Pej Jorf, one of the characters in Philips Wouwerman’s work, Fishermen Near The Beach, was abducted from the painting by aliens shortly after the work was completed in 1643. The aliens landed on the surface of the oil painting in a spaceship hobbled together with unidentifiable scraps from other crafts and plucked Pej out of his seat using a tractor beam created with highly advanced Adobe software technology. I counteth Fishe on the grounde, Pej Jorf said in a written account of the event, when I was pulled into the Heavens as if by a Hooke. Pej recalls very little from the experience, but he was able to describe the aliens as, fmall, fhadowey, withe darcke eyef, like little Witchef, and that the interior walls of the craft were covered with Dutch landscape paintings, most by Philips Wouwerman. The aliens, apparently, were big fans of Wouwerman’s work. The aliens explained to Pej Jorf that they had abducted him so that he might help them name their new dog. Wouwerman was the owner of two dachshunds, known as the Garcia Brothers, and the aliens were so enamored by the artist’s work that they wished to emulate everything about the great Dutch painter. So the aliens had recently rescued their own dachshund puppy. What would Wouwerman have named this wiener? the aliens asked Pej Jorf. Pej Jorf said he was a simple fisherman and had no idea who Philips Wouwerman was. The aliens explained to Pej Jorf that, yes, you are a simple fisherman, but only in Wouwerman’s painting. Therefore you were created by Philips Wouwerman, you are a product of his imagination, thus you have seen the internal workings of the artist’s mind. Please supply our new dachshund with a name the great Master would approve of. This came as a great shock to Pej Jorf. While Pej Jorf could admit he was a simple man who led a simple life, he took great offense that anyone would consider him so simple that he was nothing more than a figment of another man’s imagination rendered as a few specks of oil paint in the corner of an oak panel. To be continued. #AcidInvader #Dachshund #CollageArt #CutAndPaste #PoetsOfInstagram
As I Lay Dying. PEABODY. Don’t you lie there and try to tell me you rode six days on a wagon without springs, with a broken leg and it never bothered you. It never bothered me much, he said. You mean, it never bothered Anse much, I said. No more than it bothered him to throw that poor devil down in the public street and handcuff him like a damn murderer. Don't tell me. And don't tell me it ain't going to bother you to lose sixty-odd square inches of skin to get that concrete off. And don't tell me it ain't going to bother you to have to limp around on one short leg for the balance of your life—if you walk at all again. Concrete, I said. God Amighty, why didn't Anse carry you to the nearest sawmill and stick your leg in the saw? That would have cured it. Then you all could have stuck his head into the saw and cured a whole family. VARDAMAN. My mother is a fish. Text from “As I Lay Dying,” by William Faulkner. Image and collage by Acid Invader. The image is a darkroom test print I recently found in an old pile of chemically laden sponges and silver halide blankets hibernating in toxic ghost baths. Swipe right to see the original photograph in full: My Mother Is A Fish (As I Lay Dying). #ToxicGhostBath #IREADBOOKS #BookyBookBooks #WilliamFaulkner #AcidInvader #CollageArt #CutAndPaste
ARTICHOKE The artichoke owes its existence to Zeus. On a visit to see his brother, Poseidon, Zeus spotted a beautiful woman, Cynara, bathing on the beach. He fell in love, seduced her, took her back to Olympus, and made her a goddess. Cynara, however, grew lonesome and wasn’t feeling the goddess life. When Zeus found out she was sneaking back home to visit her family, he turned her into an artichoke and threw her back to earth like an old piece of fruit. The scientific name for artichoke—Cynara cardunculus—derives from this woman’s unfortunate story. GIRASSE Girasse (a cross between a donkey and a giraffe) are revered for their testicles. The giant, fuzzy, spotted orbs are beautiful objects in and of themselves, but they are also considered a delicacy because they’re filled with butterscotch. The Girasse were nearly hunted to extinction because of their lovely nards. FOXY DOXY The Foxy Doxy is a species of ancient pygmy dachshunds crossed with red foxes (according to “The Scrolls Of Alnilam’s Scarlet Daughters,” codex 46-orION). The Foxy Doxy live in rugged, mountainous terrain where they grow artichokes on terraces that spiral into pits in the Earth. They use the thistles for magical elixirs, salves, and the like. The ancient Romans particularly enjoyed the Foxy Doxy’s aphrodisiac artichoke recipes. DOX SAVE THE GIRASSE The Foxy Doxy valued the Girasse’s habitat and protected it from poachers and predators, thus saving the species from extinction. The Foxy Doxy eventually domesticated the wild beasts and discovered that they were a benefit to artichoke farming. The Girasse could manure the beds, harvest the highest globes, and roam the terraces of thistles at night singing a strange song that kept the pests, and gods alike, away from their buds. Their haunting melody has been described as sounding something like Billy Holiday’s “Strange Fruit,” but slowed down to the speed of a whale song. The mellifluous Girasse (sometimes pejoratively called the “The Girassic Lark”) may have created an unearthly wail, but its sublime song kept the bittersweet Cynara safe and that was beautiful music to the Foxy Doxy ear. #AcidInvader #Dachshund #CollageArt #CutAndP
Our dachshund, Beckett, used to hump our friend Mark’s (@randallbites) German shepherd, Colette. All the time. “That’s my bitch,” Beckett would say when he’d see Colette. Then he’d try and mount his bitch from behind. This always looked ridiculous because Colette was a full-grown shepherd, whereas Beckett was a 12-pound lil wiener. Imagine a mouse trying to have sex with an elephant. “This bitch gonna make me puppies! Right now! Plaze!” Beckett, unlike his parents, was very Christian, so he did not cuss. “Bitch,” as you know, is not a cuss word when used in the context of dogs. But the fervor that Beckett brought to the task of creating puppies in the name of his Lord and Saviour, the Lil Baby Jesus, seemed too enthusiastic for someone of faith. He worked so hard at making puppies in Colette’s backyard that we all wondered if he wasn’t enjoying it a little too much. “Considering the degree of faith that Beckett has,” Mark wondered after watching Beckett mount Colette over and over one afternoon, “how does he justify all of the humping?” According to Beckett, God had commanded him to “make some puppies, plaze.” He was simply “doing God’s will” when he would spend an entire afternoon harassing Colette’s rear end. Beckett, being the good little Christian that he was, promised to continue depositing his seed in this bitch until Lil Baby Jesus created “a miracle” and some puppies fell out of Colette’s butt. This would indeed be a miracle since they were both fixed, but we couldn’t help trying to imagine what the resulting puppies would look like. In my mind, the creature would have a big wolf head, a lil cocktail wiener body, and tiny lil legs. We named the new breed, The Beckolette. “Man, those puppies would be dumb,” Tania said. “Yeah, but I don't mind,” Mark said, “as long as I get a miniature, elongated German shepherd. So make me some puppies, bitch!” “Danke,” Beckett said. “Plaze.” Above: Two Beckolettes, with Nazi officers, outside the Wolfschanze, Hitler's field headquarters (aka “The Wolf's Lair”), shortly after the attempted assassination of the Fuhrer by members of his own High Command. Hermann Goering is in the rear group in white.
What do you, like, want lightning ‘n stuff for? a Weird Sister asked. How ‘bout some baboon blood? I mean, seezly, shuh. Dacchus hates calling on The Weird Sisters. They’re annoying and, as the name implies, weird. But Dacchus needed raw, pure thunderbolts and the only way to get them is through the three witches. Can we just get this over with? Dacchus asked impatiently. The lightning is manufactured by the Cyclopes in their volcano forge, but the only beings allowed to approach the ferocious one-eyed giants are the three sisters (some say they’re related to the Cyclopes). The Cyclopes will trade lightning for Wiener Gold, a material they’re very fond of, but harvesting Wiener Gold is an uncomfortable process that requires Dacchus’ complete submission and forfeiture of his body to the witches’ magic. Fiiiiine, another Weird Sister drawled. Whateverrrrr, pfft. To begin, the Weird Sisters transport Dacchus to the top of a Faerie mound where they jam a hose up his butt and pump him full of spagyric ingredients that include, among other things, one of Saturn’s inner rings; The Library Of Alexandria (still on fire); a cloud that on first glance looks like a face, but on second thought not (CVB); a knot of Cthulhu’s pubic hair; a jazz tempo that has not been discovered yet; a pauper’s graveyard from Pluto; and six drops of sour milk, one from each of the Weird Sisters’ drippy nipples. The result is a thicker wiener with massive cock pins. Once Dacchus is all juiced up, the witches remove his left arm and replace it with a scorpion tail. A Moon Rabbit is decapitated and its head is impaled on the stinger. Then they stroke the hare’s ears while chanting a magical incantation that is accompanied by a dirge played on a piano made from the shoes of dead children. When everything is properly aligned, liquid Wiener Gold oozes out of the hare’s mouth. The Weird Sisters collect it in their weird buckets, and exchange it for the Cyclops lightning. Danke, witches, Dacchus said once recovered and in possession of a brilliant white bag of 100% pure electric sky power. This, he thought to himself, will make for a lovely pot of Thunder Chili. #acidinvader #dachshund
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!