any art form, really; some will be very, very good, some will be so, so terrible, and some will be just middle-of-the-road. This can be because of any number of things: the actors, the direction, the set, the costumes, the writing. It’s also sometimes because of the baggage you bring to the table, which is something that’s often overlooked; the play could be wonderful, but you might hate it because one of the characters reminds you too much of your abusive ex or your unstable mother-in-law or the set is just too reminiscient of the unhappy home you grew up in. It’s very seldom that everything comes together perfectly. It’s (and I know this is going to surprise you, since, as the Irish say, my bladder is close to my eyes) seldom I cry in the theater; all of these elements coming together perfectly doesn’t happen very often, and in order for me to cry IN FRONT OF PEOPLE (a thing I don’t often do, as weepy as I am – my crying is almost always a very personal and very private affair) the stars really have to align.

Today I saw a play that made all the stars line up perfectly. Better than that: it made me think. It’s still making me think, hours later.

I’ll be the first to admit I’m not a huge art person. I mean, I love art. I respect art, and appreciate art, and love going to see art. But I couldn’t tell you what makes good art, not really. Or how it makes me feel.

What really impresses me, more so than the art itself, are artists. The creativity behind making a work of art. The thought process. The type of mind that can come up with something like that. And the demons that live in a mind like that. I lump all artists into this category, by the way, not just traditional sculptors and painters. Writers, musicians, actors, dancers, anyone who creates something new that wasn’t there before. I believe that all artists have something in common, whether or not it’s obvious; that creation holds a madness in it. Whether it holds it at bay or it brings it to the forefront depends on the artist. Anyone who is creative, especially one who is good at what they do, walks a fine line with the darkness in their mind.

Red is about Mark Rothko. I knew very little about Rothko going into the show. I knew he was a painter; I knew he was an impressionist. I knew his paintings were blocks of color, almost painful to look at in their intensity.

Other than that, very little. My artistic education was lacking. I’ll be the first to admit it. We didn’t discuss art in high school, and in college, as long as you were taking some sort of art classes, you were covered, and my art was the billions of theater classes I was taking.

I like that he doesn't look like a fancy artist. He kind of looks like an accountant.

I like that he doesn’t look like a fancy artist. He kind of looks like an accountant.

The Four Seasons restaurant in New York City had just been built in the late 50s by the beverage company Seagram and Sons. (I think of Seagrams now, I think of wine coolers. I don’t know that they’d be proud of that legacy; apparently they used to be the fanciest.) They commissioned Rothko to paint a mural for the restaurant for a lot of money. He worked on them for at least a year or two, then visited the restaurant and decided, for a reason that’s never been completely explained, his paintings couldn’t hang there. He called Seagram up, gave him what is thought to have been a monumental tongue-lashing (Rothko was a firebrand, you guys) and sent him back the money. In the play, which I assume was researched, the amount was $35,000. In the late 50s/early 60s. He RETURNED it. The paintings were done, but he didn’t want them hanging in that restaurant.

The play (which won a number of Tonys in 2010) is about the years he spent working on the mural. In order for him to have someone to talk to (because it would be extremely strange for him to talk to himself for 90 minutes) he hires a young artist as an assistant at the top of the show, and the two of them spar. It’s a complicated relationship; a little father/son, a little teacher/student, a little peer to peer, a little antagonistic.

Let’s get the little things out of the way first: the acting was stellar. The set design was amazing – it couldn’t have been more of an art studio without you actually being in an art studio. They painted on stage, with paint flying. The passion was so palpable. The direction was tight and crisp. I had nothing at all to complain about.

It was the writing, though. The writing. Oh, my. John Logan’s script – such a brilliant work of art in itself.

The play was about the relationship between the two men, but it was also about art. Art on a lot of levels. First, the relationship between the artist and his or her work, but also the relationship between the viewer and the art. How the viewer should come to the work; how the viewer should view the work. How the work should make the viewer feel. How much the artist should art-design the viewing process – the lighting, the venue.

Even closer to my heart, it was about the internal struggle. The quote at the top of the post is from the show; Rothko compared death to the black and life to the red. When the black came for him, life was over. Everything he did was to keep the black at bay. He talked about how artists have to kill their muses (his being the Cubists, killing them with Expressionism); but when the up-and-coming artists came along (Warhol, Lichtenstein) and began to “kill” their muses, (i.e. him) he was furious – at them, for daring to challenge him, at the audience, for what he considered the dumbing-down of art.

“‘Pretty.’ ‘Beautiful.’ ‘Nice.’ ‘Fine.’ That’s our life now! Everything’s ‘fine’. We put on the funny nose and glasses and slip on the banana peel and the TV makes everything happy and everyone’s laughing all the time, it’s all so goddamn funny, it’s our constitutional right to be amused all the time, isn’t it? We’re a smirking nation, living under the tyranny of ‘fine.’ How are you? Fine.. How was your day? Fine. How are you feeling? Fine. How did you like the painting? Fine. What some dinner? Fine… Well, let me tell you, everything is not fine!!
HOW ARE YOU?!… HOW WAS YOUR DAY?!… HOW ARE YOU FEELING? Conflicted. Nuanced. Troubled. Diseased. Doomed. I am not fine. We are not fine. We are anything but fine.”

The passion in this. The fight against anything middle-of-the-road. Always straining for whatever is ultimate. Keeping the black at bay. The overwhelming need to create something beautiful, something that will last. Yes. Yes, I found a lot to relate to in this play.

Rothko, ultimately, was not able to fight the black. In 1970, he was found dead, having not only slit his wrists, but having overdosed on pills as well. The black won. He ran out of red.

He made something lasting, though. 836 paintings. Can you even imagine a legacy like this?

I left the theater filled with so many emotions. Hope and loss and pride and a deep feeling of being understood, somehow, by someone I’d never known, by someone who’d died before I was even born, by someone tied to me by something as tangential as a shared love for the creation of beautiful things and a brain that runs at a different frequency than the people buzzing around us.

I had a good day. The red kept the black most definitely at bay.

Yours is a prudent, well-considered audacity!

I know. You’re all SOOOOO OVER the Olympics. And they’re done, at least for two more years. (That’s how that works, right? It’s every two years? It’ll be somewhere in the winter in two years, won’t it? I should probably look that up. Wait, don’t go anywhere. FINE, the interwebs tells me that in two years, the Winter Olympics will be held in Sochi, Russia. That’s a cute town name. It sounds like a stuffed animal or a delicious coffee beverage. I like that a lot.)

Dude! Sochi looks like Florida, how fun is that?

But I found this mention of something I totally found interesting in all the Olympic coverage, and I couldn’t not mention it. How could I not mention it? It covers all the things I love. Arts, weirdness, some sort of odd coverup, and SKULLDUGGERY. Well, also sports, but meh, I’ll pretend that’s not happening, you know how me + sports = a big fat who-cares.

Some of you might know this – you’re all pretty web-savvy, so you might have seen mention of this, here or here – but some of you might have missed this, in all of the Olympic lunacy. Were you aware that, for 36 years, there were arts events in the Olympics? Not sports – no one getting all sweaty and running all around and being better-faster-stronger – but ARTS events! It is totally true!

Gold medal in poetry reading in front of other people! Which is the most scary thing ever! ALL THE GOLD!

There were five categories – architecture, literature, music, painting, and sculpture. In each of those categories, there were various awards you could win. Like, in architecture, one of the awards was for town planning. And in literature, there were four sub-categories: mixed literature, dramatic works, epic works, and lyric and speculative works.

Is this not a totally cool thing? That we were giving Olympic medals to our artists?

Gold in art! Gold in architecture! Gold for all the artists!

Well, yes, sure, in theory, it totally was. But it was actually kind of weird, and poorly-planned, and not very well-thought-out or executed.

The creator of the International Olympic Committee, Pierre de Coubertin (you can tell by the name he was a good Italian boy, right? heh) decided that he’d like the Olympic Games to be more like the old-timey Olympic Games. Apparently, back in Greek times, they really were keen on their artists. (YAY GREEKS!) So he decided, let’s have some arts events. Let’s let our artists be showcased and let’s celebrate them, too.

ZOMG Pierre’s MOUSTACHE! That is ALL THE FACIAL HAIR! You could hang onto that while riding a motorcycle behind him like safety handlebars! Whoo!

What were the rules? Well, that’s where things are kind of hazy. There’s not a lot written about these events. What I’ve been able to find out is that you couldn’t be a professional “artist” – only amateurs were allowed to compete – but the participants were allowed to sell their submissions during the Olympics (I like to imagine a painter running along the sidelines of an event, all, “Paintings! Get your paintings here!”) The works of art had to be “directly inspired by the idea of sport.” Which is pretty broad, when you think about it. You could pretty much say anything was “inspired” by the idea of sport. I could write a poem about gardening and throw in something about how it’s like shotputting and wouldn’t that fit that broad description, really? I mean, I’m not saying it would be good, but it’d fit the description.

So the first year they did these events, the judges (they’re like the old-timey version of the American Idol judges, is my guess) were SO SO SO EXCITED that they had JUST THE PERFECT POEM that had been submitted. It was very exciting, full of things like “the radiant messenger of a past age” and “O, Sport! You are Honour!” and “yours is a prudent, well-considered audacity” (hee! I love that!) and “destroying unhealthy seed” (yeah, I don’t…I don’t know about that last one) and the judges were TOTALLY creaming their old-timey shorts over this poem. (Check this out: “He/who, with some shameful trick,/manages to deceive his fellow com-/petitors feels guilt to his very core/and lives in fear of the ignominious/epithet which shall forever be/attached to his name should his/trickery be discovered.” WHOA. This guy HATED trickery! So much! Hee!)

The authors were some super-fancy gents named Georges Hohrod and Martin Eschbach. So the judges were all, “bring us Georges and Martin! Let us PRESENT THEM WITH LAURELS!” Only…no one could find ol’ Georges and Martin. Where were they? Where were Georges and Martin?

Well, they didn’t exist. Why? Because someone else wrote the poem and made up the authors. Who made up the poem?

Our tricky French friend Pierre de Coubertin. He was worried no one would submit decent poetry for his first outing in Olympic artiness, so he wrote what he considered to be the PERFECT POEM.

All you can expect from this guy is trickery. I mean, look at that moustache. It’s not even the same color as his head-hair!

Guess what? They still gave him the gold medal that first year, even though he was a lying liar who lied. They actually awarded it to the imaginary names – the Martin/Georges combo – but everyone knew it was ol’ de Coubertin.

Pretty sneaky, sis!

There were a lot of problems with the arts competition. There were no rules about how many medals had to be given out, so there were a lot of years where there were just not enough good entries in the categories to award a gold, a silver, and a bronze. There didn’t seem to be a lot of interest in the categories among artists – you know how artists are, with their “You’re a SELLOUT, yo!” mentality. (And, yeah, it’s a fine line, the sellout thing. You gotta feed yourself, but you also want your fellow artists to respect you, and you want the public at large to respect you, and you want to be able to look yourself in the eye at the end of the day…so it’s tough, deciding what you can do and still be an “artist” and not a “douchebag,” I guess.)

The arts categories eventually got phased out for a variety of reasons – the events weren’t considered very professional, were getting too commercial, and, as mentioned above, the rules were kind of all over the place. (Also, the Germans tried to add a “film” category at one point and the committee was all “NO NO NO” which is just dumb.  A film category would have been a good addition. Why you naysaying the Germans, yo?) Apparently, there’s a concurrent Olympic art show that runs every two years with the summer Olympics now, which is a nod toward the Olympic art events.

So what’s weird about this? Well, how about how NO ONE TALKS ABOUT IT? I didn’t hear about it until this year. You’d think this would be something that’s a little more publicized. People love Olympic trivia (I don’t know why, they just do. I don’t. PEOPLE do. NORMAL people.) Even a search when I was writing this didn’t bring up a hell of a lot – the two articles I linked above, a couple others – this one from the New York Times, an article informing me that NPR had been holding a throwback poetry competition to celebrate the long-lost Olympic events. The articles even told me that the poems were never collected anywhere, and – and check this out from the Wikipedia article, how weird is this? “The IOC does not track medalists in Olympic art competitions in its database and thus the prize winners have been taken from the original Olympic reports.” What the hell? I’m sure there are excellent records of all the winners of Olympic events, going back to forever and ever, but not of these events? Are they embarrassed about them, or do they just not matter at all? I find this all quite bizarre.

I feel kind of bad for these artists. They submitted their stuff and they totally won Olympic gold (or silver or bronze) and they’ve totally been forgotten by history. That makes me sad. They were winners, same as the athletes. They deserve kudos, same as any other winner. (Even if they say things like “prudent, well-considered audacity.”)

So! When you are having happy Olympic memories and such, send a few thoughts out toward people like Urho Karhumäki, a Finnish (yay for Finland!) poet who won gold for a poem called “Avoveteen” (Andreas could tell you, but apparently, that means “Into free water”, which makes me smile – I like that there’s one word that means that), or Rudolf Binding, a German who wrote the (I’m sure FILLED with euphemism, because he’s from Ken’s country!) silver-medal-winning poem “Reitvorschrift für eine Geliebte.” What’s that mean? Well. I’m glad you asked. It means “Rider’s Instructions to his Lover.” (Also, UMLAUT YAY!) Who says poetry inspired by sport can’t be ALL THE SEXY?

This kind of riding? Perhaps. Or perhaps something EVEN MORE EUPHEMISTIC!

Yay for exciting history and poems filled with euphemism and giving awards to artists!

Miss Edith speaks out of turn. She’s a bad example and will have no cakes today.

Time for some weird, wild, and wonderful news from the world. There’s a LOT of weirdness going on around this big ol’ planet. First I found one article, then another, then ANOTHER, and well! How could I just let THAT pass? I could not. No no no.

I promised Ken I would not talk about The Goat Man of Utah because:

So keep an eye on Ken’s blog (which you should be doing anyway, because it is consistently awesome) because he has promised to talk to us about The Goat Man of Utah at some point, and listen, it is going to be the BEST. Because Ken is OF THE GOATS.

(I was totally going to surprise Ken with this but then I decided I couldn’t because that photo up there is CRACKING MY SHIT UP. S0 I totally just tweeted it to him. I probably shouldn’t be any sort of secret-keeper. I try REALLY HARD to keep secrets but sometimes I just get SO EFFING EXCITED about things. Ken says that instead of telling all of YOU I should be telling KLOUT because I consistently forget to go over to Klout and give him sarcastic +Ks about his goaty influence. So the minute he told me to do that, I went to Klout and not ONLY gave him +Ks in goats, I gave him a whole NEW topic, because Klout is super-weird about things? And the topic was “Hey, Pa! There’s a goat on the roof! [Game].” What does it MEAN? This is a GAME? It seems like it might be a pretty easy game to win. Like, if there’s a goat on the roof, and you see it, you’re the winner, right? WINNER! Oh, shit. I just looked this game up and it’s a REAL THING. From the 60s! A Parker Brothers game! Where the goal was to get your goat to the roof!


Oh, man, 60s. You were not only filled with psychedelic drugs and love children, you were filled with WHIMSICAL BOARD GAMES.)

OK, let’s see. Today in news of the weird (both from MERKA and also China!) we have a cat burglar of PORN, another burglar (this one of MAN-MEAT), VAMPIRES VAMPIRES VAMPIRES!, and how sorely sex education seems to be needed in China.

Let’s see. We’ll start with the porn-burglar.

So, in Oregon, a man was breaking into houses. He wasn’t stealing anything! No no no. He was breaking in to do something much more important: to watch porn in other people’s homes.

SO much more fun in other’s homes. While they’re sleeping about a foot away. Right? Right? Wait, NOT right? Ugh, I AM CONFUSED ABOUT THE RULES.

He had internet at home. And apparently also porn. But it was just SUPER-EXCITING to break into someone else’s home and…um…pleasure himself on someone ELSE’S computer.

He got caught because a kid woke up in the middle of the night and was all, “Dad? What? No? WHAT ARE YOU WATCHING? WHY ARE YOUR PANTS OFF?” Yep, he was jackin’ it in a room with a kid sleeping in it. Winner!

Then they matched his…um…fingernail clippings? Yeah, let’s go with that…to fingernail clippings found in two OTHER houses and realized he was the Salami Smuggler. I don’t love that. Someone help me think of a good moniker for this guy. I mean, other than Pervy Pete. That one’s taken, obviously. I haven’t talked about him much lately, but don’t worry. Pervy Pete’s still here. You can’t get rid of Pervy Pete without a LOT of antibiotics.

So! In Oregon, apparently it’s a THING to break into people’s HOMES to watch porn on their computers. I like that there are three people in the world who can say “I never visited that site! THAT’S NOT MINE!” and NOT BE LIARS.

Next! Stolen organs – no, not kidneys, you thought it was kidneys, didn’t you? Not kidneys.


Well, just one penis. But I’m sure it meant a lot to the person who it was stolen from.

Mr. Fei Lin, a man in China, was sleeping like a baby one night when a group of unknown nefarious ne’er-do-wells broke into his home. They put a bag over his head, and in his highly agitated state, he was not aware of what was happening. They left, and he took the bag off his head. And realized: DUDE MY PENIS IS GONE. Only, he was in China, so he thought it in Chinese, obviously. I bet screaming sounds the same in Chinese and English. It’s like the universal language. Like LOVE.

Apparently, Mr. Lin was a local lothario, and had ALL THE SEX with ALL THE LADIES. The spurned lovahhhhhs of the ladies that Lin took out a’steppin’ are suspected of being the gang of penis-removers. No one can prove it, though, and NO ONE CAN FIND THE PENIS DUN DUN DUNNNNN. Aw, Mr. Lin. I’d tell you to keep it in your pants, but you’d have to find it first, now wouldn’t you? I’m sorry. That was super-mean and he was the victim of a horrible crime, even if he was kind of a dog. I couldn’t help myself IT WAS TOO GOOD. I’m not a saint, here, people.

Give us the monster! Or…the guy that’s been boning our lay-deez!

So! Porn porn porn housebreaking porn, and STOLEN PENIS!, and now – VAMPIRES!

You know how we’re all freaked out about the zombies? I think probably that’s a good way for the vampires to sneak in, when no one’s even thinking of them, and then TAKE OVER.

In Massachusetts, a random lady was at a playground. She had something in her hand. “What’s that in your hand?” the local kiddos asked her. (Ew, no, this isn’t going in a weird gross place like that, don’t worry.) She was all, “it is a baby bat! Want to hold it?” and most of the kids were like, “Um, STRANGER DANGER! STRANGER DANGER!” but not one little girly, who was like, “I want to hold the cute baby bat!” and the lady was like, “YES YES” and then the girl held the bat and the bat bit her, well, DUH, and the girl’s mom brought the girl and the bat to the hospital and SURPRISE, that bat had RABIES.

Sure, they LOOK cute, until they INFECT YOU WITH RABIES. Or maybe vampirism.

No one can find the bat-lady.

That’s because she’s a VAMPIRE, of course. Getting her pet bats to bite people and give them the rabies. Or the vampirism. No, of COURSE the article isn’t saying vampirism. The article isn’t just going to SAY something like that. I do like this quote from the article: “The woman told the children she had a degree in bat biology, according to the Daily Mail. She has not yet been identified.” Does that NOT sound like something that a VAMPIRE would say? “A degree in bat biology.” Strangely specific! Oddly stilted! YES YES YES!

Am I the only one who imagined the person hanging out in the playground to look a lot like this?

Do you like daisies? I plant them, but they always die. Everything I put in the ground withers and dies.

So sure they cured that girl of her “rabies.” SURE THEY DID. Listen, I watch a lot of True Blood and Vampire Diaries and Buffy and Angel and such. I know about the vampires. I know. There’s no cure for vampirism. Well, staking. Staking cures vampirism. Do you think they staked that girl?

Finally: China! Where they are quite confused by what’s real and what’s a sexual enhancement aid!

Twice recently (once last month, once this month) China’s made some sort of weird huge snafu concerning a sex toy. It’s kind of concerning. I feel like maybe they need to take a class.

First: last month, when digging for a well, these villagers found this thing. And they were all, what is this thing? We do not know. We will call the news! So they called the news, and the news sent over this very young, very sweet reporter, who did a HUGE report on what she THOUGHT was a magical, mystical, underground mushroom, that had only been rumored, and there was a legend it granted immortality.

Then people started watching the program and were all, “Um…lady? That’s a sex toy.”

(That link’s all in Chinese, but there are subtitles. And also not the most safe for work. But as I’m unemployed, what the hell do I care? There’s a mushroom/sex toy in it, is all I’m saying. It just made me laugh because EVERYONE TOUCHES THAT THING. And who knows where it’s been? Also, side note, who threw their sex toy down a well? Hee! I AM DONE WITH YOU NOW, FLESHLIGHT! DOWN THE WELL WITH YOU! I WISH YOU INTO THE CORNFIELD!)

You’re a bad sex toy! A very bad sex toy!

It’s like the people who used to look at Georgia O’Keefe’s artwork and say, “vaginas? What? No. THOSE ARE FLOWERS.”

What a pretty flower! What do you MEAN it’s not a flower? OF COURSE IT IS DUH.

Then, just a few days ago, 18 cops in China worked together to save a drowning woman for over an hour. A huge crowd gathered. Everyone was very worried about this poor lady. Would she be ok? An hour in the water, that was a long time! And they finally got her out! A huge sigh of relief went up throughout the crowd!

And it was a sex doll all along.

The sex doll doesn’t seem to have taken well to the watersports. Heh.

The cops “presented it to the anxious crowd, who quickly covered their children’s eyes and walked away.” Hee! NO NO JOHNNY DON’T LOOK. A drowned lady, that would have been ok, but a DIRTY DIRTY SEX DOLL! That’s not ok.

So I see this problem having two prongs, so to speak:

A. People in China need to be more educated about what sex toys and aids look like, and how to recognize them versus either the real thing or a magical mystical legendary dual-headed mushroom;


B. People in China need to learn to dispose of their used sexual toys and aids in a less public and more sanitary manner. In the garbage? OK. In a well or in a river? NOT OK CHINA.

So! What have we learned today, ladies and gentlemen and everyone else that might or might not be skulking here and there reading my blog or just hanging out here for the photos of wet sex dolls? Don’t break into homes to jack it; don’t sleep with the lady-friends of angry men in your town; don’t handle wild animals, even if Drusilla from Buffy tells you it’s ok; and don’t throw your sex toys away all willy-nilly. THINK OF THE CHILDREN. Also cops and small-town villagers and innocent-looking news reporters.

Dammit, now I want something with mushrooms in it. Yum, mushrooms.

Oh, want. WANT.

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