Society6

March 18, 2014
By

Recently I started up a Society6 shop which sells prints, shirts, and other various objects with my artwork plastered on it. Of course you can still buy prints through this site, but at my Society6 store you can order them in various sizes, as well as framed prints and stretched canvas prints. The down side is that they’re not signed, as I’m not involved with the production. But if you’ve ever wanted to own a shirt with one of my silly little drawings on it, now you can. There are t-shirts, hoodies, and wife-beaters tank tops, all in a wide variety of colors and sizes.

The other day, I got an email about a contest Society6 is having to design a shirt for them. The winners will have their designs sold in their official store. I entered this picture that you see here on your left. Who knows if it’ll end up making the cut, but in the meantime, it’s available in my shop, along with lots of other prints and shirts to choose from.

New commission drawing: Greg Proops (with Kittens McTavish)

January 29, 2014
By

Greg Proops

I like doing commissions because a) money, and b) it forces me to get off my ass and draw something (aside from the daily portrait I inexplicably do literally every single god damned day). It had been a while since I’d gotten a commission request, presumably because of the economic downturn, the debt ceiling, Afghanistan, Chris Ghristie or whatever they’re talking about on the cable news this week. The economy is clearly recovering, though, as evidenced by Charlynn Schmiedt’s request for a portrait of comedian Greg Proops (with cat frenemy Kittens McTavish). See, Obamacare is working!

If you would like to purchase a personally signed print of this drawing, you may do so at the Sexy Print Kiosk. If you would like to request your own commissioned drawing, please visit the Commissions page. If you would like me to travel to your home and make you a burrito, I’m sure that could also be arranged, for the right price.

New drawing: Treats

December 31, 2013
By

Treats

I finished a new drawing over the holidays, first one of these I’ve done in a while. It’s based off a random picture I found on the internet. Hope to do more soon. If you’re into it, there are prints available at the Sexy Print Kiosk.

Roadkill can occasionally serve as a passable educational tool

December 4, 2013
By

The eagle has landed in a puddle of abstract thought, smack dab in the liver of Appalachia. New gears are bubbling up in its brain as the terrifying new concepts of things like “yesterday” and “lactose intolerance” are ricocheting like pinballs between them. The eagle has a headache.

The tractor-trailer that will soon put an end to this headache is, as all tractor-trailers are, under the control of a 46-year-old man named Dale. A carefully centered bumper sticker on the back of the trailer declares that God is the co-pilot, but the simple truth is that God hasn’t co-piloted a damn thing since He discovered Minecraft.

Dale sees the eagle. The tractor-trailer belches its heavy melody of warning, but the eagle doesn’t move.

Look away, Brian. Remember what I told you. Sit upright, with your arms relaxed and your fingers tense. Close your face and silently repeat the mantra, “I broke up the Beatles. I broke up the Beatles.” Pinch the diplomat’s daisies as he speeds away in his peppermint BMW.

The eagle is smeared across three square feet of sun-bleached asphalt. Dale has already moved on with his life. The LORD is fighting a skeleton.

Now, an autonomous blue hand/forearm has slid onto the scene. Its fingernails are charcoal and its veins are neon. It wields a spatula of the purest gold. “Buddy,” it says to the All-American Carcass, “I like your style.” And with one deft flip, it sends the eagle on one last flight. To sail effortlessly above the mighty Ozarks, leaving a vapor trail of glorious organs in his wake, is a dream no more! The denizens of neighboring realities quietly seethe in disbelief.

The eagle has landed on Jay-Z’s backyard grill, where it sizzles for precisely twenty seconds before being noticed. “O Fate! Why dost thou tempt me so?” the business, man shouts into the cylinder of Heaven. His vow of veganism crumbles like a colisseum of Parmesan as he swallows the expired fowl in one crooked gulp. The flattened neurons that had approximated enlightenment mere moments before are now rolling along Jay-Z’s papery tongue, forming a lattice of flavors that, in some corridors, might just be filed under U for umami.

Bèyønçë grimaces down in rage from her cedar cross. “You fool!” she bellows in an unearthly, gutteral growl, accompanied by the slick guitar stylings of house band leader Ricky Minor, “Now Surgat the Gatekeeper will never accept the offering of our firstborn!”

“Whatever,” retorts Jay-Z as his soul turns to gristle. “Eagle meat is the tits!”

*MORAL: Eagle Meat is the Tits

I have never attended and never will attend a cocktail party in Michael Jordan’s id

December 3, 2013
By

I don’t mean to get all clinical on you, but that barcode you call a mouth is starting to look infected. No, I’m not a doctor. I’m a specimen, and this puke-green corduroy suit is my petri dish. It’s not just me looking at you, it’s the billions of colonies of curiosity blooming behind my corneas. Right now you’re pretending to listen, but you’re staring through my brain at the man by the fireplace. The one with the Clark Gable hair and the Quaker Oats face, pantomiming like a morose carpetbagger. He has one of those names that looks like it might be another word spelled backwards. Those are hot right now, aren’t they? But he’s a wicked man. He’s a weatherman. He’s made of leather, man.

In the kitchen–don’t look–there’s a certain substratum of society that finds nothing wrong with leaving home dressed like a damn Venician gondola paddler… they stretch bad sunlight from their teeth like taffy and assume everyone is laffing. I’ll show you around later, once the wrinkles start to set in, but whatever you do, savor the chips and shun the dip. Metaphorically speaking, I think. Tell you what, though, you’ll never find a gondola in this mouth. Not this one. No ma’am.

WONDER WOMAN NEEDS TOILET PAPER

Come on, knock it off. That’s just crass. You know, I once fell into the shallow end of the Grand Canyon as a small child (long story), and right before the helicopter blades turned my larynx into Play-Doh, they kept on saying “Hang in there long enough, just about five minutes longer than seems reasonable, and you’ll get your own talk show.” We don’t bring it up anymore, not even via smoke signals from Stephen Dorff’s e-cigarette, those horrible things, always leading up to a rerun episode of tachycardia in front of the Vatican Whattaburger. We simply don’t bring it up, ya dig? Here, let me wipe that mustard from your pedipalps. You really need to learn to use chopsticks at these functions. I’m sick of making velvety little excuses for you.

I spilled my drink. I never had a drink. I never had legs, just these tired, grotesque flesh Slinkys that make nuns gag on their rosaries whenever they hear me coming. Can you keep a secret? I was never invited to this party. I am a virus. Mommy’s little spoiler. There are three more of me out on the lawn, and believe me, we do NOT have our stories straight. We smell like hydrogen peroxide smoothies… Teddy knows what I’m talking about. Sick of the Salvation Army breathing down our necks…Radios pouring their hot honey down our ears.,. Misinformed Senate staffers with manhole eyes chasing us down our own yellow brick roads…

Shit, I just spilled my drink. You fucking gondola paddler, I spilled it for real this time! I’ll spill you! I’ll spill all of you! How do you get out of this shit

ESC ESC ESC

Paul is dead, man

December 2, 2013
By

An emergency meeting in Santa Monica to whittle out a tactful way to continue raking in the big bucks from a movie franchise that glorifies the idiotic lifestyle that resulted in the incineration of its lead actor. How can we acknowledge the fragile, fleeting nature of our existence without bumming everyone out? Pray tell, how might we fist-bump Kirkegaard and chest-bump our cherished, backward-capped bro demographic simultaneously?

Linda! Bring me a Chai tea.

Perhaps we can digitally alter the cars so that they appear to be travelling at a marginally reduced rate of speed.

No! Terrible idea! Clean out your desk; you’re fired.

Seat belts?

No! Why are you still here?

“Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away. (No homo)”

Are you kidding me? People don’t go to the movies to read! You asshole!

Commission a heartfelt we-miss-U ballad by Limp Bizkit?

No!

Give the surviving cast members some sort of ribbon to wear?

No!

Make the hot bikini chicks cry?

No!

Turn signals?

NO!

Judge Reinhold?

No! Well, hmm… No!

Here’s your Chai tea, sir.

No!

Damn it, this meeting is going nowhere. And, Christ, it’s almost nap time! To hell with it, let’s consult the Oracle!

THE ORACLE!

Oh Mighty Oracle! We humbly come before you in this hour of great inconvenience and awkwardness, and beg you to bestow upon us your soothing wisdom. How can we move on from this terrible tragedy?

Uhhhhhh…

Yes? What do you say, Mighty Oracle?

Uhhhhhhhhhh… Rrrr…

Raisins? Ravioli? Ryan Reynolds? What is it you’re trying to tell us?

Rrrrrr… Rrrrreeeeee…

Reba McIntyre? Isn’t she a little too–

Rrrreeee… Reeeeboot…

REBOOT! Of course! That’s perfect! It’ll be like what’s-his-face never even existed! What was that guy’s name, anyway? Ah, screw it. Linda! Have all existing copies of every movie in the series located and destroyed! I want a rough draft of the new script on my desk first thing after lunch! And get me Ryan Reynolds’ agent on the phone!

Oh, and Linda! Where the FUCK is my Chai tea?

A headache dream from the tailpipe of Lou Reed’s Honda scooter

October 28, 2013
By

Oh Heavenly Father, what can I do, what she’s done to me is making me crazy;
Oh Heavenly Father, I know I have sinned, but look where I’ve been, it’s making me lazy.

I went to bed even earlier last night, thinking about isolation tanks, floating one metre above the ground in Colorado, taking the first shaky steps on that infinite plank. I was shuffling my memories and anti-memories into a sloppy houndstooth pattern, and was almost happy with it when the phone rang. As I splashed back into myself, I knew it must be urgent since those rings shot right through the bricks of the fact that I don’t have a phone like they were wet toilet paper.

It was Rafael again. I could tell by the sheep. At least it sounded like sheep, although I sure as shit wasn’t about to ask. I waited. After what felt like three and a half minutes, the voice began to ooze into my ear like glue. I don’t remember the exact words, but the question was something to the effect of “What is your nucleus?”

A cat’s eye marble bouncing down a metal spiral staircase in the bowels of a cursed submarine. Periscope up, periscope down, doesn’t matter. The captain has just met Molly and is now reshuffling his priorities, taking out the Jacks but leaving in the Jokers.

Was that it? It was hard to tell in the dark. Maybe if that red beam would swing by this way again… A distant toilet flushed. No, a marble was too big. Maybe a pebble inside some half-hearted bodhisattva’s left Reebok Pump? Or a rare beardless Lincoln penny left on a train track, one second from derailing the 3:15 to Honolulu and killing the next Hitler and the previous Buddha?

No, it’s a piece of candy corn taped anachronistically to the hub of a wagon wheel rolling across a frozen pond in 1811. But at least it’s taped to something, right? There is a nearby pelican watching the scene, but it’s okay, it’s dead.

I tried to call Rafael back with a soup can, a conch shell, a stale croissant, a kick in the head, but nothing worked. I even tried the last clean pay phone in Red Square, but by the time I got the rubles out from my pocket someone had sneezed on it. Not that Rafael would answer in the first place. He’s got everyone convinced he’s Number 1. Even the sheep.

The ice was shattered by the neighborhood screamer, making her irregular rounds during the single-digit hours, hollering about death and cholesterol and Reagan. “Lou Reed’s dead,” I pondered, “Dylan’s next, but she’ll live to 110.” Whatever my nucleus turns out to be, next chance I get I’m going to throw it into the gears of this crappy mechanism.

Drink and Draw

October 21, 2013
By

Aldous HuxleyBarack ObamaWayne CoyneRoger WatersI was recently at my local art supply store to purchase some new pens with which to scribble pictures of people much more successful than myself, when the sales clerk mentioned that they were having some sort of “Drink and Draw” event coming up at the nearby sports bar, sponsored by Faber-Castell, the makers of the aforementioned pens that I ruin on a continual basis. Now, few word combinations provoke as unpleasant feeling in my intestines as “sports bar,” except maybe “Christian rock” or “Russell Brand.” I’m not one to frequently be found at a bar these days, as they tend to be loud, overpriced, and full of the types of obnoxious people I normally go to great lengths to avoid. Add sports fans to the equation and I’d pretty much rather eat a hand grenade. On the other hand, drinking and drawing both just happen to be activities that rank highly on my “Things Meathead Likes Doing” list (which I carry with me at all times). Plus, there was the promise of free stuff, the attainment of which you may notice is also on the list. And besides, what else am I going to do on a Sunday evening? Go to church? Watch a terribly overrated zombie soap opera?

My life-partner and I arrived at the… ugh… sports bar at 6:30ish and hurried past the obligatory shouting sports fans into a back room where there were two rows of tables and a great deal of pens and sketch pads. Some people were already started on their own drawings. We got some beer(s) and settled in at one of the tables near the back, and I got to work.

The pens they had were the same brand I normally use (Faber-Castell PITT artist pens), but whereas mine have a fine point, these had a much heavier brush-like tip. It took me a little while to get comfortable with them. But I was just there to relax, have a couple of drinks and do some doodling, so I had no ideas of creating anything that would end up hanging in the Louvre one day. And besides, they were giving the pens for free when they normally go for about three dollars each, so I wasn’t going to be a dick and start complaining.

The first sketch I made was of Aldous Huxley. For some reason I still had the picture saved on my iPod that I used as a reference for my shitty portrait of him a while back, so I figured what the hell, why not. And if it ended up sucking as much as the first one, it’s just Aldous Huxley, who cares. I think it turned out better this time, though, but it’s nothing special. My excuse is that I was sober.

Next I decided to draw our Nazi Socialist Arab Muslim Atheist Fascist Kenyan Antichrist president, B. Hussein Obamacare. By this point the 11% ABV beer I was consuming was starting to work its magic on my brain. One of the guys running the event gave me a blue acrylic paint marker while I was doing this one, so I tested it out by coloring the president’s suit. It’s a pretty cool marker, although I’m not totally sure how much use I’ll have for it. But the important thing is that I didn’t pay for it. This is probably my favorite of the night’s drawings.

Moving on, I selected Wayne Coyne of The Flaming Lips as my next victim. Despite his propensity for getting the most annoying fucking people to guest on his albums, I do enjoy me some Lips. I don’t know that I’ll ever be good at drawing hair, but it didn’t help that I was using a weird marker in a weird room and that his hair is all over the fucking map. Anyway, I’m not all that thrilled about how this one turned out, but hey, fuck you.

I had a pretty solid buzz so I figured I’d bang out one more before going home and going to bed like a big pussy. Naturally, I went with Pink Floyd bassist/asshole/inflatable pig enthusiast Roger Waters. I guess this one isn’t too bad. Again with the crazy hair, seriously, what is it with you rock stars and your hair. My excuse is that I was drunk.

Possibly the oddest moment of the night was when some dude came over and handed me a drawing he made of me drawing. To be fair, I am pretty weird looking, so I guess I make for an okay subject. Or it could be because my lack of hair makes me easier to draw. I don’t know. It’s pretty cool, regardless.

There are still a lot of blank pages in my free sketchbook, so maybe I’ll use my free pens to do some more speed sketches in my free time. Beer.

Cerebral garage sale

October 18, 2013
By

Sucking on a Jolly Rancher at Andrew Jackson’s funeral, Betty let her itchy thoughts gallop freely along a glassy beach in Scotland. No one has the right, they whispered, to push you into eating a power lunch with your enemies in the courtyard. To clothesline you with a slick double-entendre while you’re picking spinach out of your eye.

Some jerk with an obnoxious straw hat was making up a story about catching toads with Ol’ Hickory at some bullshit fork in the river. A baby two rows back clapped for no discernible reason. Why was there a baby in here, anyway? All those hot, throbbing senators trying to shove their way through the iron gates, and that little fucker had the audacity to act like he runs this joint. Betty swung her head around like a battle axe, getting a good, juicy look at Little Fucker.

(LET IT BE KNOWN that this particular Little Fucker is a direct ancestor of one Ron “Fudgy” Fucker, Tom Petty superfan and, of course, the inventor of PowerPoint. But let’s not dwell on that.)

“I once squeezed Andy so tight, processed cheese spread oozed from his ears,” lied the man in the straw hat as the lectern burned from his acidic crocodile tears. “He had the mustang spirit, we all could feel it!”

Betty glared at Little Fucker. “Where are your parents?” she demanded. “You’re clearly here unsupervised, clapping away like you’re never going to die.”

Little Fucker’s face was a delicate, fleshy mirror ball, reflecting and refracting the faces of its impatient beholders into ragged fractals of chartreuse, burgundy and a previously unimagined, nauseating hue best described as “morange.” His mother had tried to dog-ear her own page in the Great Suede Codex of Memory, but the man of the house, ever the i- and j-dotter, insisted on flattening it out again before turning the iron on himself. Ergo, Little Fucker was unspoken for.

Mr. Straw Hat, with the assistance of the mayor and a sick-looking Great Dane, was now emptying a large cauldron of hot caramel into Andrew Jackson’s coffin. Water, sodium, potassium, all that junk. The inner juices of human beings.

Betty was falling out of it. This horrible reminder of her formative years was some sour milk. Plus, he smoked cigars. Never trust a baby that smokes cigars, she once read stenciled on the side of a boxcar.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but if you’d please face the front. Our guests paid good money to enjoy this experience, so you could at least feign interest.”

Betty snapped her eyes away from Little Fucker and instantly knew she’d never see him again. Her Jolly Rancher turned to lead as three harelipped boys began meandering up the aisle, morosely handing out commemorative fondue forks.

“Thank you, young lady. Nice hat, by the way.”

“I’m not wearing a hat.”

The boxcar, unbeknownst to her, contained Betty’s spirit squid. If she had dared open that door, if that tourist family hadn’t wandered by… But it was too late by now, for sure. That boxcar and many others just like it were sunk deep within a nebulous ocean of diet ginger ale in a Supreme Court justice’s beefy late-afternoon daydream.

There were no forks in the rivers of caramel that day, as they oozed into the hearts and souls of the famished mourners. Mouths like refrigerators. These people paid good money, and they certainly didn’t deserve the caboose, did they? But it was coming. Nobody ever remembers to get the caboose, and this particular one had been in orbit around the holy moment for quite some time. It sparked and skidded in a shrinking spiral around the century, tied to a psychedelic kite string tighter than cat guts.

Some idiot was trying to rap in Latin but kept fucking up the conjugation. Three one-armed lesbian Nazi nuns were fighting over a turkey leg. Nobody noticed the introduction of the aroma of rancid seaweed that had begun to boomerang lethargically about the chapel. Nobody noticed when the east wall shattered and the shrieking ass-end of a train knocked the corpse of the $20 Man into the ozone. No apparent pain when the tidal wave of teeth wiped out the sinners and the buffet carts. No apparent joy when Little Fucker hotwired Betty’s horse and took off for the city.

No apparent reason for even writing this. I wasn’t there. Nobody “invented” PowerPoint; it was grown in a petri dish in Brazil. I want to apologize to everyone who came out here tonight. Especially you, Betty. You deserved better.

A game show

October 15, 2013
By

Behind Curtain #1 is an overeager werewolf with a potato peeler. Behind Curtain #2 is a greasy lever that, when pulled with the appropriate degree of attitude and finesse, will bring the Japanese economy to its knees. Behind Curtain #3 is a large Tupperware container containing two VIP passes to a hypothetical Daft Punk concert and 77 jealous scorpions.

Your hand is on the wheel, but your mind is scraping the bottom of the Everglades. The nondescript studio audience is becoming increasingly peppered with wagging alligator tongues. Your fake Scandinavian relatives were supposed to be here to cheer you on… where are they? Probably getting arrested at IHOP again. Typical.

Game Show Host Garry gently prods you on the shoulder with his skinny microphone as if to say, “Spin that wheel before I spin your wheel.” You turn to look upon him, his press-on hair, spray-on smile, blue lips. His demeanor implies that he wants you to go home with fabulou$ ca$h & prize$, but his eyes clearly betray the reality that he’s been mentally hate-fucking you for the past twenty minutes while Pat Sajak watches.

Shriveled remnants of that awful theme song are wrapping their tails around your hippocampus.

The Wheel of Despair / A lake of hot wax / A cheerleader’s leg / Ping-pong heart attacks

“Spin the fuckin’ wheel already,” hisses the shovel-faced model leaning on the glittered scoreboard. You’re not sure if her antlers are real or a hallucination, but now’s probably not the best time to ask. Oh! Over there, by the emergency exit! It’s Pseudo Uncle Svënk! At least someone showed up to offer support. Using your free arm, you wave. Using your free mouth, you smile. Your false uncle’s jaw falls off. Typical.

A few gentle proddings and a nearly fatal kidney laceration later, your attention returns to the wheel at hand. “Let’s get this boat on the road,” you scream to yourself, “For Toby (?)”

The big wheel spins, at last! The audience moans in collective ecstasy as a torrent of clicks and misperceived numbers rushes overhead, soaking the first eighty rows with Fibonacci’s urine. 100,,, 2000… 50… PAIN… 10000… 50…

GET 0

ERROR

Game Show Host Garry scratches his wrinkled proboscis

ERROR

Contestant #2 is named Cecil, Contestant #1 is named… Cecil…

The wheel abruptly stops on a red diamond, and the audience responds as any audience would. Game Show Host Garry slithers up to the diamond and, after a melodramatic pause, yanks it off the wheel to reveal:

ERROR

Game Show Host Garry spreads his wings. “Paaaack your bags!” he shrieks. “You’ve just won an all-expenses-paid trip to Lansing, Michigan! You’ll spend an entire weekend locked in a warehouse with Saved by the Bell‘s very own Dustin Diamond, snorting incomprehensible amounts of Ritalin and listening to Radiohead! You’ll beg for God’s mercy but He won’t hear you, because you’re in Michigan!

Verbalizes understanding: Y

Translator needed: N

-Insert peripheral line-

Tell them to stop. TELL THEM TO STOP!

Heart rate: 160 beats/min

Pain level (0-10):

FUCK KICK IT DO SOMETHING COME ON

Garry needs a sample. Give Garry a sample.

FUCK YOU

O2 sat (%): 88

Pulse: 14

Skin turgor: Loose

Don’t fight it. You know, you two used to be so close. You sat together in church. You breakdanced to Verdi together. You got drunk and yelled insults at the Aurora Borealis together. You were, as they say on The Food Network, “tight.” What happened? Come on, take a deep breath. Relax. There you go. Now, why don’t you give the wheel one more spin. Go on, it’s okay. We’ll just pretend the first one didn’t happen.

Ha! Ha! Just fuckin’ with ya. Be at the airport in one hour or we’ll murder your family.

Love,
CBS