The author is presented in ghoulish white space, standing beside or even leaning against the text illustrating the title of his book. It is unclear if other beings exist inside his ivory prison, or if he is entirely alone, perpetually arranging his garishly colored block letters for want of else to do.
I Hate Mondays...
This was actually a very delicious beverage. I speak in the past tense because I believe it no longer exists. It stained many carpets. I witnessed several scenes in which a child either drinking one or witnessing another child drinking one would use it as an excuse to engage with them violently. The iconography is confusing. I will give it credit for being part of the better part of pop and chips marketing, it embraces the innate stupidity and meaninglessness of its product, rather than attempting to call attention away from it.
Still… The “Punch Man” is wearing a red crown of thorns. (?). It is intentionally highlighted that he possesses no sex organs. This is a common and disturbing tendency in mascots. It is suggested that they have been castrated so that they can dedicate themselves solely to worshipping their cultural product. Sex, for them, is an impermissible act.
Surf's up brah!
Wheel of Fortune:
Something about Pat Sajak’s goblinesque face has always haunted me. The spinning wheel is too evocative of existential sterility. The island-themed backdrops, issue in the viewer; visions of a solitary death.
A fabulous vacation to sunny Barbados!
One of those peculiar things in life which absolutely no one seems to like, but which will always maintain its asinine quality because no one cares enough to change it. One can picture the operators of Marineland up in their ivory tower of naivety, perverse beings raised up in the atmosphere of the amusement park, where emotions express themselves at all levels of the grotesque.
I almost believe that certain ad campaigns seek to win over the public through their very innocuousness, sear themselves into the memory with painful image and sound. The latest ad I have seen presents a song with the chorus:
“Everyone scream as loud as you can: Everyone loves Marineland!”
A horrifying prospect indeed.
Are you ready for swimsuit season?
Chris, the cheerful and painfully endearing, somewhat overweight cohost to the statuesque Stephen, was shown in a segment where he visits a personal trainer for the first time. Normally of an unflappable geniality and wit, Chris in tight-fitting gym clothes, relatively revealing in their blackness is palpably cloaked in terror. He achieves mediocre results in a series of physical tests. He did pushups for a total of forty-four seconds (the temporal measurement surprised me), he did twenty-one sit ups (falling short of his goal of twenty-five).
A series of instruments were applied to the fatty parts of his body. From what I could tell, the results were ambiguous. It was painful to watch Chris attempting to execute his typically rapier self-deprecatory humor while he was out of breath, red in the face, in emotional and physical duress. At the very time he most required this defensive mechanism, it was beyond the scope of his resources.
His weight is two hundred and six pounds. He is in the red emergency-zone for several major health threats.They are on the stage attempting to laugh away a decidely morbid conclusion. A talk-show host is standing in front of an audience and revealing in concrete terms that he could quite possibly die at any moment, perhaps in front of their very eyes. Two actual quotes:
While sitting in discussion with his elfin personal trainer:
“I smoke. I drink. I don’t exercise, I’m forty two. What don’t I do wrong?”
While cruelly being forced to perform jumping jacks on stage:
“Oh my God! I can see myself in the monitor! I look like Homer Simpson!”
A computer informs Chris that though he is only forty-two his body is representative of the natural state for a sixty-two year old. He begins to weep softly. Eventually he embraces his fate and regains his composure.
Worship me
Hello everyone, I’m really sorry but I started a blog. It will have no theme or objective other than to shock and appall and bring you to the bad sort of tears. I wish I could promise you a frank discussion about my emotions but I haven’t really had any since 911. I will update it at a regularity that will likely prove intolerable.
Always wear sunscreen
