It’s hard to choose just one quotable from this diatribe of cluelessness (seriously, and they think potheads are the dumb ones…), so I’m going to pick it apart the same way I would pick through a bag of poorly-trimmed schwag.
“I like my peaceful brain.” “No, I’m allergic to hate.” “I never inject, weed sucks!” “No, weed makes you mean.”
Whoever wrote this clearly doesn’t understand marijuana’s primary effects, and is perhaps not entirely sure of what weed even is.
Yo lemme get a puff of that pure hatred, dogg. Can’t wait to get me some blood red eyes, radiating my inner seething hate for everything that isn’t weed.
“I’m calling the cops on you.” Oh yeah, I’d say that really qualifies as saying no to weed and still being cool about it.
“Do you think I’m an idiot?!” Um… kind of, considering you thought people actually inject weed. Frankly, I’m not sure they even make syringes big enough to fit the kind of dank azz nugz I get.
Nobody thought of, “No thanks man, but enjoy yourself”? Is being cool about saying no to weed really that hard? Based on the severe uncoolness of all the above-listed options, one can only deduce that it’s actually impossible to say no to weed and still be cool. So, light that joint, losers, because your only hope is in dope.
“Ask me again in 10,000 years.” WE’LL BE WAITING, WESLEY.
You know, some years ago, the primary motivation for putting this whole operation together was so I’d have some place where I could showcase all of my work — the professional, the personal, and the potentially illegal. In recent months I have failed utterly in this vision, mostly due to a near-total lack of caring. But, as a wise person once said (I think), the opposite of love isn’t hatred, it’s apathy. And I think we can all agree I haven’t been giving Dedleg the love it deserves. Not that it deserved all that much in the first place, that little shit.
Anyway, any child of the Facebook-era will tell you there’s no point in doing anything if you can’t put photos of it up on the Internet to make your friends totes jelly, so really, I don’t know why I spent hours slaving on these movie posters for my buds over at the Silver Screen Society except for the fact that I, 1) am totally down for what those dudes are doing over there, and perhaps more importantly, 2) wanted to prove to myself that I hadn’t completely forgotten how to draw.
So, in case you didn’t see my insignificant tweets announcing these pieces at the time, there’s a good chance you missed them, and in these dark days of sparse artistic output on my end, that’s damn near unforgivable. Last month I churned out this illustration inspired by one the most heralded horror movies / art house softcore pornos of all time, Suspiria.
If you don’t know anything about it, the trailer is a good place to start, and it’s pretty fucking boss. Then again, I usually say that about anything that has a skull in it.
It’s also really helpful in case you ever forget the name of the movie.
I wanted to showcase this one over here on my site also just to provide a bigger detail shot, since down-sizing it doesn’t do justice to the amount of time I wasted half-toning the fucking shit out of this thing.
In case dead chicks in leotards somehow aren’t your thing (weirdo), back in February, I did a piece for Silver Screen’s second birthday which they celebrated in conjunction with the How Did This Get Made podcast. I chose to honor a film close to the great bargain bin that lives inside the Walmart of my heart, 1998’s Godzilla.
There will surely be more where these came from, too, seeing as those ever-talented nerds over at the Silver Screen Society just can’t seem to get enough. Maybe you feel the same way, in which case this formerly prolific illustrator offers you his sincerest apologies while also, you know, kind of not caring about it.
I was going to put up a post about my own art today, but then I ran across something that really just… shit all over my work by comparison.
Paul McCarthy’s inflatable mountain of crap at the future site of Hong Kong’s M+ Museum was just too fetid, too feculent too ignore. I’m sure this one’s got plenty of art detractors crying foul, arguing an inflatable stack of stink doesn’t exactly pass the smell test in the great “is it art” debate. Personally, I’ve always found the art crowd to be full of shit, so I don’t really see what the problem is.
Sure gives new resonance to the term “arts and farts and crafts.” It would sure take a lot of farting to inflate that thing, but I couldn’t find any information on whether or not the artist used farts or just normal air, so the authenticity of the piece is yet to be seen.
Hi, Internet. Like the most stereotypical blogger on earth, I come to you a humble man. I have long neglected my blog and am about to begin my first post in months with an excuse about why I haven’t been updating. You see, I’ve had a lot on my mind. A lot of substances in large quantities for sustained periods of time, specifically, but lots of other things too, I’m sure. I mean, something had to have been going on up there when I was making mac n’ cheese all those times.
In any case, the reality is I’m mad busy and blogging don’t pay the bills and sometimes a dude just wants to go skateboarding in his free time instead of screaming into the e-byss. (Get it? E-byss? Oh man, I can’t believing blogging don’t pay the bills when I’m coming up with gold like that. Pure blogging alchemy, and I give it away for free.) Plus, I scream into the e-byss plenty on Twitter because it’s the path of least resistence. Blogging takes work, and the reality is, while I don’t want to set up a Tumblr all I really want to be doing is posting pictures like this:
‘Cuz that shit made me laugh for a while. Your mileage may vary. But hey, I figured it was better than nothing, which is not necessarily the case with this man’s hair.
But if you do…
The trick is… I guess… that there are 3 tables. The big one, we barely see. The main one, and one more little table that we discover behind the cup. By the time we’re zoomed in on the new little table, the main table is now the “big one,” into infinity.
Regardless, understanding it doesn’t make it any less transfixing. Good luck if you’re stoned.
I’m still here, fam, just been distracted by pizza and pizza-like products, as usual.
You know how it is.
Alternate title: The Cheesy Gordita Crunch stands alone.
Always knew there was something about this kid I liked.
I mean, with friends like Harry and Marv, who wouldn’t want to be alone during the holidays? Amiright? Also, with friends like Taco Bell, who needs real friends anyway?
A few months ago, my friend Brandon from back in the day (and I mean way back in the day when I was making crappy websites about dumb anime amongst other embarrassing mistakes of childhood) asked me to contribute to his ongoing revisionist movie poster project, the Silver Screen Society. Each month, they choose a film and select a handful of graphic designers, illustrators and otherwise artsy fartsy types to come up with a piece inspired by the movie. That’s more or less the only rule of this particular Fight Club. In any case, this month they selected a feature quite close to my rotting, festering heart, George Romero and Stephen King’s Creepshow.
Needless to say, my piece won’t make any sense to you whatsoever if you haven’t seen the movie.
And if you haven’t seen it, I’d say that’s a pretty good homework assignment for you to dig into this weekend. The best part is, this is the kind of homework you can do while drinking crisp microbrews with your pals, in fact, that’s the recommended dosage.
The film resides in the great intersection of camp, comic book, and comedy. It’s hyper-stylized, classically creepy in a way that any fan of horror and 80s slop will absolutely love, and full of talented cameos, from Leslie Nielsen and Ted Danson to Stephen King himself. What did I tell you? I hold this one pretty close to the gaping, slime-dripping bone cage that is my chest cavity.
The trailer alone is probably the coolest thing I’ll watch today, come to think of it.
Be sure to check out all the other great pieces over at Silver Screen’s website.
Ladies and gentlegerms, meet Billy the Big Mouth Bass. Billy used to be a cultural icon of gloriously irritating kitch. But as his prominence in our stinking pop culture stew faded over the years, Billy turned to partying to fill the void in his animatronic heart. Wild partying turned more desperate over the years as Billy slipped into a nightmarish cycle of addiction and withdrawal, only finding solace at last in the teachings of the Dark Lord, Satan.
Somewhere along the line, Billy also had a string of plastic surgeries to alter his appearance to more closely resemble that of a rainbow trout, but that’s neither here nor there. What we can say, however, is that what was once a notorious and hideous Secret Santa gift, often relegated to the dark corners of over-crowded garages and attics, has now become quite possibly the funniest fucking thing I’ve seen in quite some time. Oh Billy, you may have lost the will to live, but you certainly haven’t lost your demonic charm.
There are probably a fairly limited number of you who are going to actually care about what I’m about to show you, but it’s my blog, and I’ll bore you all to tears if I want to. I was going to say “bore you all to death,” but I already beat one murder charge, and I’m not about to go through that hassle again. Such a nightmare.
In any case, if you know me, you know I’m not much for psychotropic drugs. Personally, the problem with smoking dope is not so much that it’s illegal, it’s that it’s just plain immoral. You know what my mother used to call marijuana? The Devil’s Pubic Hair. And if your pubic hair looked like that, you wouldn’t want to smoke it, so why are you going to smoke his? It made a lot of sense.
Nonetheless, there are some particularly creative potheads out there, despite their significant character flaws, and some of them are cooking up some pretty entertaining ways to get baked! Check out these incredible glass pipes by Hedcraft, dealers of custom smokeware and who knows what else.
Just like the Piranha Plants from whence this piece was inspired, dabble with this guy too much and you’re going to be losing some major coin.
The Force is strong with this one, but this Sour Diesel is much stronger, yes?
And that lightsaber poker is just fucking dope, no shamefully obvious drug-related pun intended.
Look, I’m just going to say what we’re all thinking here. Hmm… cookies.
All of this fine paraphernalia can be acquired at Hedcraft’s etsy store, unsurprisingly, considering that’s where all the hippies go to sell their moonstone bracelets and hand-painted power crystals and whatnot.
H-hello? Is anybody out there? We’ll see, I guess.
So, I’ve been quite delinquent in my blogging responsibilities ever since I moved out of New York, but Dedleg has nevertheless been on my mind. I suppose I’d been avoiding the little guy, because I was embarrassed and ashamed about being such a bad friend. But we’re still besties, don’t you worry, and I’m going to try to give this heaping pile of free association and creative wind-breaking a little more attention from now on.
Of course, I make this oath to be somewhat more productive knowing full well that I’m moving again at the end of the month. Don’t get too excited — I’m not going back to New York. Not yet anyway. I signed an 8-month lease on the top floor of a cool hideout in Northampton, MA, a whopping 5 minutes down the road from where I’ve been crashing the past couple months.
My brother’s home is nice and all, but… come on, it’s not exactly a hideout, and do you really think Dedleg deserves anything less? I’m the harbinger of death on four wheels, a shadow in a dark room, I’m no mere apartment dweller. I’m more of a castle-in-the-sky type, you know? Anyway, I didn’t quite land a castle, what with my limited income and all, but I did manage to score a place with a balcony.
Anyway, the other day I took a little walk around the neighborhood so you can see where I’m staying. It’s a little rough around the edges, but hey, it’s home.