ETSY. Too curious. Overly curious. Regretfully curious. Because this fuzzy little thing isn't a needle-felted white poo like I had suspected. Oh no. That would have been almost acceptable. This fuzzy little thing is a, oh god I can't even think about it. I just can't. This makes my stomach feel itchy. Fuck me. It's a ceramic dog covered with glued-on dog hair.
That's right. Some lady sculpted a "dog (?)" out of who the hell knows what, and then hot-glue-gunned her dog's hair all over it. HER DOG'S HAIR. And let's not forget the little red bow that really brings it all together. Because nothing says "gluing your dog's hair all over an unfortunate ceramic object is perfectly normal and not at all deeply nauseating" like an adorable gingham bow. Hurl.
Tuesday, 15 May 2012
Monday, 30 April 2012
I've been feeling a bit stressed out at work recently, but you know what's cheered me up no end? This £99,500 painting of a pair of disembodied, levitating hands reaching out to a very, very pale Michael Jackson riding in a massive umbrella with his children on what I can only assume to be a sea of delusion and perpetual atonement. And this brightens my day.
Why riding in an umbrella? Why the hell not? Why are his very-much-alive kids with him on this trip down the proverbial River Styx? Because this piece of artistic genius will not be shackled, yes, SHACKLED, by facts. Why £99,500? Because clearly £99,00 wasn't enough but £100,000 was, you know, too much. There are many things that you could say about this artist, but apparently being greedy isn't one of them.
Friday, 27 April 2012
Apparently third place was a used Q-tip stapled to a oily sock. With a dead kitten inside.
And just a side-note: I've officially never seen the term "amateur" used so flatteringly. I can think of lots of words to describe this tomfuckery, but "amateur" isn't one of them. I think the word "amateur" still denotes a certain level of aptitude, or a least a person giving half a rat's ass, neither of which are attributes I could honestly level at this artistic genius.
Friday, 20 April 2012
So I know what you were thinking this afternoon, somewhere after you smoked the dank fatty but before you watched the third episode of "The Big Bang Theory": you thought "Damn, I could really go for some Uterus Cookies". I know. I've been there. We've all been there. The problem is, though, that you can't really purchase uterus cookie for human consumption, even in the back aisles at Trader Joe's. Again, I know. I've been there. So what to do? Why, create your own, of course! So, in order to aid your filthy, filthy obsession, I came up with a handy pocket guide to refer to when making your very own gynecological baked goods.
Tip 1: Do not just use an inverted penis cookie cutter. Or an upper-case "T" cookie cutter. Or a non-inverted penis cookie cutter turned upside down. It just isn't the same shape as a uterus. It just doesn't do the uterus justice. And for fuck's sake, don't be sloppy with the icing:
Tip 2: You may want to reconsider adding unborn children. I'm not saying that foetuses are unappetising, but, you know, they're kind of unappetising. Kinda kills the buzz. Kinda brings you down. Kinda makes you want to hurl. That's all I'm saying:
Tip 3: It's great to be anatomically correct, but there may be a limit, especially if your piping skills are lacking (read: terrible), and especially when you're not sure how many ovaries the average woman possesses (read: two). If you're unsure, consider the following example of what a uterus, most definitely, does not look like:
So that's about it, folks. I support your uterus-cookie-wanting ways, and I don't hate, I celebrate. But please, let's keep it realistic. The next time your stoned ass wants to eat something placenta-oriented, at least do it justice, and for reference:
Posted by Julia D at 23:05
Wednesday, 18 April 2012
Oh, Exploratorium, you golden-domed golden-gated institution of learning and exploration and golden opportunities for children of all ages, I had no idea you also dabbled in surrealist garbage-stained trash puppets. How was I to know you have a deep-rooted interest in pond-liner-bodied, garden-twine-waisted, wooden-dumbbell-mouthed, old-argyle-sweater-armed, car-rag-haired childrens' dolls? Except for the fact that yes, you advertised it:
"Visit the SCRAP table and use fabric, buttons and toys discarded by local businesses to create a Trash Puppet. Come with a character in mind or make one that looks like you! We’ll attach a pencil to the puppet’s arm so you can make your puppet come to life."You'll attach a pencil? Well, I don't say. A whole pencil? With an eraser and everything? To my very own trash doll? Will the finery never cease? Count me in, Exploratorium, count me in.