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Topics - Herbertina Merrique V

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1
http://www.youtube.com/watch#!v=piGK_hCYCq0

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cxjgvdOYhpk

I got this idea of drawing a Sailor Eris comic, googled it to see if someone else has already done it, and found this.
I'm a bit dissappointed though, especially when the title of the second vid is "Sparkling Vengeance Shot". All she does is jump around as some kind of a lame shadow, when she should at the very least be bitchslapping the shit out of the entire universe and tearing continents into pieces with her nail extensions. :argh!:

2
I just wanted to say,

YOUR MUSIC FUCKING ROCKS.

No, one thread wasn't enough.

3
Or Kill Me / New Stars
« on: January 21, 2010, 07:35:36 pm »
I’m currently drafting a photography/poetry/rant book about nocturnal cityscapes, the effects of corporatism, the culture jamming movement, and blah blah blah stuff like that. This will probably be the title text.
To most of you people, this is probably just stating the obvious, but I decided to post it here anyway, because insert reason.
(Also, my English might not be perfect all the time, I'm Finnish and very very tired)

New Stars

There are legions marching down the nocturnal streets of each city, and I know you have seen them too.

Even if you can’t recall any of those encounters the next morning – that’s simply because those people really don’t seem different from the others who wander around the city at 2 a.m. But if you stood in one place and watched, truly watched, for the whole night, you’d notice that some people are not on the way to their homes after a drunken party, nor are they night-shift workers walking towards another night of tired boredom, nor hobos freezing without a home in the autumn night.
Some people simply drift.

They have no stars to follow, apart from the glistening, colourful ad lights. Still, none of them find any comfort in those images – they don’t need the Sacred Golden Arches or the warm, welcoming windows of the 24h diners to feel safe. This is mostly because they really don’t need to feel safe at all.
Wandering around in the night, looking up to the New Stars belonging to this world of ours, they create ironic bitter constellations of their own. Armed with razors and stickers, they play with the lights and twist them to fit their taste, and they do so to make up for the vast space they lost, the brutally muted starry sky and the Moon which doesn’t really manage to outshine even the faintest streetlight anymore.
For the Moon is pale and grey, it doesn’t twinkle or evolve into a whole new family of products and it hasn’t got a psychologically optimized colour surface with your ad printed on it. At least yet, it hasn’t.

Some of those people really miss the Moon, and those nights when they felt overwhelmed by the Universe just because they stood still watching the stars for a while. The new stars, the bright colourful twinkling ones, don’t make you think about anything uncomfortable, like how irrelevant our life is, the rules we create to control an uncertain existence. And they’re not light years away, and they’re not larger than life.
They give your life a purpose instead of taking it away, they are close to you and they are your Friend and they want to Be You – they are stars you can buy, wear, even feed to your dog. Wishing upon the old stars never did you any good, anyway, and the new ones are right here to satisfy needs you didn’t even know you had.
But still, those people dare to be discontent with the brand new Heaven on Earth.

When the world once again awakes to the noise of happy families and shiny new cars, they simply aren’t there anymore. You can search all you like through the gangs of depraved youth and the Badass Alternative Subcultures, but there’s a little voice inside you saying that the scapegoat was probably not the actual criminal. Sure, punk rockers and suchlikes like to smash places, but that can’t be all there is to it. We’ve all heard of the countries where they ban heavy metal and force hippies to cut their hair – somehow it never really reduces the attacks. And you’d like to think you know who was behind them, because that would bring you a vague sense of comfort; hip hoppers paint graffiti, but you know they have their stars too, like any decent fellows. They can be categorized and avoided, neatly like foodstuff you’re allergic to.
It’s much harder just to accept that someone somewhere is behind all the horrible vandalism, but you will never be able to tell by the clothes or occupation. They’re probably not even members of the AdBusters. It rather sounds like a conspiracy, actually.

The truth is, you will never find them. They’re gone with the rising sun.
But you can spot the tiny items those people have reclaimed. Someone painted a handsome moustache for the woman in the Lóreal ad, and the guy livin’ on the Coke side of life seems to be hanged in a noose painted with dogshit. Childish, isn’t it? Quick, hurry past the stains left by losers with nothing better to do than ruining the commercial hell.

The beautiful beautiful commercial hell.

Those creatures of the night have gone to their ordinary office workplaces by now, or the shopping malls or whatever places decent people like to spend their time at. They could be your boss; they pay their bills and love their kids and do their homework – but turn your back, and they take off their suit and tie and grin at you with a bittersweet smile and a spray can. They know what they do may be worth little in the end, but it is a statement, and a message for the others not to feel so alone.
They probably still do. But whenever they realize they’re further away from finding a home than ever before, they again smile at themselves, for that’s how it has always been, and that’s how it probably should be; homes too often tend to brand people.

There are legions, really.

Don’t try to tell me I’m the only one.

4
http://www.ocweekly.com/2007-02-08/news/illegally-park-ed/

Fine, this is an old article, but   :argh!::hi5::?:hi5::x

Quote
No one disputes that an on-duty Irvine police officer got an erection and ejaculated on a motorist during an early-morning traffic stop in Laguna Beach. The female driver reported it, DNA testing confirmed it and officer David Alex Park finally admitted it.

When the case went to trial, however, defense attorney Al Stokke argued that Park wasn't responsible for making sticky all over the woman's sweater. He insisted that she made the married patrolman make the mess—after all, she was on her way home from work as a dancer at Captain Cream Cabaret.

"She got what she wanted," said Stokke. "She's an overtly sexual person."

Quote
On the witness stand, Park explained that he'd called Lucy out of concern for a citizen's safety. He also shrugged his shoulders when Kamiabipour slowly listed the first names of nine Captain Cream female employees—Annette, Denise, Rashele, Marlia, Brandi, Andrea, Deborah, Laura and Shannon—whose license plates he'd run through the DMV computer in the weeks prior to his sexual encounter with Lucy.

Quote
In a secretly-recorded phone call to Laguna Beach police shortly after the incident, Lucy recalled that she'd told Park she had no license. Park began "rubbing himself up against me," she said. "Then, he said, 'What are we going to do here, Lucy?'"

Park unzipped his pants, took his penis out and got an erection, she explained. "Basically, the officer made me give [him] a freaking hand job and he let me go. I'm so freaked out about it."

5
Yes, that's right! By telling an obviously untrustworthy lurker exactly where you live, you now have the chance to receive a Really Real Christmas Card, possibly even before Easter!

(And a hundred of neatly hand-written letters filled with cheap Viagra ads and detailed pencil pictures of would-be hawt men. Because, frankly, snailmail spam is underrated.)

6
Or Kill Me / Why the world should be moar like PD.com
« on: March 19, 2009, 09:05:42 pm »
A friend of mine, who watched me lurking here and was startled by the amount of nasty evil asshattery around this place, asked why I search the company of such awful fucktards and jaded misanthropes - people who most definitely are not nice, who lie and cheat and argue without even having a proper reason for that.

Well that friend was a cabbage, obviously.

If you spend time in a community which mostly bashes its members and tries its very best to fuck their reality up in completely unfair manners, you really don't have a reason to trust that community. Sure, the people there have great ideas, they can sometimes even cooperate to produce brilliant fireworks of anti-spaggotry and WIN, but at random times, they just turn their backs and mock and deride you for whatever reasons they invent.

In caring and friendly communities, you learn that the people around you are on your side and want to see you succeed in life - you begin to believe they know what's good for you, that their rules and manners are actually designed to set you free.
But if the people around you are filled with the beautiful, annoying, horrible, wonderful little thing called discord, you obviously begin to question them. Unless you are a godawful jerk, that is. The group does not develop a strong dogmatic code of behaviour, or at least not as strong as the one found in more loving communities. Fuckers make you use your brain; Discordians should stick apart, and in this case, the best way to do so is getting together.

We are teh Discordian society and we love you by throwing shit all over your ugly little spagface, spag.

Uh, seriously though, think about it. A world like PD? :horrormirth:

7
GASM Command / BrideGASM
« on: January 25, 2009, 02:10:33 pm »
As a result of a shitload of soap opera and angst and drama, I just received a beautiful snow-white wedding dress. I was told to do whatever I want with it, including burning, tearing and burying it, dressing a snowman in it, handing it out to a stranger, filling it with safety pins and spikes and chains, etc.
As I'll probably have use for it in many mindfuckeries, I don't really want to ruin it unless it's for great justice and epic WIN, but there are so many things to do with it.

- Wearing it, I could run to the nearest bar (muttering bitterly and looking like I've cried my eyes out) and buy all the booze I want despite the fact that I am way under the legal age. Okay, it's proven that I don't need a wedding dress for getting in, but this would be funney though I don't even like alcohol that much.
- I could mail it to a stranger.
- I could bury it for a few days, then put it on and walk slowly from the cemetery to the town. Looking like a living dead is almost my profession, so this would be a nice add. (Even better if I could actually rise from under all the snow, hmm. The poor people wouldn't notice me in all the whiteyness until I'm right in front of them.)
- I could actually put it on a snowman somewhere and leave it there.
- The street improvisation possibilities are endless - I'm in a small artist crew that probably would like to join a wedding flashmob on the street. Random people just suddenly arranging themselves into a priest, a young pair and their weeping parents. Quick, really odd vows and then keep walking as if it never happened.
- Or I could ask someone to play my fiancé in the middle of a mall, desperately trying to get her beloved sweetheart back to the church. ("The goat was a horrible mistake, I know, but please forgive me! Annabelle, come back!")
- I could stain the dress with blood and let it dry, then get an urn, and sit with it in the same bus or on a bench the whole day, just looking into nothingness with hollow eyes. It should creep the fuck out of people.
- I'm sure the store cashier would wake up from her boring routines if I wore the dress and bought a really strange combo of stuff. Like twelve cucumbers, a body builder magazine, some doorknobs and an axe.

Maybe this has little to do with spreading the word or actually forcing people to Think, but hey, it's fun. (And it could be of use in the more thought-provoking stuff too. Discordian Weddings™, spoiling the best day of your life by showing up in the church looking like the bride and throwing apples at your mother.)

8
Literate Chaotic / And the Darkness –
« on: January 23, 2009, 06:38:31 pm »
Just a quick draft of a short story based on the urban legends of black-eyed children (ITT). I might write a proper version when not in a fever of 39 C. Any feedback would be appreciated.

~~~~~

“Um… I don’t know, really. Shouldn't you be home at this hour?”

The child’s face reflects a strange horror, that of a person who realizes he has made a fatal mistake, and is currently trying to cope with the fact that it might be impossible to undo. He shakes his head slightly, almost unnoticeably, and touches the elbow of his companion, as if to warn her. (He knows –  he has seen them.)
She keeps a friendly expression, a smile on her beautiful mocha face, but behind it I can see a dark flicker of something else. I suddenly feel like throwing up and dizzy oh it’s all a haze and no child should ever feel that way never think those things never ever be those things -

“Please, sir, we only need to get home. It lies a few blocks away from here. Our mother told us not to walk the streets this late, but we missed the last bus and I broke my cell phone. We need to get home before eleven. Please.”
She talks with an oddly calm voice as she explains the situation over again. Not a voice of a child who’s alone with her little brother in the middle of a dark city with no phone or money.
Her clothes, a tight purple hoodie and jeans, seem completely normal for a young girl nowadays. Her teeth are white, perfectly shaped, her hair a thick cascade of chocolate tied on two curly pigtails. But it’s too dark to see – are her eyes… yes. They are black, in the light of the lamppost, utterly devoid of colours, and with no visible irises.
Despite the chills her stare sends down my spine, she is cute; she will probably grow up quite a beauty. (We do not grow up.)

“Let us in your car, sir. It’s cold here, please.”
This is the first time the boy opens his mouth. He looks somewhat like his sister, with the same slightly darker tone of skin, and is, perhaps, ten of age. But his expression remains despaired – he almost looks like he is about to cry. (He knows he knows we should have picked the old man.) He is not that beautiful, a bit chubby and with carelessly chosen clothes and messy hair.

The girl turns her face towards his brother in horrible anger, looking like she’s going to punch (SLAUGHTER) him right away. Realizing that I am still here, she composes herself and looks at me again, but casts one last glance on the boy. (Shut the fuck up, HE HAS NO IDEA.)
“I am sorry, sir. But we seriously need to get inside before some dangerous freak lays his eyes on us. You don’t want to read that a girl aged twelve has been raped and beaten and killed, and see my face in the pictures of tomorrow’s papers. Let us in.” (LET US IN.)

The girl keeps her voice as friendly as possible, but despite that, I feel the fear creep down my neck, follow my spine, fill me up and somehow make it hard to breathe in the presence of these two children. Are they going to kill me if I let them in? I have no money. My car is ten years old. I don’t look rich. Why should they feel a need to harm me?
What if they speak the truth, and I’m just paranoid because of their eyes –  such a ridiculous reason to leave two kids in lethal danger on the streets. I am a rational person and such things as black magic and malicious eyes are bullshit. And surely they wouldn’t try to strangle me or beat me up or anything, I am an adult, for crying out loud, they must understand it. I can’t fear a couple of little kids, even if they should attempt something silly. (Do it, now, tell us we can come in. Let us in let us in let us in.)

Another shiver as I look at the little boy. I have always laughed at horror movies with those silent children with pale faces and their horrible porcelain dolls. It’s not enough that they are such a terrible cliché and surely don’t manage to scare anyone anymore, no, they are annoying and stupid, just there to disturb the hell out of people.
And now I’m staring at one of them in the face and suddenly it’s not so funny. Actually it really is fucking scary.

His sister is quiet and politely waits for me to say something, despite the growing impatience I sense in the air.
He begins to weep and I still have no idea what to do. This is where what I know and what I believe strongly disagree: I know they are just ordinary kids trying to get a ride home, but I can’t help believing that there is more to it, something beyond the world I’m used to.

“So. Are you gonna let us in or do we have to ask someone else? The clock is ticking. Our mother must be very worried at home.”
I remain silent. (Just open the door, silly, you will be safe. We are innocent children.)
“Come on, spag”, the boy whispers. Now I see his eyes are dry despite the fact that I just saw him cry. And the darkness –
Another wave of horror. What was the word he had just used?

The boy had called me a spag. With a stunning fear, I realize that I am not going to wake up next morning. I am not going to wake up ever again.

These kids are from that place.

Two pterodactyls descend beside my car, and with an ear-breaking roar, they tear it apart. A 23fnordRealDiscordian hits me in the head.
The pain streams down like cold cold water, and oh so slowly it drags me down into the black.

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