Ed? Titania said. Pusses wants some babies for breakfast. Won’t you be a deer and go roundup some fat ones, plaze? Ed is Titania’s childhood friend. Ed is keeping Titania company while Dacchus is downstairs trying to find a pineapple. Ed is a time-traveling Eagle Deer: part eagle, part deer. Eagle Deer only go where eagles deer. Certainly, m’love, Ed said. Any particular breed, creed, or color? This was a frequent joke between the two because Ed brought back whatever babies he could snatch from whenever. One can’t be too picky when it comes to snatching babies, and Titania’s pusses, the Masked Marble Manx, is unconcerned with species, let alone the color of the meat. Hm? Titania said pretending to ponder the question. What kind of babies do you want, pusses? The cat said nothing in response. Then stuck his face in his crotch and began to furiously lick his butthole. How about every baby named Don born in the year 1946? Titania suggested. She giggled at the specificity of the request. As you wish, m’lady, Ed replied. He disappeared for an instant, then immediately reappeared with a sack of newborn babies. You will never believe it, m’lady, Ed said. While none of these babies are from 1946, one of them is named Don. He dropped the sack at the feet of the Masked Marble Manx and out rolled a pile of newborns, among them was a little baby named Don The Beachcomber. Titania gasped, NO! But before she could intervene, the Masked Marble Manx had gotten out his scissors and snipped off all the babies’ heads. Snip, snip, snip. Just so busy. Busy scissors. Then he began batting the bloody baby skulls under the couches. Bat, bat, bat. God dammit, Ed! Titania screamed. That was lil baby Don The Beachcomber, you goddamn son of a bitch! Don The Beachcomber is, of course, the founding father of the tiki bar. As Titania watched him murdered in his infancy, she grew concerned about the status of the tiki bars in her palace. Titania very much enjoys her tiki bars. I’m terribly sorry, m’lady, the Eagle Deer said. But I aint no goddamn son of a bitch. You better think about it, baby. #AcidInvader #Dachshund #CollageArt #CutAndPaste
Today is Bloomsday. Joyce chose to set his novel Ulysses on June 16 because that was the date he first went out with Nora. June 16 also marks the first date for @tanialikescheese and myself. So, naturally, June 16 was the day I chose to drill a couple of holes in a copy of Ulysses (switch-collage?), drop a ring into the depression, and present the whole thing to @tanialikescheese while down on one knee somewhere in the middle of the Angeles National Forest. She took the ring out of the book, put it on her finger, and yes she said yes I will Yes. That was nine years ago. Ruined a perfectly good copy of Ulysses, but it was worth it. To 9,000 more years. Love you lady. Yes. #Mkgnao #Yes #switchcollage #bloomsday #jamesjoyce #ulysses
Since there isn’t really any writing in the documentary, thought I’d share a couple paragraphs. I picked an article at random. Closed my eyes and swung the mouse around the archive folder. Click. Oh! An early one. “The Bong Olympics II.” Here you go. The Bong Olympics was stupid. That first sentence should be the entire article, but I get paid by the word so I'm going to go into great detail about how stupid it was. But first, I'm going to get stoned. I rarely smoke pot, but I feel that in order to effectively translate the atmosphere of this event, if that's what you want to call it, the author (that's me) should be under the influence of marijuana while writing it. If everything goes as planned, then you, the reader, oh, my sober reader, will read an article as unorganized and as boring as the Bong Olympics was. OK, here goes... I'm smoking pot... I'm still smoking pot... Done! Before I actually launch into a description of the competition, I would like to lodge a complaint with the organizers of the event. Especially the one who came up with the title. It's very catchy. Almost funny. But it's very misleading. The word “Olympics” (I have no trouble with “Bong,” they had plenty of bongs there) in my mind, anyway, connotes a festival of different athletic events. Now, even if you give these “Olympians” the status of “athletes,” which I am willing to do (so weak are my lungs), the event still falls short of the title of “Olympics.” The key word here is “different.” As far as I could see, there was only one event that night: smoking pot. It would have been more aptly titled something like “The Marijuana Marathon,” or, “The Person Who Smokes the Most Pot Wins,” or even something simple like, “A Bong Contest,” but even here we get into trouble—any similarity to what you and I would call a “contest” was absent from the proceedings that night. There were competitors all right, but what, or who, they were competing against is beyond me. Huge THANK YOU to every single person who wrote for Big Brother.
Dacchus walked away from the Manure Monkey thing like he was a cowboy in a movie—like he lit the fuse on some debauched metropolis behind him and it blew up. He was walking down the center of the street with his back turned to the Krakatoa ‘splosion, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Such a badass. Destruction and mayhem follow him everywhere. Cities explode in his wake every day. Chaos? Pfft, whatever. Cint Eastwood face. That’s how Dacchus likes to tell the story, but that’s not what happened. Dacchus was strolling down an avenue that led away from the ceremonial fart-weighing complex in the direction of where he thought the river was, absorbed in his stupid cowboy fantasy, when a little Librarian came jogging up alongside him, Miss. Miss. Dacchus was reminded he was disguised as a lady. After the wrestling match with the Manure Monkey he had retired to a nearby restroom (never you mind which one) to change out of his manure clothes and into something manure-free. Janice had provided him with an entire cross-dressing wardrobe for his journey. Dacchus selected a large, yellow, summer shawl handcrafted with Heliosheep wool and sewn together with sunbeams. Under his arm he carried his lifetime collection of dingleberries along with a supple, leather bag containing his winds—a limited edition collab piece by Aeolus x Le Petomane. Miss! the Librarian gasped trying to keep up. What is it? Dacchus said exasperated. I’m sorry to bother you, the Librarian said, but you dropped a turd back there. He then grabbed Dacchus’s free hand and slapped a big, wet, glob of dung into it. As Dacchus stared at the pile of waste dripping between his fingers, it suddenly coagulated and switch-melted into a chocolate bunny. Good Evening, the bunny said cheerfully. This was Phoebe, The Moon Rabbit. She was passing through the Underworld as She did every day while her brother, the Sun, was in the sky. Well, la-di-da! Phoebe said suddenly as she regarded Dacchus’s sunny ensemble. Did my brother urinate on you with his sunshine hose? #AcidInvader #Dachshund #CollageArt #CutAndPaste
This guy. His name is Beckett. He left us on Wednesday night. He was our best friend, our bebeh @tanialikescheese, and the inspiration for every collage on this feed. He was also the reason I got up every day. Not because he was inspiring, or anything, but because breakfast had to be served at 6am sharp, David. Plaze. And then he’d stick his tongue in my mouth. Eight photos and a transcript of one of our many deep conversations is a grossly inadequate tribute to the gigantic amount of space this little guy took up in our hearts. Thank you, Beckett. For everything. BECKETT: David, cans the ants wears the pants? DAVID: No Beckett, the ants cants wears the pants. BECKETT: Whys cants the ants wears the pants? DAVID: Because the ants donts wears the pants. BECKETT: Cans the ants dance withouts the pants? DAVID: The ants cans dance withs the pants and withouts the pants. But the antses donts wears the pantses. BECKETT: Ares the ants afeard to takes the chance to wears the pants because of accidants? DAVID: No, the ants arents afeard to take the chance to wears the pants, the ants just cants wears the pants. BECKETT: If the ants hads a cash advance perchance theys coulds affords the pants? DAVID: No, even if theys was given giant governmants grants, the ants wouldnts wears the pants. BECKETT: What ifs it was the govermants requiremants that all its constiuants musts wears the pants, woulds the ants be compliants? DAVID: No, the ants donts wears the pants and theys not participants in our govermants amendmants and entitlemants. BECKETT: So yous saying the ants cans dance without no pants no matter what our presidants rants or chants or scrawls on monumants? DAVID: Thats rights, Beckett. The ants cants, wonts, and donts wears the pants. (Long pause as Beckett ponders these new precedants.) BECKETT: Whats about the spats? Cans the cats wears the spats? DAVID: Beckett. BECKETT: David. Plaze. RIP Beckett. January 7, 2006 — May 17, 2017
This day, May 4, marks the 78th anniversary of the publication in 1939 of Finnegans Wake, by James Joyce. The image: “Minutwar 3: The Mime Of Mick, Nick, And The Maggies” (silver gelatin print, various toners and chemicals, and black). Circa 1995. Acid Invader. WaywordsAndMeansigns.com, a site dedicated to putting the text of Finnegans Wake to music, announced the release of their third installment today (“Open Door Edition”) and song number 43, “Not A Wired From The Wordless Either,” is by a group called the Sauerbraten Beef Ring. From the Waywords site: Sauerbraten (sour roast) is a very old German recipe traditionally made with horsemeat and vinegar. When the dish was served in the ceremonial shape of a ring, primitive Germanic tribes believed that they could communicate with spirits, gods, and other “sky beings” through the hole in the center of the meat. Inspired by ancient texts and recipes, a pair of engineers from San Luis Obispo, California, conducted experiments in the early 1990s using a Sauerbraten Beef Ring that they claim was capable of capturing and transmitting radio signals from deep space. They released their findings as two 45-minute “songs,” each filling a side of a 90-minute cassette tape. The tape, labeled “Hibernating Rockets” on one side and “A Spaceship Being Swallowed By A Black Hole” on the other, is either lost or in a private collection, but the legend surrounding this recording is that it contains the elusive “brown sound” and could induce nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea in anyone who heard it. #brownsound #diarrhea #horsemeat #finneganswake #jamesjoyce #WaywordsAndMeansigns
I am not into calendars. There are no holidays that I celebrate and I can count the birthdays and anniversaries that matter on one hand. I barely know what month it is right now, let alone what the next one is called. But there are a couple of dates throughout the year that are of interest to me and one of them is today, April 19. Today is the day that Picasso met Lump, his beloved dachshund, in 1957. He even made a plate to commemorate the occasion. I understand this date because this is the day that Picasso discovered the Dach Side. His life, and his art, would never be the same again. The equivalent in our life is January 7, the day our little wiener, Beckett, was born. And with Beckett around, every day is a holiday. Welcome to the Dach Side. Hail Lump.
I’m sorry, Dacchus said confused, but they’re going to weigh the smell of my farts? Yes, Plato C. Biscuit said. Although technically they weigh the smell of everything—your poops, your toots—the whole under carriage is considered. And how exactly does one weigh the smell? Dacchus asked. Well, that’s very complicated, but I do know that if your crap smells less than, or equal to, Hairy Stephanie’s crap, then that means you lived an honorable life and you and your crap are welcome in the Underworld. What if my crap smells worse than Hairy Stephanie’s crap? Dacchus asked. Oh, then we feed you to the Manure Monkey, Plato C. Biscuit replied, motioning to a small, dungeon gate built into the cliffs beside the citadel. Are those bones? Dacchus asked staring at the Manure Monkey’s door. Shhh, Plato hushed. They’re placing your poop on the scale. “The Weighing Of The Fart,” in F(art) Major. Performed by the Brekekekex Choir, featuring Three Frogs On A Log. Hello, greetings, and welcome to the Underworld. This is the end of the road, the Land Of The Dead. At the center of the Earth like an oyster’s pearl. Or maybe a fantasy from inside your head. But first, before you depart, we must weigh your farts. We’re going to listen for smells and measure the stinks. Your poop is on the scale, the judgment time starts. Then we compare it to Steph’s, to see what she thinks. We do not care at all about how your poop tastes. We’re concerned with the smell, not the size or the mass. When we put it on the scale to measure your waste. We are judging your Soul by the fumes from your ass. If the aroma be of a pleasant nature and not adverse. Then into underground Paradise you shall pass. But if you smell bad, terrible, or even worse. Like a hot trash can that’s filthy, foul, and funky. Like a rotten fish in the back of an old black hearse. Then you’re done, doomed, ready for delivery. You’re dinner for the magnificent Manure Monkey. Why is the past tense of stinky not stunky?. Paradise you won’t see, but your death will be fast. The Monkey will eat you, and he’ll start with your ass. #AcidInvader #Dachshund #CollageArt #CutAndPaste
The centaur stood on the riverbank at the base of a gangway that led to the deck of a peculiar boat. The vessel was part raft, part riverboat, and part who-knows-what-else because it appeared to be hobbled together with elements from every type of watercraft imaginable. Fare, the centaur said assuming a very business-like demeanor. Dacchus stuck out his tongue. Upon it was the Obol that Janice had given him. The centaur plucked it from his tongue, issued a receipt, and then wrapped a pink party bracelet around his wrist. The centaur stepped aside the gangway and, with a grand flourish, said, Welcome aboard the Underworld’s number one ferry, the SMS Sarkophag. This is the strangest boat I’ve ever seen, Dacchus mumbled as he boarded the vessel. It was a pastiche of dozens of different types of watercraft. As he walked up the gangplank, he recognized that it had elements from canoes, schooners, junks, galleons, skiffs, sloops (John B!), steamboats, barges, oil tankers, cruise ships, jet skis, sea doos, sea dids, yachts, dingies, pontoons, prams, proas, punts, wherrys, gondolas, masulas, coracles, cobles, sampans, scows, ketches, skipjacks, trawlers, wakas (wokka wokka!), yawls, tjotters, weidlings, whalers, pirogues, dhows, dingies, dories, boitas, braceras, and jukungs. There was even a runway for airplanes. My name, said the centaur as Dacchus strolled onto the deck, is Plato C. Biscuits. And I will be your guide as I deliver you to the Underworld where you will spend the rest of eternity in blissful Nothingness. How delightful! Dacchus exclaimed. It is a long and arduous journey, Plato C. Biscuits said as he took his place behind a steering wheel that looked like a yoke from an airplane cockpit. I suggest you make yourself comfortable. Will there be snacks along the way? Dacchus asked. Oh yes, the centaur said. Chef Kermit will be preparing a wide selection of delicacies to enjoy along the voyage. I recommend the Galaxia Goulash. It’s to die for. Is it a ghoulish goulash? Dacchus asked chuckling. Funny you say that, the Centaur said. It was originally spelled Ghoulash on the menu, but everyone’s a copy editor after they die, so we had to change it.
While Lord Dacchus was touring the Underworld he sent a telegram to his wife the Queen requesting a list of supplies. An attendant read the items aloud to Her Majesty Titania. Wait, Titania said. What was that last one again? The portrait of my wife that hangs in the hallway, the attendant replied. Rounded, rotund Titania reclined upon a pile of watercress pillows beside a forest pool and wiped the crumbs of cinnamon from the summit of her pregnant belly and took another lusty bite of her sticky bun. What’s he want that for? she asked. Says here, sentimental reasons, m’lady. Titania snorted. Can’t someone just take a picture of it and send it t’m? Why does he need the actual painting? He’s just going to mess it all up down there. Titania was very fond of her portrait. It was painted when she was only a few thousand years old, shortly after the first Miracle, and it was the only object that survived the Temple fire. As a child Titania was virtuous and chaste, yet her father always accused her of pooping behind the couch. In a bid to assure him her innocence, Titania assented to an Ordeal By Fire. Barefoot and wearing a gown covered in wax, the flames refused to embrace her. Titania emerged from the trial unscathed and innocent, yet her abusive father continued to imagine that it was she who had been poopin’ behind the couch. Disheartened by her father’s paucity, Titania left home and wandered into the forest. She soon came to a clearing where a mother bear was grieving over her dead cub. An Angel appeared, bowed, and said that Titania was the Faerie Queen. The Angel placed the lifeless cub in Titania’s arms and it returned to life. From then on the mother and her cub were devoted to Her Majesty Titania and they built a temple to her on the spot. The painting Dacchus requested was painted by the baby bear and once hung over the altar in that Temple. Titania opened her Grizzly scrimshaw locket, breathed on the mirror, then shut the clasp tight, fixing her smile upon it forever. Go get some poop from behind the couch, she said to her attendant. Frame it and send him that instead. And here, Titania said handing the attendant the locket. Put this in there.
C’mere, the centaur said motioning for Dacchus to approach. The centaur did not look at Dacchus because he was busy with a book atop a podium. As Dacchus got closer, he noticed a small, gold plaque on the face of the podium. It read, Plato C. Biscuits. After some time, the centaur took off his glasses, closed the book, and turned his attention to the tiny lil wiener that stood in the sand before his podium. There now, what do we have here? The centaur said taking a couple sniffs of the air. His brow furrowed. Are you dead? he asked Dacchus. Oh yes, Dacchus said, trying not to look nervous. Quite dead, yes. You don’t look dead, the centaur said suspiciously sniffing up and down. No, I’m dead, Dacchus said. As dead as dead can be. Well you’re the most alive looking dead person I’ve ever seen, the centaur said. Most dead people have maggots in their Eyes, centipedes shooting out of their Ears, and snails oozing out their Noses. You do have snails oozing out your Noses, don’t you? My Noses? Plural? Dacchus asked. Well you knows where the Nose is on your face, right? the centaur asked. Yes, of course, Dacchus replied. Good. Then do you know where your Don’t Nose is? No. My what? Dacchus asked confused. Your Don’t Nose, the centaur said. That’s probably where the snails are. But if you don’t knows what your Don’t Nose is, then you wouldn’t knows that you don’t knows where your Don’t Nose is. I don’t know, I guess? Therefore your Don’t Nose knows nothing and you don’t knows that you knows that your Don’t Nose knows nothing because your Nose don’t knows nothing neither for nevermore. No, I—what? Excellent! the centuar said clapping his hands together. So let’s see, that was a No, one I-Don’t-Knows, and another No, no? That’s three Nos. Add that to the Nose on your face, carry the Knows, and divide by Nope—one, two, three—my goodness! Four Noses! You must have foreknown this was going to happen! Dacchus had no idea what was going on, but it seemed to impress the centaur, so he just smiled and nodded. Portrait of Plato C. Biscuits and text excerpted from The Frogs Of Dacchus. #AcidInvader #Dachshund #CollageArt #CutAndPaste
“You can’t give them that,” Plato C. Biscuits [centaur ferryman to the Underworld] said as Dacchus placed a package on the gift table. Dacchus had only recently arrived in the Underworld when he was invited to his first Spud Shower. It’s kind of like a baby shower/Christening ritual, but for newborn potatoes. The Queen Spud gives birth to millions of tiny tater tots every day underground, yet the Spud Shower is a very important ceremony for every newborn tot: the young tuber is briefly nursed (always with a welding mask so it doesn’t become attached to the Queen), showered with gifts, weened, and then blasted to the surface where the spuds are harvested, enlightened, and transformed into French fries, hash browns, and vodka. “What’s wrong with Octomonkeys?” Dacchus asked surprised. The gift Dacchus had selected was a package of “instapets” known as Octomonkeys that he found in a comic book. They’re sort of like the Underworld version of Sea Monkeys—very popular with dead children. Just add water and you instantly have a colony of tiny creatures that look like eight legged monkeys. Within a year they’ll evolve into torch bearing super apes. “Octomonkeys carry the blight, you idiot!” Plato said. He explained that Octomonkeys host a fungus-like oomycete known as Phytophthora infestans that caused the potato crop failures in Ireland that led to The Great Famine of 1845. “Uh-oh,” Dacchus said. Dacchus dashed back to retrieve his package from the table that was now smothered, covered, and scattered with all kinds of wonderful presents. There was an aluminum foil onesie, a blanket of sour cream, a ski cap woven from bacon, a salt rattle, a chive comb, ketchup booties, and chili mittens. But just as Dacchus snatched up his Octomonkey potato poison, Hairy Stephanie, the Overtoad Of The Underworld, arrived at the party wearing an elegant smokestack gown. She walked right up to Dacchus who, without any pockets in his giraffe pants, shoved the Octomonkeys in his mouth. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Hairy Stephanie said extending a webbed hand. “I’m Hairy Stephanie. And you are?” Dacchus started to respond, but found that his mouth was coming to life.
The other night I was talking to my sister, Tracy—the one who wrote the “Four Black Hares” play—about the summer we spent together in Berlin. We shared an apartment near the Görlitzer Bahnhof and frequented a bar on Wiener Strasse called Bar 11. (Yes, the bar really is on “Wiener Street.”) The two bartenders were doppelgangers for Mickey Reyes and Salman Agah. Mickey and Salman made us very happy by serving us Jägermeister all night long from a very loud Jägermeister machine. We’d yell, “MO JÄGO!” and they’d fire up the machine. WHIRRR! WHIRRR! WHIRRR! It may as well have just announced, “ALCOHOLIK! DIESE MENSCHEN SIND ALKOHOLIK!” The Jäger was going down so easy at Bar 11 that we decided to buy our own Jägermeister machine for our apartment. “For the bedroom!” Tracy squealed. She was joking, but as it turned out the only place to put the Jägermeister machine in the tiny apartment was on the table next to our bed. (In Germany siblings sleep together well into middle age so I didn’t have any problem with this arrangement, but apparently Tracy didn’t get much sleep the whole summer because of my farting. Every time I visit her in Germany I get really gassy. I think it’s all the beer.) But if the Jägermeister machine was loud in Bar 11, it sounded like a chorus of lawnmowers in our bedroom. Still, we were very fond of it. Here’s a typical evening. Setting: Berlin apartment. Living room. VADER (aka Acid Invader) and TRACY are on the couch watching TV. VADER (getting up): Good night. TRACY: Good night? It’s 3:30 in the afternoon. VADER: Yep. Pretty tired. Big day tomorrow. VADER opens bedroom door, exits stage right. TRACY: (to herself): Weirdo. TRACY shrugs her shoulders and goes back watching TV. Suddenly a loud, lawnmower noise erupts from the bedroom. WHIRRRRRRRRR! TRACY jumps up and runs to the bedroom door. It’s locked. TRACY: Hey! What’s going on in there? Are you drinking Jägermeister again? VADER (muffled): … uh… … … no… Silence for a moment. Then… WHIRRRRRRRRR! TRACY: VADER! VADER: PLAZE! We spent a lot of time in that bedroom. Anyway, Bar 11 on Wiener Strasse serves the best Jägermeister in Germany. Mo Jägo!
This is an illustration I did for a play written by my sister. She lives in Europe and was commissioned by the Grand Duchy Of Tuscany to develop a new production of “The Adventures Of Pinocchio.” Unfortunately her script, along with my illustrations, was rejected because her interpretation of the classic tale strayed into unusual territory. Her script, “Four Black Hares,” is not about a mischievous little puppet, but instead about four black rabbits that make a very brief appearance in Chapter 17 of the original story. Pinocchio is sick, but the insolent puppet refuses to drink his medicine. He even says that he’d rather die than drink the bitter remedy: At that moment the door of the room flew open and four rabbits as black as ink entered carrying on their shoulders a little bier. "What do you want with me?" cried Pinocchio, sitting up in bed in a great fright. "We have come to take you," said the biggest rabbit. “To take me? But I am not yet dead!” My sister’s script begins here and follows the rabbits who exit the story without a dead puppet. In fact, I don’t think Pinocchio is mentioned once in her version. Instead, she wrote an absurdist piece in the spirit of Stoppard’s “Rosencrantz And Guildenstern Are Dead,” about four black hares that each represent a different card suit and answer to a mysterious “Master Of Puppets” named Mario Netten Meister. A sample… Neil, The Diamond Rabbit (diamonds). George, The Cony Culture Club (clubs). Nancy Ann, Hare Of Darkness (hearts). Lemmy, Ace Of Spades (spades). Scene: rabbit hutch in Mario Netten Meister’s castle. Nancy Ann: Mama says she's a worried. Neil: Sweet Caroline? George: I’ll tumble for her! Lemmy, will you tumble for Sweet Caroline? Lemmy: George, please. You know I’m born to lose. Neil: Well, I’m Reachin' out. Touchin' me. Touchin' you. Nancy Ann: Neil, that’s very nice and—get your hands off me—but try and understand, try and understand, my mother is a magic ma’am. Neil: But hands, touchin’ hands? Nancy Ann: No. Stop it. Lemmy: Yeah Neil, give it a rest: you win some, you lose some, it’s all a game to me. George: Games? Did someone say games? I'll be your score. I'll tumble 4 you!
This is another beautifully preserved page from the recently discovered illuminated manuscript, “The Frogs Of Dacchus.” It depicts a pair of Pie Rats, one nesting in a tree with two hillbilly wiener witches disguised as hummingbirds, the other munches on nuts at the tree’s base along the Rhine River. Medusa’s younger sister, Euryale, can be seen reclining in the corner. An oil tanker (perhaps the Exxon Valdez) appears to have run aground near the Lorelei, spilling its cargo of baby Loch Ness Monsters into the river, one of whom is curious about Dracula’s Castle atop the cliffs. The image is receiving a lot of attention from scholars who are particularly interested in the tree at the center of the composition. They think it might be a rare glimpse at what many have thought a myth, the legendary Maestro Tree. The Maestro Tree was said to have produced a stone fruit that, when ripe, resembles a small, marble bust of the composer, Ludwig Van Beethoven. When the wind rustled the branches, the fruits apparently sounded as if they were whistling in C-minor, a favorite key of the German composer. The Beethoven fruit was also an ideal nest for a species of spiders that would take up residence in the “ear” of the fruit and lay eggs deep in the “brain.” The baby spiders grow up eating the insides of the nutrient-rich flesh of the Beethoven fruit. The fruit is subsequently poisoned by the spider venom, grows deaf, then goes bananas, dies, and the pit falls to the ground. This is the stage which researchers are most interested because they believe that the Pie Rats may have been harvesting the Beethoven pits for nut liquor. Much like the Pehuenche people of the Andes Mountains, who boiled and fermented the almonds of the Monkey Puzzle Tree to make chicha, scholars now believe that the Pie Rats were fermenting the fallen Beethoven fruits to create a potent alcoholic, and possibly hallucinogenic, concoction. If true, this theory would account for the bizarre reports in the ancient sagas of Pie Rats entering battle “in a state of wild fury” and “going completely berserker” as if they were under the influence of a powerful drug.
(Portrait of Dacchus and excerpt from the ancient text “The Frogs Of Dacchus.”) As the path narrowed and the dense forest grew denser to the point where it was virtually impenetrable, Dacchus paused to untangle his dress from a thorny branch. Argh! Grandma’s underpants! he cursed. Worried someone might have heard him, he added under his breath, Pardon my French. Then he wondered if he was wearing a pair of grandma’s underpants? It was very possible. Janice had disguised Dacchus as an old, dead lady. Specifically as a member of notorious Maidens Of Moth, a coven of hillbilly wiener witches that look deader than Death itself. She really decked him out and gussied him up in the finest old lady apparel assuring him, despite his protests, that this is how witchy women dress, like a cat in the dark, like a woman taken by the wind: flowing funeral skirts, ghoulish gowns, mourning dresses, black lace shawls, thunder stockings, amethyst elbow gloves, fishnet pantyhose (made from authentic mermaid nets with ensared sailor parts), cobra wigs, mom jeans, embalming sweaters, Apache tear stains, raven veils, lil exorcist capes, suicide vests, locust wings, dark crystals, vampire bikinis, coffin nail earrings, moonstone necklaces, werewolf beards, platinum catheters, tomb sandals, born again cardigans, poltergeist panties, forbidden hats (affixed with lightning rods), age-inappropriate lingerie (but no bras), electric boots, and a mohair suit. Very impressive, Dacchus said when Janice showed him a mirror. But do I look dead? Oh yes, very dead, Janice said. Janice had helped him swap the head for the tail, as she described it, so that he was technically dead and thus on the path to the entrance to the Underworld which was somewhere between his own buttocks. He wasn’t sure how he got there, but there he was in the crack of his own ass having a fine time struggling with a seemingly impenetrable forest looking for the Tunnel Of Love, the entrance to the Underworld. #WitchyWoman #Rhiannon #HillbillyWienerWitches #IntroducingDacchus #AcidInvader #Dachshund #CollageArt #CutAndPaste
Detail from a portrait of Dacchus visiting the Underworld disguised as a hillbilly wiener witch. You may, or may not, see the whole portrait. In this regard, it should be noted that Dacchus was an international world champion hole digger. He set all kinds of records in his day. He dug to China, for instance, with both arms tied behind his back. His greatest achievement, however, was the invention of half-a-hole. Before Dacchus, wieners never announced they were going to dig a hole. This was partly due to the fact that they tend to live in the Now and have difficulty comprehending the concept of a Future, not to mention that they find it rather silly to announce that they may or may not complete this or that task and the result is “coming soon.” Dacchus, on the other hand, saw a great benefit in talking about projects he was thinking about doing and it was in the midst of this practice that he made his discovery. While digging one of his world famous holes, Dacchus paused to rest and used the opportunity to announce to the spectators that he had not only embarked on a project, but that this particular project was approximately halfway to completion. He had, in fact, dug half-a-hole. At this point in history, no one had ever seen half-a-hole before. A hole is a hole is a hole. Yet Dacchus, to everyone’s surprise, had produced before their eyes half-a-hole. There was such a hulla balloo made over Dacchus’ half-a-hole that people started going crazy for any fraction of a hole that wasn’t a whole hole. One week they loved half-a-hole, the next week a quarter-of-a-hole, the next summer minimal 1/16th-of-a-hole holes were all the rage. Right now, for instance, contemporary A-Holers (as they’re known) are experimenting with mind-boggling negative holes like -3.14-of-a-hole. That’s a whole lot of nothing. Dacchus made a fortune digging fractions-of-a-hole holes and never dug a whole hole again for the rest of his whole life. He is buried in the Graveyard Of The Gods. And while Dacchus’ grave is twice as long as the usual grave, it’s half as deep. #SuckInProgress #SIP #ComingNever #HalfAHole #AHoleIsAHole #AHole #AcidInvader #Dachshund #CollageArt #CutAndPaste
Well, she doesn’t like to take credit for it, but the piece began when ole Titania, here, pooped on top of the mountain on the backside of our property. She took a big ole crap up there. Looked kinda like one a them Jeff Koons balloon dog things, all shiny, but instead of a dog, it was a poop. And it was a real poop. Just fantastic. Problem was it was too fantastic. That pile of crap was so tall that it made the sun set two hours earlier than usual. And that gave the cats, and all their shady little friends, a head start on getting up to no good. Once those ne’er-do-wells see the sun set, they start tuning up their instruments, banging on trashcans, and the cacophony doesn’t end til dawn. So, as magnificent as Titania’s heap of dung was, we had to get that crap off the mountain. First, we had to have a road built on the side of the mountain so that the pile could be transported down to the valley. In fact, there wasn’t even a valley, so we had to have that built as well. Once the valley and the road were built, then we had to bring in a professional fart handling company called Fart Box Inc.. The fart handlers they sent were an interesting couple: a baby deer named, Bambi, and a tree frog named, Hairy Stephanie. They turned out to be a delight to work with and handled Titania’s excrement with the utmost care. Steph and Bambi gently dismantled the pile and separated it into three giant logs. Then they wrapped each log individually in giant Tyvek doodoo bags and cavity-packed them into custom-built wood crates. Operating a gigantic crane, the pair loaded the stool-laden crates onto climate-controlled stagecoaches, which then made the arduous journey down the mountain with an armed escort. The crates were off-loaded at the bottom of the valley and the enormous fecal effigies were erected in the center of our idyllic meadow. And that is where Titania’s poops have rested ever since. What began as a giant pile of crap on top of our mountain is now a National Monument and a major tourist attraction known simply as The Poops. If you’d like to support The Poops, or plan a visit to The Poops National Monument, please visit www.thepoops.com.
Gary may be dead, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t up there doing kickflip b/s tailslides on his new limited edition posthumous signature dead kitty cat deck from @paisleyskates. Being born tailless, Gary was always fascinated with anything having to do with tail. Available at paisleyskates.com and fine skate shops worldwide. #LimitedEditionGaryPosthumousSignatureDeadKittyCatDeck #acidinvader