A Portrait of the Artist as Yours Truly
Spurned on by the silent retreat of a setting sun sparingly silhouetting a silver Mercury Sable, I recount, and thusly, relive the weekend past.
This not a tale, I daresay, of failure or regret. Following this weekend, dear reader, only feelings of redemption and salvation pollute my otherwise morally bankrupt thought stream.
Gumby had risen from his chair, ending a dissolute period in which he stared lifelessly at his plate, ignoring la nourriture before him, subsisting solely on beer and cigarettes. Alas, t'was near hour 144 when his inner motivator rose, like Sally Field in Norma Rae, begging, nay, demanding release from the shackles of sloth and indignant, wasteful relaxation therapy.
Recently, my sporadic Video Game Addiction once again reared it's ugly (yet personable) visage, tempting me with the opportunity to free a long dead (but personally betraying) King and lift the burden of his Seven Sorrows. As I am never one to turn away such charitable callings, I responded in the affirmative to his beckoning, and through Gauntlet: For PlayStation II, myself and three other warriors heard (and heeded) the call of, responded to, and ultimately made humble the aforementioned Sorrows, and all was free and clear upon the land. Mine own sorrow, however, is one to which I remain an unerring, enduring servant.
When battling life's real sorrows, one needs to summon ones' own inner warrior. Why stop at just one, when three other such fine specimens of warriordom are available?
In calling upon the three warriors, I invented a beverage entitled either the eponymous "Three Warriors," or the "Cherry Bomb," which may or may not already exist with such a name, but certainly not the combination of Southern Comfort, Rumpleminze, and Jagermeister, all straight from the freezer. And wearing capes, wielding straws and plastic flamingo stirrers with reckless abandon.
Summoning our own inner beasties made manifest outward expressions of this variable (but vibrant) warriordom.
Ellsworth, the driver, decides to saw the top off a keg.
Achieving spectacular results.
I retreat to my inner artistic warrior's secret hiding place, Kadath, to create part two of the atrocity: Custom glass top piece..
... To create a horrifyingly childish but wholly original gravity water pipe.
Unfortunately, we are prone to Dolphin Abuse; and this poor fishy is on the receiving end. There's something about making a dolphin smoke out of a Gravity Bong that, well, contains elements of an unattainable, yet painfully sought for, earthly salvation, and for that reason, I endeavor to create and photograph such atrocities.
Because it's been that kind of week (or three), another creation fell through the tubes into the oft erratic womb of universal birth, and from fire and earth was made:
Aforementioned Ellsworth the Driver waxes philosophically (and, of course, lyrically) about his newest culinary creation...
Hot slop, which fortunately for us, brings forth the conditions of redemption, gastrointestinal cleanliness, and not just internal but overall unspecific excellence.
Pasta.. Beans.. Vegetarian Chili.. Bread.. Pizza Crust.. Cauliflower.. Carrots.. Blue Cheese Olives.. Two Year Old Frozen Homemade Turkey Soup..
Harbringer of Hope, Solemn signifier of a day gone by but pregnant with the promise of a dawn yet to come and dreams made possible to fulfill, the waxing colors of dusk fade fast, a streetlight it's sole witness, discreetly mimicking a New Gibbous moon, itself a lunar charlatan.