

Fra...fra-GI-le? It must be Italian.

Oh, for fuck's sake, people. You cannot just turn a planter upside-down and call it a hat. You just can't. You just can't.
Wow guys. Just wow. I had no idea just how many bizarre chrocheted manifestations of Sponge Bob existed in the crafting underworld of the magical internet tubez. Evidently, there are at least two. And this is one of them. And it scares the holy fuck out of me.




I hope you've enjoyed your tour of Merkin Labs, please make sure to enjoy a complimentary cupcake on your way to the elevator.


If you like living dangerously, take your Wellbutrin and head over to ishton.etsy.com or brickandwool.etsy.com for some of these handmade joy-killers.

I just absolutely adore the thought process that must have led up to this. Like, the crafter must have thought to themself "man oh man, I looooove toast so much that I want to declair my adoration of this commonest of breakfast foods in a way that the whole world can appreciate and understand. But I want it to be obvious... how, oh how, to make it obvious. Without going literal. I don't want it to be literal. Literal isn't obvious. " and then they went on to create this. And how I love this. Win.
Oh good god. Very rarely in the course of this blog, and indeed life, do I come accross a crapft so extraordinary, so awe-inspiring, so truly exceptional that it renders itself reminicent of a full English breakfast wearing a suit. Or a badly crocheted Spongebob. With fangs. Yet here we have it, in all it's noodely-appendaged glory. And I hardly know what to do with it.
Living down a mile and a half of dirt road, the "dirt" comprised mostly of limestone dust, gravel, and clay, Scott has a permanent (or impermanent, rather) canvas waiting for him at the end of every shopping trip and beer-run. Monet would be impressed.
Using paint brushes, erasers, popsicle sticks, fingers, and, I have no doubt, any other pointy-ended and dust-removing random objects, Scott painstakingly recreates many famous artworks, as well as his own designs, into the back windows of, well, extremely dirty vehicles.
Scott has even managed to perfect the ultimate dirty window, using oil, bags of earth and a hairdryer. I would cry cheater-cheater-pumpkin-eater if his works weren't so amazing and unusual. And if he weren't bigger than me.
The sheer impermanence and intricacy of his artwork really makes a distinct, if not intended, comment about the nature of art, and the worthiness of art for art's sake, not just for any extended acclaim granted to an artist by a permanent audience, which is, naturally, what most artists would only strive to achieve.
And there it is, everybody. Scott Wade. One helluva dirty car painter. Although, to his credit to be sure, I have noticed this pioneering art form already extending into and being interpreted by the local pop-art culture if the back-ends of inter-state trucking is any indication. Although it still seems to be in its infantile stages.


Bart Simpson has never looked better. Or more like a 35-year-old meth-addicted pedophile. As a cake. 





The Beatles