Bubbles B&W. Meet the Celestial Squid –aka Cosmic Calamari. They live here, in this beautiful, fluffy and unstable bundle of bubbles. They swim and sing and dance all day long … when they’re not plotting the downfall of Crapitalism. They eat seaweed and sundry debris. And Smarties, whenever the Shoggoths send them some. Sometimes they sell their babies into slavery as a means of infiltrating the enemy lines. A rather harsh but highly effective reconnoitring tactic.
Cow Girls. They are chubby and happy with it. They love cattle, crappy jokes and the wines of Valdepeñas. They worship no one and they have no master. (Or mistress, for that matter.) But they are on excellent terms with a demi-Viking demiurge who is distantly related to the Morrigan (who knows a thing or two about livestock). They have horns and will travel. They are NOT meek. Stop Press. In view of the latest shenanigans regarding that bunch of assholes known as La Manada (they’re out, set free by some ghastly judicial brainless bastard – look it up, I can’t be bothered with links and things), I dedicate this family pic to them. May they know, someday, somewhere, somehow, what being chased with intent and ravaged by a bunch of rabid freaks feels like. And may they rot in Hell, of course. Always.
Diptych. aka Crap Options. The hare does not choose to be hounded and, therefore, made to run. Given half a choice, the hare would like to stay at home and munch the grass and have baby hares and play in the sun. And most hounds also would prefer to laze in the sunshine and chase rubber balls and chew a nice juicy bone. But they are trained to hunt. That’s the price of being owned. This is for all those “swarming” refugees currently fleeing from the corporate hounds that are hunting them out of and destroying their habitats in the name of freedom and democracy. De-mock-cracy, more likely. May the sweet Mother of Bumba protect the poor beleaguered fortuitous exiles. And a pox on the hounds and their masters!
Coming Through! Young Lilly, the trans-dimensional Tadpolette has just broken through the Hyper Barrier Lapidary that separates her turf from other regions, real or imaginary. Determined at the outset to flirt shamelessly with the first thing/being she met on the other side, she’s now batting her velvety eyelids at Emiliano, who was just passing by the Wall Divider on his way to the pub. He’s in for a rough ride, the hapless palmiped: Lilly is infamously fickle, not so much out of malice but because her attention span is crap and her memory extremely poor, thus she’s prone to forgetting who she’s dallying with from one moment to the next. Suitors beware.
Mr Chubby. His mystic ice cream sometimes he sells and sometimes he gives away for free, according to criteria that nobody has hitherto managed to decode. He runs his wares out of the boot of a battered Ford Fiesta (really) which he parks, erratically and at frequently impossibly inconvenient times, near selected tube stations between Bethnal Green and Theydon Bois. And that’s another enigma: how the hell does he manage to store 73 different flavours of ice cream in the boot of a small car? Me, I think is best not to enquire too closely. I’ve enough trouble trying to second guess his next parking spot as it is. But I can assure you, the effort of blind-chasing him and his damned gelato all over East London/Essex is well worth it.
Sad Girl. Now and then I drop in at the online The Baffler, a self-styled culture mag on the pretentious side of things but containing the occasional gem and, more often, articles of such silliness that they make my day. Some time ago one of those made me aware of a phenomenon I had totally and mercifully missed: the Internet Sad Girl. The article pronounced said curio dead and proclaimed that this was A Good Thing. The embodiment of such grotesque creature was one Lana del Rey. So I went off to the ineffable YouTube to check out the young miss. And boy was I glad I had missed her and her kin. Such vapidness is seldom seen in my neck of the woods (thank Bumba!). Anyways, I thought I could do better than Ms D.R. and came out with this here Sad Girl. Now, she is truly and really a sad case: overweight and unhappy about it, her dormant brain engulfed by Facebook’s contradictory party lines and utterly devoid of dress sense, the poor mite is in a permanent state of dejection. But all is not lost. Rosie and BoomBoom, the fashion fiends of Maison Shogg, are keeping their bulbous eyes on her. Also, planning to abduct her to their Total Reshuffle Spa, treat her to a Mi-Go Molecular Reorganization therapy, give her a few tips on sartorial intelligence and cleanse her brain of any traces of antisocial media indoctrination. After this…watch out, world. Mata Hari will seem like a convent girl compared to her. Long live fluffiness!
Boo! For Patricio. What with the Trumper strumpet and the Netanyahu creature and the ghastly “Spiderman” Williamson and similar fauna creeping all over reality, monsters are well-nigh out of a job in the scaring department so they are reduced to feeble attempts to scare each other, poor mites. Ah me… What a world we live in. PS. For some reason the colour gamut in these here doodle has come out looking vaguely Patrician; as in “my lovely compadre don Patricio Villaroel Borquez”. So with his kind (assumed) permission, I dedicate it to him. Salud compadrito!