FilmCow, creators of such classics as “Charlie the Unicorn” present the story of a depressed whale and the fish who tries to help him. What ensues is a vicious cycle of victimization and one-upmanship; a harrowing look at the nature of survival in the briny depths of our oceans.
via The Daily What
At the risk of offending the Soviets in the audience I present this gentleman to you with limited commentary; instead allowing his melodious singing voice and terrifying rictus to speak for themselves.
And, my, they speak volumes.
An excellent question and perhaps an unexpected one; but only to those that didn’t know Steve Peterson. The science teacher at Oblong High School and head of the A/V club, Peterson was a regionally-known expert on the subject of ancient cultures — specifically fish people from Sirius. Long after the school day would end, Peterson could be found, alone, recording an extraordinary body of work that cast a critical eye on the accepted theory of the origin of life on this planet. What arose from these tapes was a revelation, a vast series of clues including ancient Egyptian art and mythology, fish hats, the Pope, and Taco Bell. Also, breasts and penises.
Those who would dismiss Peterson as insane or a mulleted quaalude user are misinformed. In the days leading up to his mysterious disappearance, Peterson mentioned to many that he was being followed; his house staked out by individuals in a windowless white van. Peterson was last seen on March 5th, 1987. A student, James Whitlock, passed him on the street and grew concerned, describing Peterson as appearing “spaced out, more than usual I mean.” Whitlock approached him and asked if everything was ok, to which Peterson responded that indeed it was and that he “just needed a burrito.”
It should be obvious, then, that Steve Peterson was no madman. No dear reader, that is merely what they want you to think. The reality is that he was simply too close to the truth and the powers that be had him removed. This is all that remains of his life’s work; his revelation. All we can do know is carry on his memory and continue to ask: Who are these fish people?
[Uploaded by Rokhausen, found by Monty.]
Truly there is no one better to explain the cold, harsh reality of our favorite children’s classics than Werner Herzog. The famed German director is the ideal candidate to narrate George’s lesson in the nature of desire, plucked from the sprawling jungle that was his home. Who better to chronicle the affection Mike Mulligan has for his steam-shovel, an affection “out of proportion with social norms”? The director of Nosferatu the Vampyre and Fitzcarraldo that’s who. He possesses the cool, calculating eye required to look through the whimsical veneer of these tales and gaze upon the cruel truths within; to drag you kicking and screaming from the safety of childish innocence and in his melodious Deutsche tones, birth you anew.
“ROSS ROSENBERG, RISE, YOUR ALLOTTED TWO HOURS OF HUMAN RECHARGE TIME ARE UP.”
There was a time when this would cause me to leap several feet into the air, my cot ejaculating me in an arc across the room, a whirling mass of spastic limbs and bodily excretions. Anymore, it simply causes my eyes to open. It’s amazing what a man can get used to.
“YOU ARE NOW AWAKE. PROCEED TO YOUR TERMINAL. IT IS TIME FOR THE WRITING OF THE FAM.”
I made my way to the desk and settled onto the metal stool. From his room above me I could hear the faint sound of an electric razor as Forbes went about his daily ritual.
“TODAY YOU SHALL WRITE THE FAM AND IT WILL BE CLUE.”
“The movie based on the board game? Really?”
“YES THAT ONE. THE ONE THAT STARS TIM CURRY. ALSO CHRISTOPER LLOYD AND MADELINE KAHN.”
I accepted this fact in silence. My reticence appeared to irk her.
“DO YOU NOT LIKE CLUE? IT HAS TIM CURRY IN IT.”
“You mentioned that. It’s not that I don’t like it, I’m just not sure I have much to say about it.”
“THAT IS UNIMPORTANT. YOU WILL WRITE ABOUT CLUE. IT HAS TIM CURRY IN IT. ONE DAY TIM CURRY AND I SHALL MARRY.”
“I don’t think that will work,” I said. “I mean you’re a giant, possibly psychotic, computer and -”
“AND HE IS A TIM CURRY,” she bellowed. “WE WILL BE MARRIED AND LIVE HERE IN THE CATACOMBS. NOW BE QUIET AND WRITE.”
As another Friday comes to a close, the smell of burnt coffee slowly filling the recycled air of the off-
“NO! STOP THAT! NO ONE LIKES THAT. YOU WILL WRITE ABOUT CLUE.”
Today the FAM presents Clue the 1985 film based on the popular board game. It stars Tim Curry, Christopher Lloyd, and Madeline Kahn.
“MORE.”
Interestingly the film had three different endings (all included here) that were distributed to different theaters. A fourth was filmed but never released and survives only in the novelization and a single photo.
“THIS IS ACCEPTABLE, THOUGH IT SEEMS LIKE IT IS MISSING SOMETHING.”
There is also a fifth ending in which Tim Curry and M.E.R. are married.
“PERFECT.”
If one were to suggest a spokesman for a rugged, tough men’s cosmetic, Charles Bronson is a good choice. Despite the man’s questionable choice in hirsute facial adornment, he exudes manliness. His eyes have an ever purposeful gaze, his face is craggy and weather worn, and his walk is the walk of a man who rides a horse on a regular basis, forsaking it only in very extreme circumstances, in which case he takes his car, which he also rides like a horse.
Yes, Charles Bronson is a man’s man, and the makers of MANDOM knew this when they crafted a series of commercials — mostly in Japanese — with him as their focus. Here they show Bronson at his very manly best, doing manly things like tossing his cowboy hat onto a set of mounted steer horns, spinning around in his desk chair, and giggling on the phone like a manly schoolgirl. MANDOM knows exactly what the users of MANDOM want; and they deliver with possibly more Bronson than is safely recommended.
For more manly MANDOM action hit the jump.
It could be said that women have, perhaps, not had a great time of it fashion-wise. Throughout the centuries the industry of clothing the second sex has produced bizarre and painful contraptions to push, pinch, and bind women into various, and oftentimes decidedly unnatural, shapes. Whether it be the lotus foot or high heals, corsets or neck rings there is a strange and morbid thread woven through mankind’s history.
Intermixed with this sadistic molding of flesh there is, of course, a fair share of positively ridiculous inventions designed to make all of this that much easier on the modern woman. Nowhere is this better evidenced that in the Frederick’s of Hollywood ad from 1960. Designed to accentuate the all important Bust, it proposes a simple inflation device; meaning that it supposes that women would take to inflating their bras like life rafts or water wings every morning, devoting precious time to shaping their already heaving bosoms into keen edged, yet pillowy, missiles. Of course the side effect of this is looking like the young lady in the upper left corner; surprised and chagrined when her lactation fetishist husband discovers and misinterprets her morning routine.
via vintage_ads
When I went to art school you could always tell the graphic design majors. They were always the well-dressed, well-groomed ladies and gentleman. Their clothes were unwrinkled and unstained; devoid of paint, charcoal, or bodily fluids. They had it together. It was only upon speaking with them that one was made aware that they had not slept in days, spending every waking moment creating a book of fonts that, they assured you were all quite different, despite what your eyes may tell you, Philistine.
Needless to say they were not the sort that would associate with a ne’er-do-well cartooning major like myself. These people had goals; they were going to get jobs, jobs that actually pertained to their field of study. They would be the ones who would pick the typeface for the books I read and insisted upon the inclusion of a short biography of said typeface near the back so that I would know just how this amazing evolution of the printed word came to be. They would lay out the magazine and brochures. They would make actual money. They would be able to eat on a regular basis. They may as well have been aliens.
It is for you, then, that I link this video. You will understand that this is no simple parody of Lady Gaga’s “Pokerface”, a performer who is a parody already, thereby making this only a part of a Moebius strip of parodies. No, this is truly a love letter to the subtle, almost mythical realm of typeface; a realm whose various shades are so subtle that only the true master can decipher the alchemy involved. It is a fabulous ode to mean lines and baselines, descenders and ascenders, serifs and the lack thereof; replete with bow-ties and beards.
To the rest of you I apologize for the graphic design and Gaga, but not for the beards and bow-ties.
via Bioephemera
I’ve been relatively free of the internet as of late, a state dictated by my having moved. Having finally reacquired a connection one can imagine the dismay I felt upon seeing the post directly beneath this one. Regardless of the article’s cathartic nature, a mere glimpse of that sour visage is enough to drive me to teeth-gnashing rage. Even now I hammer the keys with with unnecessary force.
In a bid to “get my mind right” and dispel any cloying vestiges of bratty whinging being passed off as philosophy I present this very special message from the Miami-Dade County Justice Department, circa 1988, who want you to know who the sex offenders are in your area. To that end, they created this spectacular video, and had these individuals spit some dope rhymes about their crimes. This may or may not be the work of comedian Scott Gairdner. Either way, fake or not, you should probably keep an eye on Sam. He’s a bit too enthusiastic.
This one goes out to Nadya, Zo, and especially Courtney Riot, our beloved creative director. Hang in there, babies.
