If you like this nonsense, please LIKE IT. Hug that heart ❤️ button. More humans might see it that way. As for aliens? Cats? Seals? Not sure they substack. Xoxo.
…
In January 2023, when men were men and Charlton Heston was just as dead as he is today, I launched this substack. No fanfare allowed. Just me, my dog, an artificial illustrator (named Snake) and so many misfit visuals you’d think we were a bipolar coloring-book (style Dr. Seuss).
This many years year later, we’re revisiting our first post. Adding new fake art, brought to you by ME, US, MY TEAM. A many-sided pig in space — lasering.
A Rubik’s cube swine-fest, feeding on its own irony.
Our resident yellow fuzz as Jesus of Nazareth — just in time for Easter.
Fun with tennis balls. That’s our motto. We ditched the old one: “Never read historical summary-signs on Virginia battlefields written by Virginia historians working for the Interior Department in the 1930s — they LIE.”
See how it’s a bad motto? Nothing to hang a substack on. (Nevermind that aging Interior Dept. plaque out there in Manassas that refers to “Yankee invaders” and “the war of northern aggression” and “brave Confederate defenders” — by federal writers 60 years after the first Bull Run cage match. And you thought state-run media was just a Russia thing.)
Anyhoo. Let’s rework and redux that infamous first post, in which we asked you to react to the following: “WHAT IF my other car were a pothead?”
“WHAT IF?” you shot back. “Well, I’d probably smoke your other car, a little chunk at a time. I’d take a big old Volkswagen bong rip and gasp, ‘Fahrvergnügen!’ when I exhale. Thanks for asking.”
So clever of you. And you and you and you. MY how we dog dig our audience.
Strike-through jokes! No more than two I mean three a post!
Well. WHAT IF? Would it make you angry?
Would it make you say, hey, I know that car?
Would you rethink your relationship with automobiles?
And who’s driving it anyway?
Or maybe “car as pothead” would confound your sense of self? Maybe you’d glimpse yourself in the mirror and spy Tom Brady Blobfish, staring back?
Or Marjorie Taylor Bananafish, demanding the pool is ALL HERS?
“It’s MY POOL,” MTB howls. “I’ll invite all the Vladmirs I like! GET LOST!”
We caused illustrator hallucinations with that one. GET POOL. Heard that.
Disassociation being a sign of the times of course. I see a nose in the mirror but not my nose. I see a coloring book but don’t know how. Someone has swiped my Crayola. Someone has invaded my fingers. Probably the AI mastermind named Snake. Our crafty hallucination-hunter. Our finest young cannibal.
A FREAK OF NATURE HUMANITY who can say …
Shit. That’s five strikethroughs. The universal sign for “end this post or die.”
Here’s the plant finale’ (therefore)! Recall the original prompt was my other car is a pothead. Our favorites:
Remember: Either fake art smokes you or you smoke fart art. Unless you buy one of those insane gas-mask bongs, in which case it’s time for you to see a counselor and/or get a job at Chocolate City Wellness down the street from me.
An visitor to their site (btw) might note they’re offering a powerful sativa strain called “Extraterrestrial Bananas” …
They don’t look like they’re gonna fall for the banana in the spaceship, do they?
— Colin Sullivan (not a pothead on TV)
Kicker: More pothead cars that didn’t fit in the post?!? Lucky day …
Please check into the artists featured here. They make wonderful work.
Again, if you liked this nonsense, LIKE IT. Press the heart ❤️ button. That means more people will see it. Xoxo.
Space laser pig is my fave.
Dr. Seuss sketches 10/10