August 20, 2013

Smurfs in a meat grinder. Blue meat for a black dog. Little guy just wants to be your friend. Big guy just wants to destroy the little guy.

“You’ll get your chance, ol’ Shep.”

wag wag wag wag

It’s a beautiful day at the park. No airplanes, no pennies from heaven, Canadian quarters from purgatory. Parking meters swaying gently in the apple-scented breeze. Your chihuahua crapped on my blanket. Cirrus clouds like smudged angel fingerprints

Excuse me, I said your chihuahua crapped on my blanket. My great-great-great grandnephew made this blanket in the trenches during some bullshit war, and I’ll be damned if

Bullshit kitchen on a bullshit Sunday morning, bullshit housewife opens a can of bullshit expensive dog food, close-up of her bullshit manicure as she slowly pours the bullshit brown chunky sludge into a bullshit crystal dish with otherworldly symmetry, places said dish centered squarely on a bullshit oval velvet mat embossed with PRINCESS in Papyrus font, gently but firmly taps the edge of said bullshit dish with a bullshit sterling silver dessert fork, sending a sharp ping in the key of D rippling through the pristine bullshit gated community. -beat- Sliding glass door shatters, toenails skittering hysterically over linoleum, bark bark bark slobber bark, pit bull (Princess) charges into the kitchen, knocks over the dish, close-up of ruby red eyes as he lunges at the housewife’s porcelain neck, which comes apart like so much cotton candy, you-know-what spraying and splattering here, there and everywhere in between, drips from the kids, happy home happy home


Please don’t bother me while I’m meditating.


The path from the Big Bang to the turd on your blanket is curved like a sweet boomerang tearing through the baleen of a crying whale. Sarah McLachlan sits in a faux leather wingback chair, laughing maniacally as she dissolves into an envelope of cheap cigar smoke. A paper speedboat zigzags across a lake of violent chemicals, events are set in motion for a tsunami of black sludge to arrive uninvited at Martha’s Vineyard at 4:16 p.m., just in time for


No, it’s just a photocopy. Its name is Goby and I’m about to throw it away, or make it into a hat and then throw it away, I haven’t decided yet. I found it

wag wag wag wag

I can make it happy

but I’m definitely going to throw it away


stupid dog

Friday brain drain

August 16, 2013

Cause and effect on Casual Friday. Another warm mojito for the stubby little man doing roundhouse kicks in the hallway at the old folks’ home. Selected ambient waffles drift in and out of dusty speech balloons until a suicidal quarterback intercepts the conversation, jaw unhinged and legs deflated. It’s all detailed in paragraph 9C of an awful book that was never written by a hypothetical grumpy Scotsman whose parents both died before they were born.

“How many clowns are there?” Laura clutched the sad little grapefruit spoon in her sweaty, trembling fist. The black and white police cruiser continued to throb in her peripheral vision.

“Oh, sweetie, you know it doesn’t matter now. Finish your breakfast.”

Feel free to wear jeans today. Feel free to think loose thoughts. Feel free to tug at the silver thread and see what tumbles down. No Hawaiian shirts. No whistling, humming or beatboxing Leonard Cohen tunes without the proper documentation in triplicate. No gargling the sands of time while you’re calling for service. But jeans are fine. Take small steps. Clean your desk.

Kicking back on eBay for a bit. Found Ronald McDonald’s small intestine crammed into a Mason jar. COA and everything so it’s on the up and up. Placed a bid. Blacked out. Came to behind the fire station and the sky was blotchy and wine-colored. Some stoned Congressmen were throwing fun size candy bars at my floppy body in a rare display of orgasmic bipartisanship, giggling like schoolgirls. Sirens in the distance harmonized like a barbershop quartet from the Horsehead Nebula.

“How many clowns are there?”

A lonely pink rubber bullet sailed dreamily past Laura’s face, leaving a trail of soft thoughts in its wake. Forged memories of poached unicorns and single-serve apricot jelly. The agents danced in formation outside the diner as the paranoid jukebox spilled its useless secrets.

Someone put a Black Sabbath tape in a wet Teddy Ruxpin and melted 1988 into an unrecognizable lump of charred time. If it weren’t for the stench, it would make a great paperweight for your neurotic uncle. Give it a week and then go choke on some Ritalin, you shiny little fuck.

No torn jeans, acid wash jeans, skinny jeans, baggy jeans, mom jeans, dad jeans, billie jeans. No thinking. Be like everyone else with your bullshit jeans. It’s Friii-iii-iiiday! Be a barnacle on my mind.

They don’t want me around the fire station anymore. They say I’m a “distraction” and “not a fireman.” I could be a dalmatian if someone would just ask. A dalmatian that hates everything it sees. Peeing in the corner, on your leftover lasagna. It’s like that. It’ll be Monday again before you know it, and my isotopes will be ready to go.

The waitress with the face full of fire brought the check on a little wooden tray with a wilted lemon wedge and a dull blue pencil. “How many goddamn clowns?”

“As many as it takes.”

Bullet #2 was cornflower blue. Bullet #3 was emerald green. After the third prime number they stopped being rubber, and nobody noticed. The clowns waved from the horizon and jumped off.



August 9, 2013

I never understood the appeal of counting sheep as a means of letting one’s self get sucked into the vortex of Dreamland. I prefer to just let my mind wander aimlessly around the parking lot until the shuttle bus shows up. Last night I imagined the word AWAKE spelled out in enormous, hollow letters made of thick plexiglass suspended above a deep canyon. The letters were all connected, and filled with a thick, glowing green liquid. An aperture opened up at the bottom of the middle letter A, and the green stuff began to leak out in steady drips. Each drop fell down through the canyon where, at the bottom, was an infinite train of mining carts moving at just the right pace so that each cart would catch one drop, filling it. The procession of carts rolled steadily through the darkness along the canyon floor, the green glow from their strange liquid cargo casting an eerie light on the steep walls of the narrowing passageway. Eventually, after a long series of twists and turns, the path led into a huge central area, where a colossal mechanical replica of the head of John De Lancie (better known as “Q” from Star Trek) awaited. The track fed straight into his mouth, which hung open like that of a ventriloquist’s dummy. Some of the green fluid was trickling from his nose. The “eyes” were three spinning windows in a disgusting slot machine. Each mining cart spun the wheels (GOOD LUCK!): three cherries meant nothing, three gold bars meant nothing, three 7s meant nothing… the only jackpot was three crescent moons.

Mitt Romney watches the live coverage in his double-wide trailer. He’s wearing a greasy bathrobe and sitting uncomfortably in a ratty old La-Z-Boy recliner that won’t recline. He has a week’s beard stubble, bags under his eyes, and the most immaculate hair known to man. He crushes the empty Miller High Life can and tosses it aside, then reaches inside his robe and scratches his rotten genitals, smells his fingers, begins to softly weep.

[and now a brief word from our friendly corporate sponsor]

A beautiful pond in a beautiful park on a beautiful day. A dead swan floats sweetly by. Bubbles begin to form on the surface of the pond, and a scuba diver soon emerges. He removes his mask, revealing a horribly decayed visage.

DIVER: Hi, I’m Dave Brubeck. If I were still amongst the living, by golly, you know I’d eat new coconut Doritos like they’re going out of style! Which they are! Buy, buy, buy! Consume, consume, consume! Welp, back to Hell I go! glug glug glug glug…

[we now return to Meathead Tries To Get Some Sleep.]



7 – 7 – BAR


BAR – BAR – 7





MOON – MOON then again, I guess I can see how some folks might prefer to go the sheep route.

Punch Batman

August 1, 2013

I am right-handed. If I were to punch Batman in the stomach, I would use my right hand. I would do this in the basement of the church where my old Boy Scout troop used to hold meetings (both the Scoutmaster and Assistant Scoutmaster are currently dead). The sound of my right fist ineffectively striking the Batman would reverberate pathetically off the bare walls, over to the unisex restrooms. In my left hand would probably be a half-eaten fruit of some kind, let’s say a Bosc pear. A brown Bosc pear. Under ideal circumstances, I would be holding the brown Bosc pear firmly in my right hand, but as my right hand is currently preoccupied with more pressing matters (punching Batman), I am forced to utilize my auxiliary appendage for the business of grasping the brown Bosc pear. Understand?

Immediately after my clenched right hand impacts the Batman, a hot, foamy wave of regret washes over me (hypothetically). In light of this, I would pray for the LORD to intervene, only to receive a MindFax(R) informing me that this particular church is of a false religion, and while the nearest available true church is only three-quarters of a mile away, it is presently being bulldozed to make way for a new sports bar with a sexually suggestive name (TBD).

It wasn’t the George Clooney Batman, or the Val Kilmer Batman, or the Bela Lugosi Batman, or the Ella Fitzgerald Batman. It doesn’t matter, forget it.

If the universe is expanding like a star-spangled party balloon, what will it sound like when the fabric of space stretches too thin and the balloon pops? Or what if it’s one of those long balloons, and God-o the Almighty Clown is just waiting for the correct length before twisting the balloon into the vague shape of a giraffe? Will it squeak like a normal balloon? What is a “normal” balloon, anyway? Who sets the universal standard for balloon normalcy? Wayne Coyne? He’d make for a disastrous Batman (no offense) (the truth hurts) (so does my right hand) (hypothetically).

There was a vending machine in that basement, but really, who gives a fuck? Go outside, close the door. Be your own Batman.

Entire Twin Peaks print series is now available!

July 25, 2013


After an idiotic amount of procrastination on my part, my Twin Peaks portrait series is finally finished. And as with any of the other drawings here on my beautiful web-site, you can purchase prints of them from the Sexy Print Kiosk to cover up all the holes in your walls! And as a special incentive to BUY THE WHOLE SET, I’ve included the option to BUY THE WHOLE SET as a group and save 50% off the individual price. You know, for any interested parties who might want to BUY THE WHOLE SET. Come on, at least buy the Log Lady. She’s lonely.

Pink, hairless

July 22, 2013

A couple of privileged white people had a baby, and Dennis Farina died. The LORD giveth and the LORD taketh away.

If you’re literally dying to see what the Royal Baby looks like, you should probably go to the emergency room right away. If you’re only figuratively dying to see what the Royal Baby looks like, just look at a baby. Mystery solved. (If you happen to have a silver spoon handy, insert it into the baby’s mouth for an even more accurate representation. Then wash the spoon thoroughly or throw it away because babies are disgusting and full of bacteria.)

Dennis Farina was super cool. I’m fairly certain the word “fuck” was invented just so it could be said by him. The film Get Shorty, starring John Travolta when he was still riding on the Pulp Fiction wave and had yet to squander it all on Battlefield Earth, has some pretty good performances by reliable non-Travoltas like Gene Hackman, Delroy Lindo and Danny DeVito, but Dennis Farina steals the show. My favorite line of his is when he’s in a cab after arriving in L.A. (where he absolutely hates to be), and says to the driver, “I hear the fuckin’ smog’s the fuckin’ reason you have such beautiful fuckin’ sunsets.” So, yeah, sucks that he’s dead now.

Nice of David Koechner to retweet my lovely portrait of him on Twitter. It’s cool to occasionally get a little ratings boost from somebody who’s somebody. It launches my daily website traffic into the stratospheric double-digits for a day or two, like a defibrillator shock before it flatlines again for another few months.

Now that I’m all done with the Twin Peaks project, I’m trying to decide what to waste my time on next. Maybe an impressionist oil painting of Geraldo’s left nipple? Or perhaps I will open up a taco stand with a C health rating

You can say that I’ve grown bitter

July 17, 2013

I arrived at work this morning to the terrific news that the servers or jumper cables or whatever dumb computer bullshit things are not working, which basically means I am unable to perform the tasks I get paid an embarrassingly small amount of money to do. While some people might rejoice at this, as it allows them to fuck off just as much as usual but with impunity, I actually prefer to, you know, “work,” since being occupied with something tends to make the clock move faster. Plus, I guess there’s also something to be said for that vague feeling of satisfaction that I’m earning those peanuts every week. As it stands, it looks like I’ll be sitting here like a useless pile of turds for an indefinite period of time, which will feel like a geological era.

Like anyone with an essentially functioning cerebral cortex, I thought the George Zimmerman verdict was pure, unadulterated horse shit. But I was also not even remotely surprised by it. Any time you’ve got something that’s as closely watched as that, there’s going to be a big upset. Take American Idol, for instance. I don’t watch the show myself (no, seriously, I don’t), but I know enough about it to know the popular favorite never wins. Everybody knows who Adam Lambert is, unfortunately, but does anyone even remember that he didn’t win, much less anything about the guy who did win? If the popular vote were the deciding factor, nobody would be talking about it the next day. Bush v. Gore, anyone? Everybody hated Zimmerman, Casey Anthony, O.J., the cops who beat up Rodney King. People who were so blatantly guilty it’s ridiculous. Going against the seemingly obvious outcome, and the ensuing blowback, generates headlines and boosts ratings. It’s all fake, it’s all rigged, everything’s determined months in advance by Rupert Murdoch.

I think I’m gradually turning into Leonard Cohen, only not as sexy.

It never ceases to amaze me what people will pay money to see. There are literally millions of individuals on this doomed planet who have willingly parted with their money in exchange for the privilege of sitting in a darkened room and watching Adam Sandler and his buddies make fart jokes for an hour and a half. I assume these are the same troglodytes who stormed Wal-Mart when the word broke out that they’d be selling Twinkies a few days early. I don’t mean to sound like a movie snob. I’m not above watching shitty movies, but I am above paying to see them. I’ll look at the train wreck but I’m not going to compensate the conductor for it. I’m not going to help reward mediocrity and creative laziness.

America! I am a pile of useless turds in America and I am bored out of my damn mind. Send reinforcements.

Masa morality

July 16, 2013

There’s this really boring cafeteria-like restaurant near my place of employment, always full of the boring businesspeople who work downtown. On one of the windows is written in neon pink marker: “Taco Wednesdays, 99¢ each.” This makes me angry. Not the price, which I suppose is quite reasonable, but the day. Who in their right mind designates Wednesday as their taco day? There is only one day for taco specials, and that day is, say it with me: TUESDAY. Taco Tuesday. Not Taco Saturday, Taco Monday, and sure as shit not Taco Wednesday. Sure, you can eat tacos any day of the week, but if you’re going to single out one day and devote it to the consumption of delicious tacos or the sale of delicious tacos at a reduced price, and that day is not Tuesday, you can go straight to hell. And I don’t just mean that as a figure of speech; it’s even in the Bible. That time Jesus fed the multitudes by multiplying the tacos and turning the water into margaritas? That was on Tuesday. Look it up. It was the first Taco Tuesday. Christ was setting an example for the rest of us. By offering taco specials on any other day, you’re basically spitting in the Lord’s face. You Taco Judases make me sick. Not that I actually believe in any of that Bible shit. I like tacos.

All kids love Log!

July 15, 2013

The Log LadyHello, computer friends. I’m happy to announce that I’ve just finished my latest project, a ten-part series of portraits based on David Lynch’s Twin Peaks. It’s something I’ve been meaning to do for quite a while, but due to the confluence of numerous universal forces far beyond the scope of human comprehension (and just a dash of good old-fashioned laziness), it’s just now ready to share with you.

Obviously, the world of Twin Peaks is populated with many strange and interesting characters, and unless I wanted to still be working on this project in 2033, there’s no way I’d get all of them in there. I decided to limit it to ten, and chose the characters I thought would best represent the overall series. There will certainly be some annoying people complaining that I left out this person or that person, and to them I would politely point out that this is my god damned project and I can do whatever the hell I want with it.

I’ll be putting up a new one each day, and as always, you can order your own personally signed print at the Sexy Print Kiosk. If you happen to also enjoy Breaking Bad and/or methamphetamines, be sure to check out my Breaking Bad series as well.

Stay tuned for lots more insanely exciting new stuff here at the Hole.


Haiku Friday (2 Guns Edition)

July 12, 2013

2 Guns, 2 Guns, 2
Guns, 2 2 2 Guns, 2 Guns,
Guns Guns Guns Guns Guns.

I don’t watch very much television nowadays, I listen to the radio even less, and I don’t read a lot of movie websites on the Google, so quite often my first awareness of the existence of an upcoming film or TV series is made possible by an ad plastered onto a bus, bus stop, bus stop bench, or some other bus-related surface. Such is the case with what appears to be a new action film starring Denzel Washington and Mark Wahlberg entitled 2 Guns. I know absolutely nothing about this thing beyond what is depicted in the ad. In it, Señores Washington y Wahlberg are facing opposite directions, back to back, each pointing a gun at some unseen target (for those of you playing at home, that brings the total number of guns to, appropriately enough, 2). They appear to be cops, although whether they’re “loose cannon” cops, “good guy fighting back against a hopelessly corrupt system” cops, “one last job before retirement” cops, or some combination of the three, remains unclear. Maybe they’re “traffic” cops. They’re not wearing the required orange safety vests, but that just makes them loose cannons. In the background, a rather large number of $100 bills are blowing freely in the wind. Oddly, there are no sexy women in the ad to complete the guns/money/chicks trifecta. That’s an oversight that’s bound to bite them in the ass on opening weekend. “What? No chicks in this? Fuck that, I’m not gay. I’m gonna go see the Smurfs instead and rub one out to Smurfette.”

So, based on the information gleaned from the bus stop and nowhere else, this movie is about two cops, each of whom has a gun (as cops are wont to do), and something about money. 2 Vastly Overrated, Aging Actors Milking Whatever Clichéd Tough Guy Roles They Can Get Before Being Relegated To Playing Dads In PG-13 Family Comedies seems like a more apt title, but I suppose 2 Guns is easier to say when you and your bros are piss-drunk and trying to buy tickets at the window. Anyway, since I’m at work and therefore have nothing better to be doing, I thought I’d write up what I imagine the story to be.

2 Guns
Denzel Washington as Traffic Officer Glocque P. Smithenwesson
Mark Wahlberg as Deputy Traffic Officer Gatt McRatatat
Robert Duvall as Police Chief Richard Head
Steve Buscemi as Glen, the School Bus Driver
Ellen DeGeneres as Hot Chick In Bikini #1 (scenes deleted)
Rhea Perlman as Hot Chick in Bikini #2 (scenes deleted)

[Opening credits that rip off the ones in whatever the last Fincher film was, set to a hip, up-tempo number by Bryan Adams]

[We PAN ACROSS the glistening skyline of Akron, Ohio. Any idiot should immediately recognize it as Akron, but fuck it let's make it say "Akron, Ohio" at the bottom. And "Present Day" underneath that in case a few of those mouthbreathers think it's the Middle Ages. Also, can we use a cool computery font for this? I remember this one that I really liked called "System." Do we have that one? Get Graphics on that.]

[SCENE: Officers Smithenwesson and McRatatat are at their adjacent desks at the precinct. They are eating ice cream cones. Smithenwesson has vanilla and McRatatat has chocolate (smashing racial stereotypes).]

McRATATAT: So Glocque, what’re you gonna do when you start your retirement tomorrow?

SMITHENWESSON: Man… I’m just gonna take it easy, living on a ranch in Montana, building little birdhouses and selling ‘em on eBay… maybe shooting my gun a little from time to time.

McRATATAT: Gee, Glocque, that sounds great. I can’t wait to retire. But I’m just a 40-year-old rookie, so that’s still years away.

[The Chief yells from his office:]


McRATATAT: What’s up, Chief?



SMITHENWESSON: No thanks, I’m allergic to peanuts.

McRATATAT; I’ll take two! One for now and one for sometime in the near future!


McRATATAT: You got it, Chief!

SMITHENWESSON; I’m getting too old for this shit!


McRATATAT: Of course!


[SCENE: Smithenwesson and McRatatat are standing in the intersection, directing traffic.l

SMITHENWESSON: Man, I sure hope nothing terrible happens today. I'm retiring tomorrow!

McRATATAT: Of course you're not gonna die, Glocque! You got a wife, five kids, eighty-seven grandkids, ten cats, a horse and two hundred sea monkeys that depend on you!

SMITHENWESSON: Yeah... you're right.

[MEANWHILE, a yellow school bus is speeding down the street, just a few blocks away. Glen, the driver, is high on mescaline and has just robbed the bank. The bus is full of money.]

GLEN: Ha ha, you’ll never catch me, coppers! I’m goin’ to Meh-hee-ko! Woooo!

[Glen notices the traffic light up ahead is not working. He expresses concern.]

GLEN: What the fuck is this shit?

[The bus screeches to a stop just inches from McRatatat's outstretched hand.]

McRATATAT: What’s the matter with you, don’t you know how to stop?

SMITHENWESSON: Hey, I know that guy! That’s Glen the School Bus Driver! He drives my grandkids to school!

McRATATAT: But aren’t they on summer vacation right now?

SMITHENWESSON: My god, you’re right! Shoot him!

[Smithenwesson and McRatatat withdraw their large firearms and proceed to shoot at the yellow school bus.]

GLEN: Shit! I’m being shot at by two guns! Fuck this!

[Glen ducks for cover and steps on the gas. The yellow school bus rolls into the intersection. The windows shatter as the officers continue firing their big sexy guns. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a gasoline tanker plows through the intersection at the same time and T-bones the yellow school bus. $100 bills blow freely in the wind. Glen, who happens to be a cyborg, emerges from the wreckage.]

SMITHENWESSON: (to McRatatat) I’ll keep shooting at Glen! You stand behind me and shoot at whatever is in the other direction!

McRATATAT: Got it!

[Lots of cool gunfire continues for the next 90 minutes]

McRATATAT: Hey Glocque! Look out! The truck’s going to explode!

[The gasoline truck explodes.]

McRATATAT: Gllllloooccckkkkqqquuuee!!! Nooooo!!!!

[Smithenwesson lies on the pavement in a puddle of blood. McRatatat runs to his side in slow motion, showing off his pecs & lats.]

McRATATAT: Traffic officer down! Traffic officer down!

SMITHENWESSON: Gatt… I’m dying, Gatt…

McRATATAT: No, you’re fine, Glocque! You’re gonna be okay! Stay with me man! Stay with me!

SMITHENWESSON: Gatt… I just have… one… last request…

McRATATAT: Anything, buddy! You want me to look after your wife and sea monkeys?


McRATATAT: You want me to build birdhouses in your memory? No problem!

SMITHENWESSON: No… not that…

McRATATAT: Well what is it? Just name it, Glocque! Anything!

SMITHENWESSON: I want… that other… peanut butter cookie…

McRATATAT: But you’re allergic!

SMITHENWESSON: Please… I’m hungry…

McRATATAT: Umm… well… maybe we can split it?

[McRatatat pulls the lint-covered cookie from his pocket, breaks it in half and puts one half in Smithenwesson's mouth.]

McRATATAT: You’re gonna be okay, man. Just hang in there.

[Smithenwesson goes into anaphylactic shock and dies.]


[Glen the School Bus Driver appears behind McRatatat. He decapitates McRatatat with a machete.

GLEN: Let the good times roll!

[End credits, accompanied by Eric Clapton's "Tears In Heaven (Paul Oakenfold Mix)"]

There, I just saved you twelve bucks. You’re welcome.