I made this for you because I love you.
In this week’s edition of “things the internet has generously graced our fragile, ephemeral existences with” we have Nicolas Cage’s face on all 151 original Pokémon. As of this post, the likeness of the Ghost Rider hero has been forever etched in 45 Pocket Monsters, so far ending with Vileplume, or, ahem, Cageplume.
You’ve already met the man behind the Nicolas Cage costume and probably watched Nicolas Cage Losing His Shit as many times as I have (490 and counting). Can the internet really provide that much more amazing content revolving around the guy that outbid Leonardo DiCaprio on a dinosaur skull? Yes. Yes, the Internet can and will. Bow down to the almighty power of the World Wide Web.
And just in case you thought there was nothing else to be explored through MS Paint, just wait until you see Gary Busey’s face embedded on every different My Little Pony incarnation. Calling dibs on that Tumblr domain.
i saw her dying. my eyes burned. i was in my car drinking from a bottle of vodka to get fucked up and drinking so much green tea after that because it was really cheap vodka and i was doing that because i saw her dying and felt so bad and i wasn’t crying but my eyes were just burning.
she was dying of death, the thing everyone dies of, even me and you. i spent all week thinking of suicide, just entertaining the idea like joe rogan likes to torture people on that show about fear. i got so drunk, drunk on the idea of death that in the morning i felt like death and then i saw her dying and felt like i had to pee.
my pee was so yellow it stained the insides, the body of the toilet and i thought okay. i guess that’s okay. and then somehow i was back again in the same room, watching everyone die around me. and i couldn’t stop watching her die and the space between us, she kept trying to close the space between us, with her limbs, and i wasn’t supposed to be crying but i was. the table was moving, these tiny hurried breaths, it was moving, an insect crawling across your bedroom floor, it was moving so fast, my lungs felt uneven and my heart, was bouncing in its tiny space.
she said, ‘are you ok?’
‘ok what?’ i asked.
‘you’re acting strange,’ she said.
‘did you ever see that movie with uh… who’s that one guy, the weird guy from boogie nights?’
‘the suicide one.’
‘oh william h. macy.’
‘you’re like him, in that movie with the snow. you know what i’m talking about?’
‘no. i don’t watch movies.’
she huffed. i felt now was a good time to kiss her. i leaned in, hollywood moment and she twisted away from me. i pulled her cheeks toward me.
‘here’s looking at you kid,’ i said.
My friend Nathan Langlois shared this picture with me. When asked about it, he said this:
“As much as I’d like to keep this picture as cryptic as possible; it deserves an explanation to make me not seem like a maniac who collects dog eyes. This was my dog Uggo. A filthy little rat ball who wandered out of the brush of my bamboo one day completely out of the blue. The nastiest smelling thing and ugly as sin. My parents took him in got him cleaned up and everything was all good.
A couple months later his eye got infected and was pussing and oozing and red and literally popping out of his skull. My parent (god bless em) forked over $800+ to get surgery. FOR THIS RANDOM MUTT. They took out the eye and all was well, until about a month later when his SPHINCTER gave out and he leaked shit all over the house, yard, and children. After that it was goodbye Uggo. Bless his little doggy heart. He sucked. ♥”
More pictures after the break:
Thanks to a tip from the New Times, I went to the Arizona State Fairgrounds today and got a number of awesome books for cheap. It was the 57th Annual VNSA Book Sale. If you’re a native to Phoenix, you might know those little boxes they have outside certain grocery stores for donating used books — that’s where they go, a once-a-year sale in a big warehouse, all those books organized and priced really, really cheap. These VNSA guys make about $400,000 per year, I’m told and the money gets split between a bunch of charities. Awesome.
For everyone else, it’s like a holiday. I remember one year, when the event fell on February 14th, my coworker cancelled his plans with his girlfriend on Valentine’s Day to go. This year was my first. I went really blazed, wandering through dusty stacks while geeks and freaks pawed over paperbacks and pulp romances and dictionaries and calendars and comic books and cook books and everything you can think of print-related. It was like a little geeky freakshow and I loved it. I belonged there, standing all awkwardly stoned and just taking in the sights around me, while clutching a few books on the rainforest and the solar system. It brought me back to the days of the Scholastic Book Fairs in elementary school.
This whole shindig also reminded me of a story about those donation boxes: Once, in high school, we were hanging outside Bashas’ next to one of these textbook dumpsters. It was so full that someone just left a box of books next to it. My friends and I rifled through these books, discovering some late ’60s, early ’70s-era sexual instruction books. Read More
In this short clip, Dry Heat Flicks interviews a gay survivalist couple about different survival scenarios, their guns and how they feel about women.
Dry Heat Flicks is a Phoenix, Arizona-based response to Portlandia. Sorta obvious, right? So, if you’re a writer, director or actor in the Phoenix area and would like to help make the same sort of sketches, but perhaps darker and more political, email our editor at firstname.lastname@example.org
But I’m not about to start saying “Freedom Fries.” Maybe “Freedom Toast,” but just because that’s funny.
Can you believe that back at the beginning of the Iraq Invasion, there actually was a campaign to demonize the French for not wanting to fight that pithy little war? Idiot Americans got mad! Even in 2008, I was in New Hampshire and saw some pigfucker selling “Freedom Fries” at his nationalist little hotdog stand. That’s gonna be on our history books, folks — we shunned an entire country for attempting to be peaceful.
Now that the French are sticking their noses in Mali’s business, not to mention their whole involvement with Libya early last year, I think I will boycott them. I won’t buy any of your stupid shit, you stupid fucking French idiots. Not your cheese, not your wine, not your fucking baugettes, not your music, nothing. I won’t be visiting your country anytime either. Maybe that will teach you to be less violent.
I hope you will join me. Peace.
We were sitting in Seamus McCaffrey’s, planning our next course of action over Blue Moon and fried mushrooms. Kiddy-cornered to this downtown Irish pub is the 12 story 1931 bank building that lost everything in the housing market crash. It’s been empty for a long time, but never seemed accessible. Until now.
Well, not exactly. We actually broke into an abandoned office/hotel/whatever adjacent to the landmark art deco bank. The bank didn’t have any viable entrance points, but the neighboring small, squat building had a door that was busted wide open.
It was Sam and Tyler who had noticed the door the night before and gone a little ways inside. Now, we wanted to go deeper. First, we did a perimeter march around the block, noticing three parked police cars, zero security and who, if anyone, could see us from the Ghost Lounge.
But after a drink, it didn’t matter. We were going in.
#BUTTERSTEP #BUTTERSTEP #BUTTERSTEP #BUTTERSTEP #BUTTERSTEP
Clip cut from EDM Looking Glass. See the whole thing here:
A while ago, I wrote a piece on #Seapunk, basically saying a “if all it takes to change pop culture is to rip off animated Angelfire graphics, wear a SpongeBob t-shirt and then tweet/twat about my own genius, I can do that. I call dibs on #CivilWarReenactmentThrashMetal. Or how about, #EgyptianAcidJazz? Wait, I got it: #ButterflyDubstep, or #Butterstep for short. I can’t wait till Lady Gaga rips that one off.”
So this is Butterstep. It’s better than Seapunk.
Doug Shrug, the editor, is currently looking for poets, authors, artists and photographers to contribute to volume one. There will be payment involved someday, but we can work those details out later. Send your pitches to email@example.com And now, a message from Mr. Shrug himself:
Why hello there –
My name’s Doug Shrug. I’m a creepy old man with eight teeth left and half a liver. My hobbies include hitting up a skin show down at the stripper joint by the freeway, getting liquored up with tits in my face and then wandering into the truck stop next door where I shove my fully erect willy into a hole in the bathroom wall and wait. If I’m lucky and can sell a few more dimebags to school kids, then I’ll buy myself an eightball, then stay up all week hanging out with some hookers who I pay to pretend to be my friend. You know tons of guys like me – your uncle, your bus driver, your old gym coach and that one friend from high school that disappeared.
That’s sort of what this Shrug’s InDex thing is all about. Drugs N’ Sex. Ya get it? Terrible sexploitations and drugsplosions and that sort of hedonistic nonsense. Dive in and deprave yourself, you diseased, dying animal. Drink in this filth and filler and reckon the day youth is sapped from your rotting bones. It’s all we’ve got left to do before our number is called.
In this issue, we’ve got a story ‘bout a kid that steals pills from parties, a true piece on Craigslist whorin’, a users guide to abusing Adderall, an acid trip from Hell and a bookstore clerk that tries magic to get laid, plus tons of borderline-pornographic art and photos for you to oogle, plus more to cum.
Again, I’m Doug Shrug and this is my InDex. Welcome to the bottom of the barrel.