As ever, we format for the app. We dream best in the app. Love us, love us. Say that you love us.
Today, we make poison — and beer.
A do-it-yourself jamboree, from the savage heart of America’s least fashionable swamp district.
First, the labels.
We approach our illustrator (named Snake) cautiously. The community standards that run his spinal cord might not like this one. Oh well, we say. Quality poison and beer are more important than cultural sensitivity, right? Right.
We try “Mother Russia psycho killer nerve-gas vodka label” along with technical directions. REJECTED.
How about “Vladimir Putin Mother Russia psycho killer (qu'est-ce que c’est?) mashed with sociopathic Sponge Bob poison bottle wine label (sacré bleu!), style Ralph Steadman.” NOPE.
We can’t seem to face up to the facts; we’re tense and nervous, can’t relax. Can’t sleep, bed’s on fire. Don’t touch us. We’re a … etc.
We settle on Putin as a Golden Girl. You know, from the classic American television show about old ladies having sex. We develop live action shots. We explore. We descend into Snake’s imaginary lair and hold on for dear sitcom life.
We select two head shots. One label for our poison bottle. One for the grog to wash it down. We end up here:
Then here, after long hours brewing poison. And beer.
That’s a wrap. Prices TBD. Onward!
We also spent the week staging dumpster fires.
NPR having called the phrase “gleefully catastrophic” when it was added to Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary, in 2018. We like that.
Our global dumpster having tripled in size, of late.
Climate change, Gaza, Putin, old man Biden creaking about like Skeletor. Legal weed. Embryonic sentience. ANOTHER GHOSTBUSTERS.
Drunk spaceships tipped over on the lunar surface. Something Taylor this way Swifts. Conspiracy theories like free helium. Social media pointing ↖︎↘︎↓← nowhere at all. Digital depression, Orwell Zuckermusk, Ai paranoia, precious-metal addiction. TRUMP.
Throw all these in the same trash box and light that shit. Here’s hoping we get high, if nothing else.
“Gleefully catastrophic” could easily be Ai art’s tag line as well as Trump’s campaign theme, in case you hadn’t noticed. Gleefully grotesque. Gleefully stupid. Gleefully offensive. Interesting how the more some favor cultural norms, the less others heed them.
Take the following Instagram page, which features a well-endowed fake Pocahontas … haunting the bedrooms of adolescent boys everywhere.
So dumb and unaware the only reaction is “well that makes sense.” Hasn’t Pocahontas endured enough? Every outrageous statement Trump offers inspires the same weak compliance. “Well that makes sense.”
His latest: He compared migrants to Hannibal Lecter, a bad guy who eats your face. This is how he expects to win, and he might be right. To stoke this next-phase dumpster fire with all the Kryptonite cannibalism he can find.
Non-Americans must be like, well, WTF? Why are we here?
Someone I know rationalizes it this way: “Yeah, but, Kamala Harris that close to the presidency?!? Really?”
When words fail us …
My answer is, um, yeah. Dear white people: A well-qualified black human inside the Oval Office rather than a sociopath ain’t such a big deal. Worked pretty well the other times. And who do you think built that White House anyway? Martians?
Not that a former California senator and state attorney general is implicitly qualified, but still: when the person opposed to an elected official can’t enumerate “why” I tend to smell a low-denominator rat.
(Low-denominator rats having placed third in the race for America’s mascot, behind skanky youporn eagles and racist turkeys.)
We lit a gaggle of dumpster fires, in response. To dumpsters everywhere, I’d say please be kind to our bodies when we’re gone, we are compostable — but no. We deserve your scorchiest flames, Great Dumpster.
Blaze at will. Forget the basting. We are quite cooked.
Cuckoo’s nest? We’re so far past cuckoo’s nest we can’t even spell it.
— Randle McMurphy
Kicker: What would Putin’s tag line have been in the Golden Girls anyway?
Gotta work harder on those tag lines.
Xoxo.
Snake? I heard you were dead