I’m writing this because I’m afraid of little pink and yellow flowers.
Okay, I’m not afraid, exactly, it’s just that I don’t feel like messing with them, despite the fact that these little pink and yellow flowers are located on Carla Gugino’s bra.
Here’s the thing.
The other day I found this great picture of the lovely and talented Ms. Gugino which I felt it was incumbent upon me to try to render in my own particular artistic style, with the eventual goal being to get a print of my artistic endeavor which I could hang on my bedroom wall.
(Insert obvious comment about it being the only way to get Carla Gugino into my bedroom here)
As you’ve no doubt deducted, her bra is clearly visible in the image.
After many, many wrist cramp-inducing (from drawing, you pervs) hours, I’m very nearly finished with the picture…with the notable exception of the little pink and yellow flowers adorning her pretty (and, one hopes for her sake, structurally sound) bra.
There aren’t a lot of them, and they shouldn’t be too terribly complicated to reproduce, but it will be rather monotonous work, and thus I’m avoiding it.
So yes, I’m running away from little pink and yellow flowers.
Ideally I will work up the nerve to face them down sometime tonight and get the picture finished, but for now I’m busy avoiding them.
Earlier today, when I heard the dog letting loose its mournful wail full of sorrow and loneliness for its departed owner, I began projecting evil thoughts in its direction.
I don’t know if it will work, but I’ve basically resorted to engaging in psychic warfare with it,
Mostly I’ve been sending “Tokyo Rose” style transmissions designed to undermine its already tenuous psychological state.
For example, while it was whining, I was thinking, “You know that no one feels bad for you, right? Everybody hates you and wants you to shut up. Even your owner hates you. Why do you think she (I’ve determined it’s a woman – or a cross-dresser – living upstairs based on the sound of heels on the floor) leaves you alone every day? She can’t stand being around you. Bark all you want; she’s never going to love you. She’s hoping that one of these days she’ll come home and find you dead. Why do you think she ignores you when she gets home and you’re running around like an idiot because you’re so happy to see her?”
Okay, I know that sounds more than a little crazy (the dog isn’t the only one around here with a tenuous psychological state), but at least all I’m doing is thinking mean things at the dog, and no, I don’t really think that the dog can hear or understand my thoughts.
And it’s worth noting that I’m doing the transmitting and not the receiving.
All I want is for the damn thing to shut up and not get so excited when its owner gets home at night. That doesn’t seem like so much to ask, but there’s really no one that I can ask. The only real consolation I have in this – besides thinking anti-dog propaganda at it – is the hope that when it’s running around in circles because it’s so excited that the owner is home that it’s also excitedly pissing all over the floor and making the owner’s life that much more miserable.
On the topic of people in weird Son of Sam-esque relationships with things that can’t actually talk to you or understand you, am I the only one who finds the Volkswagen “My Fast” commercials disturbing?
I mean, obviously the “Fast” is evil; just look at it and listen to its voice and the sound that accompanies its voice. If this “Fast” can make people drive in the pouring rain and keep the windows open all the time, how much of a stretch is it to think that it will start telling people to go out and murder hooker sand make steering wheel covers out of their skin?
“Sometimes My Fast my tells me to cut myself and that pain is the only way that I can stop the other voices. My Fast tells me that women are whores who were put on this world to help me ascend to godhood through their sacrifice. My Fast tells me that the girls who called me names and questioned my manhood in high school will pay and that having a fast car really does make up for having a tiny dick.”
Beyond the creepy aspect, though, all of the guys who have a “Fast” seem to be inconsiderate jerks. Also, why haven’t we seen a woman with a “Fast” of her own?
“Oh, you say you can’t hear the engine with all the yakkin’? Well, My Fast says you can forget about ever getting a blow job, assmunch.”
One of the commercials should end with “Sometimes My Fast keeps me from getting laid.”
(As an aside, why does that guy in that other car commercial – can’t remember the company – see himself driving around in his date’s car with her as the passenger? It’s her damn car!)
I think the whole “Un-Pimp my Ride” thing is much funnier and more effective than these demonic “Son of My Fast” commercials. (Can I get a vhat vhat?)
Earlier today – don’t ask me why – I was thinking about the comic book character Patsy Walker.
Patsy began her four-color existence in a romance comic as a teen who was one of many girls vying for the affections of a guy named Buzz. The comics, published by Marvel, were like a cross between Archie comics and The Patty Duke Show.
Though I have a masochistic streak that leads me to read old scans of comics like “Career Girl Romances,” I haven’t read very many of Patsy’s earliest misadventures of the heart; what I know about them is just part of my general knowledge of comics-related trivia.
In any case, somewhere along the line (in the 70s, I think) the people at Marvel decided to rescue Patsy from her sappy and sophomoric life in the romance comics and plop her down in the mainstream super-hero titles, having her become the costumed crimefighter known as Hellcat.
To make things a little more randomly bizarre and create a self-referential meta-reality it was revealed that Patsy’s earlier non-heroic adventures had actually taken place in a comic book published inside the Marvel Universe! These comics were actually created by Patsy’s mom, who drew her inspiration from the various trials and travails of her teen-aged daughters life.
Patsy’s life would continue to be bizarre. She had eventually won the heart of Buzz and the two had gotten married, but things didn’t work out and the marriage soon ended. Patsy found true love in the form of The Son of Satan (I kid you not).
For his part, Buzz never got over Patsy and underwent an experimental procedure to grant him superhuman powers. Taking on the name Mad Dog he crashed Patsy’s wedding in the hopes that she would forego becoming The Daughter-in-Law of Satan and return to him. Unfortunately, as we all know, cats and dogs are natural enemies, and so Buzz faded into the obscurity of C-List super-villainy.
The point of all this? There isn’t one, really. I just always thought the whole meta-reality aspect of Patsy’s comic book existence was kind of odd and worth mentioning.
In any case, I suppose I’ve put this off long enough and that it’s time for me to get back to work on Carla Gugino’s bra.
I wish I could be saying that in a different context…
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