Monday, February 27, 2006

How You Eating Viewing Your Bacon?

I've been relatively bacon-free lately. I mean, other than for breakfast or lunch. No special bacons shipped illegally from Germany, no Hungarian bacons from the weird 3rd world market down the street...

So I thought I'd just post some Francis Bacon art here today. Is it a coincidence that my favorite artist is named the same as my favorite food? Or that he would paint Popes screaming with meat hanging all around him? Probably not. God planned it that way I think.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006


It's nice to know that despite the fact that it was other Iraqis - other Muslims - who blew up their thousand year old shrine, that didn't discourage anger directed at the REAL evildoers:

"Protesters in Najaf, Kut and Baghdad's Shiite slum of Sadr City also marched through the streets by the hundreds and thousands, many shouting anti-American and anti-Israeli slogans and burning those nations' flags."

Me - I blame the fucking Danes.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Daily fantasy art

Monday, February 20, 2006

Can't... stop... photoshopping Cheney's head...

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

James Brolin Doesn't Stand a Chance

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Greedo Never Stood a Chance

The Most Dangerous Game, a short story (Cheney Remix)

Remixed by Lucky Doubles Roller, who cannot post it due to snow in NYC.

The dining room to which Whittington conducted him was in many ways remarkable. There was a medieval magnificence about it; it suggested a baronial hall of feudal times with its oaken panels, its high ceiling, its vast refectory tables where twoscore men could sit down to eat. About the hall were mounted heads of many animals--lions, tigers, elephants, moose, bears; larger or more perfect specimens Whittington had never seen. At the great table the Vice President was sitting, alone.

"You'll have a cocktail, Mr. Whittington," he suggested. The cocktail was surpassingly good; and, Whittington noted, the table apointments were of the finest--the linen, the crystal, the silver, the china.

They were eating Wyoming beef, the rich, red meat so dear to patrician palates. Half apologetically Cheney said, "We do our best to preserve the amenities of civilization here. Please forgive any lapses. We are well off the beaten track, you know. Do you think the champagne has suffered from its long flight on my Gulfstream?"

"Not in the least," declared Whittington. He was finding the Vice President a most thoughtful and affable host, a true Republican. But there was one small trait of Cheney's that made Whittington uncomfortable. Whenever he looked up from his plate he found the general studying him, appraising him narrowly.

"Perhaps," said Cheney, "you were surprised that I recognized your name. You see, I read all books on hunting published in English, French, and Russian. I have but one passion in my life, Mr. Whittington, and it is the hunt."

"You have some wonderful heads here," said Whittington as he ate a particularly well-cooked filet mignon. " That Cape buffalo is the largest I ever saw."

"Oh, that fellow. Yes, he was a monster."

"Did he charge you?"

"Hurled me against a tree," said Cheney. "Fractured my skull. But I got the brute."

"I've always thought," said Whittington, "that the Cape buffalo is the most dangerous of all big game."

For a moment Cheney did not reply; he was smiling his curious thin-lipped smile. Then he said slowly, "No. You are wrong, sir. The Cape buffalo is not the most dangerous big game." He sipped his wine. "Here in this Texas preserve," he said in the same slow tone, "I hunt more dangerous game."

Whittington expressed his surprise. "Is there big game in this preserve?"

Cheney nodded. "The biggest."


"Oh, it isn't here naturally, of course. I have to stock the preserve."

"What have you imported, Mr. Vice President?" Whittington asked. "Tigers?"

Cheney smiled. "No," he said. "Hunting tigers ceased to interest me some years ago. I exhausted their possibilities, you see. No thrill left in tigers, no real danger. I live for danger, Mr. Whittington."

Cheney took from his pocket a gold cigarette case and offered his guest a long black cigarette with a silver tip; it was perfumed and gave off a smell like incense.

"We will have some capital hunting, you and I," said Cheney. "I shall be most glad to have your society."

"But what game--" began Whittington.

"I'll tell you," said Cheney. "You will be amused, I know. I think I may say, in all modesty, that I have done a rare thing. I have invented a new sensation. May I pour you another glass of port?"

"Thank you, Mr. Vice President."

Cheney filled both glasses, and said, "God makes some men poets. Some He makes kings, some beggars. Me He made a hunter. My hand was made for the trigger, my father said. He was a very rich man with a quarter of a million acres in Wyoming, and he was an ardent sportsman. When I was only five years old he gave me a little gun, specially made by Colt for me, to shoot
sparrows with. When I shot some of his prize turkeys with it, he did not punish me; he complimented me on my marksmanship. I killed my first bear in the Rocky Mountains when I was ten. My whole life has been one prolonged hunt. I avoided the army--it was expected of noblemen's sons--as my real interest was always the hunt. I have hunted every kind of game in every land. It would be impossible for me to tell you how many animals I have

Cheney puffed at his cigarette.

"After the debacle with Enron I left the state, for it was imprudent for a Vice President stay there. Many noble republicans lost everything. I, luckily, had invested heavily in securities and oil industry service contracts, so I shall never have to open a tearoom in Monte Carlo or drive a taxi in Paris. Naturally, I continued to hunt--grizzliest in the Rockies, crocodiles in the Ganges, rhinoceroses in East Africa. It was in Africa that the Cape buffalo hit me and laid me up for six months. As soon as I recovered I started for the Amazon to hunt jaguars, for I had heard they were unusually cunning. They weren't." The VP sighed. "They were no match at all for a hunter with his wits about him, and a high-powered rifle. I was bitterly disappointed. I was lying in my tent with a splitting headache one night when a terrible thought pushed its way into my mind. Hunting was beginning to bore me! And hunting, remember, had been my life. I have heard that in Japan businessmen often go to pieces when they give up the business that has been their life."

"Yes, that's so," said Whittington.

Cheney smiled. "I had no wish to go to pieces," he said. "I must do something. Now, mine is an analytical mind, Mr. Whittington. Doubtless that is why I enjoy the problems of the chase."

"No doubt, Dick."

"So," continued Cheney, "I asked myself why the hunt no longer fascinated me. You are much younger than I am, Mr. Whittington, and have not hunted as much, but you perhaps can guess the answer."

"What was it?"

"Simply this: hunting had ceased to be what you call `a sporting proposition.' It had become too easy. I always got my quarry. Always. There is no greater bore than perfection."

Cheney lit a fresh cigarette.

"No animal had a chance with me any more. That is no boast; it is a mathematical certainty. The animal had nothing but his legs and his instinct. Instinct is no match for reason. When I thought of this it was a tragic moment for me, I can tell you."

Whittington leaned across the table, absorbed in what his host was saying.

"It came to me as an inspiration what I must do," Cheney went on.

"And that was?"

Cheney smiled the quiet smile of one who has faced an obstacle and surmounted it with success. "I had to invent a new animal to hunt," he said.

"A new animal? You're joking." "Not at all," said Cheney. "I never joke about hunting. I needed a new animal. I found one. So I bought this Texas preserve, built this house, and here I do my hunting. The preserve is perfect for my purposes--there are woods with a maze of traits in them, hills, swamps--"

"But the animal, Dick?"

"Oh," said Cheney, "it supplies me with the most exciting hunting in the world. No other hunting compares with it for an instant. Every day I hunt, and I never grow bored now, for I have a quarry with which I can match my wits."

Whittington's bewilderment showed in his face.

"I wanted the ideal animal to hunt," explained Cheney. "So I said, `What are the attributes of an ideal quarry?' And the answer was, of course, `It must have courage, cunning, and, above all, it must be able to reason."'

"But no animal can reason," objected Whittington.

"My dear fellow," said Cheney, "there is one that can."

"But you can't mean--" gasped Whittington.

"And why not?"

"I can't believe you are serious, Dick. This is a grisly joke."

"Why should I not be serious? I am speaking of hunting."

"Hunting? Great Guns, Mr. Vice President, what you speak of is murder."

Cheney laughed with entire good nature. He regarded Whittington quizzically. "I refuse to believe that so modern and civilized a lawyer as you seem to be harbors romantic ideas about the value of human life. Surely your experiences in the court room--"

"Did not make me condone cold-blooded murder," finished Whittington stiffly.

Laughter shook Cheney. "How extraordinarily droll you are!" he said. "One does not expect nowadays to find a man of the educated class, even in America, with such a naive, and, if I may say so, liberal point of view. It's like finding a snuffbox in a limousine. Ah, well, doubtless you had Puritan ancestors. I'll wager you'll forget your notions when you go hunting
with me. You've a genuine new thrill in store for you, Mr. Whittington."

Who Shot Nice Guy Eddie?

Nice Guy Eddie never stood a chance.

Monday, February 13, 2006

Thursday Funnies!

Saturday, February 11, 2006

Muhammad Cartoons four & five

You can almost hear Ted Knight bellowing in frustration, "MU-HAM-MAD!!!" I'm certain that somewhere in the Koran it talks about Muhammad's love for his fellow man. Also it surely talks about Muhammad's platonic friendship with the two hot sisters (oddly, one was Puerto Rican, one was Danish) in San Francisco who lived in a house with their father, and the wacky adventures and gay times they'd all have together.

This one just might anger some Muslims b/c T. Rex was into top hats, eye liner, big guitar riffs, and banging gongs, none of which are high on the list of koranic ten kommandements. But like Jesus and Muhammad, they all died at age 33, from choking on ham sandwiches. Except maybe Jesus, who ate his ham sandwich with no problem at the last supper, but then got messed up the very next day.

Thanks to Josh from the LBC for the cartoons.

Keep those Muhammad cartoons coming in! There's still a couple of Danish embassys still not burned to the ground!

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Hobos We Know

Debbie Hairy: This rambunctious fellow caused quite the stir this morning. At 9 a.m. it was 80 something degrees in the sun; Anaheim was on fire for the fourth day in a row and super-maximum prisons acorss southern california were in their fifth day of rioting ("Attica!").

But Debbie Hairy, a black man in his 40s, was keeping with the season: A warm winter coat the color of filth, and sporting a full black beard and rather unkempt black hair. On top of that he had a blond wig, and capping THAT off was a trucker cap crushed down on top of it all that in a previous life might have been red. The blond wig stuck out all over the place, as he delicately brushed aside a few strands of blond hair from his eyes...
In much the same way as fine hotels phone you in the morning so you don't miss an important business meeting or your flight on the Concorde back to Paris, Hollywood hobos have a similar service provided to them by some quasi-security guards with an embroidered badge on their green polo shirts that say "Tourist Relations." Between 8:30 and 9:30 in the morning they gently rouse the slumbering dreamers from their doorstoops - usually with a gentle kick. I watched a couple of these "Tourist Relations" officers this morning trying to rouse a man fast asleep in a cozy abandoned door-front between the Erotic Museum and Fredrick's of Hollywood. He had a full leg cast and a chichuahua sat next to him (already awake) while the two guards kept nudging him in the midsection with their boots. They were persistent, I'll give them that!

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

You and your flying metal bird can go fuck yourselves

The Sentinelese have recently been in the news for offing a couple of drunk Indian fishermen.

A lone Sentinelese tribesman aims his bow at an Indian coast guard helicopter

After learning more about their exploits (below) we have officially declared them to be the new mascots of Your Prayers Make the Real Gods Angry. Indeed, I'm sure that all your prayers make their gods extremely angry.

In the spring of 1974, North Sentinel was visited by a film crew that was shooting a documentary titled Man in Search of Man, along with a few anthropologists, some armed policemen, and a photographer for National Geographic. In the words of one of the scientists, their plan was to "win the natives' friendship by friendly gestures and plenty of gifts." As the team's motorized dinghy made its way through the reefs toward shore, some natives emerged from the woods. The anthropologists made friendly gestures. The Sentinelese responded with a hail of arrows. The dinghy proceeded to a landing-spot out of arrow range, where the policemen, dressed in padded armor, disembarked and laid gifts on the sand: a miniature plastic automobile, some coconuts, a tethered live pig, a child's doll, and some aluminum cookware. Then they returned to the dinghy and waited to observe the natives' reaction to the gifts. The natives' reaction was to fire more arrows, one of which hit the film director in the left thigh. The man who had shot the film director was observed laughing proudly and walking toward the shade of a tree, where he sat down. Other natives were observed spearing the pig and the doll and burying them in the sand. They did, however, take the cookware and the coconuts with evident delight.

As for the drunk Indians that got what they deserved this week:

The Indian coast guard tried to recover the bodies using a helicopter but was met by a hail of arrows. Photographs shot from the helicopter show the near-naked tribesmen rushing to fire. But the downdraught from its rotors exposed the two fishermen buried in shallow graves and not roasted and eaten, as local rumour suggested."

Nutrition Corner


B.L.T. sandwich


2 chocolate chip cookies covered in "fudge"
1/2 bottle of wine

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Our third Muhammad Cartoon

I'm proud to say that our latest Muhammad cartoon was drawn by none other than Mr. Fish, cartoonist for Harper's (and some West Coast liberal rag). Though we've stolen his cartoons in the past, this time we actually have permission. Clicking his picture takes you to his website where you'll get your fill of outrage, blasphemy and justifiable bile. (if you're a crazed Mulsim, this will be the first step in tracking him down him and stoning him like a 15 year-old-girl that's kissed a boy.)

The fact that it's based on the picture of a pirate makes it all the more fantastic.

Sunday, February 05, 2006

Insane Backgammon News

For months now, some PR company (don't visit their site - it'll put spyware on your computer) has been releasing bewildering backgammon press releases - stuff about backgammon Las Vegas shows, Backgammon being more popular than Christmas, etc. Here's the latest:

Backgammon Inspired Song Set To Top Charts

A song entitled ‘Let’s Rock and Roll Around the Backgammon Board’ will become an overnight pop sensation according to sources working in the music industry. The song written by 60’s singing icon, Buddy Wiener, is loosely based on the rise and fall of the singer’s own life. Buddy achieved moderate stardom in 1967 with a piece that he penned and sang entitled ‘Life Is A Free Game’. The song was a one-hit-wonder which took Buddy into a nose dive of depression until he was saved by his passion for backgammon.

“We expect the song to go straight in at number one,” commented Joe Laurence, VP of Marketing for “Buddy’s unique story is one that can be used as an example to us all. It can’t be easy living with the kind of fame that a hit record can bring, but never having another successful song can be downright disappointing. Buddy is living proof that backgammon is only a good thing and leads to a healthy way of life”.

“Just the fact that Buddy’s comeback can be attributed to the wonderments of the modern game of backgammon is utterly unbelievable. Never before has one man achieved so after returning from the brink of ruin”.

Buddy Wiener is currently in the Himalayas filming the video to accompany the song.

Of course he is. Where else could you possibly shoot a video about backgammon?

Friday, February 03, 2006

Our Second Muhammad cartoon

Since there seems to be a lot of misunderstanding of Islam and Mohammed in the West we decided to add a cartoon of him doing something that all americans could relate to: having a coffee at Starbucks. We don't want to westernize him too much though, so he is also playing backgammon and enjoying some hummus:

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Our own Muhammad cartoon

To take some of the pressure off the newspapers and the BBC who have reprinted a cartoon of Muhammad and infuriated the Muslim world, we thought perhaps we should put up our own pix of Muhammad.

It's funny what gets people upset. For me, it's people who park in the far right lane between 4 and 7 pm when it's supposed to be used to keep traffic moving. I also get annoyed at computers in movies that make all sorts of crazy noises that real computers never make. I mean come on, we've all been using computers for decades now, and not once when I enter in an incorrect password do I get a buzzing noise or a female voice that says, "Access denied."

Apparently for a billion Muslisms, nothing gets their goat (and they love goat) like depicting Muhammad in pictures. Pictures, music, dancing, all sorts of things ruffle their feathers. Luckily, they love backgammon and hummus, so I'm willing to forgive a lot.

I think if everyone out there draws their own little Muhammad cartoons we can solve this phobia of theirs. It's like someone who's scared of spiders. Put them in a coffin full of tarantulas and they'll be magically cured! Maybe. So: group project. Draw your picture of Muhammad, post it somehwere, and let us know. Then we'll put links up to all of your pictures. Once the Muslim world sees all this, they'll realize they're being silly, start thinking about taking a couple courses in accounting and biology down at the community college, and the whole world will be better.

And hey - dont worry about what he looks like. Since they are prohibited from depicting him (to prevent idolotry I think) no one is sure what he looks like! Odds are good though that he's got a beard.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

A Day at the Office for our New York Scientist Correspondant