slathered, smothered & catman crothered

Another hastily penned sunrise scoop inspired by my elderly snoring kitty cat whose reverberatory internal furnace sounds like the primordial hard drive of Jumpin' Jack Flash on the fritz, followed by one too many late night X-rated chatroom confabs with Whoopi Goldberg after some feverish digital demonstrations of that fine inflated cocoa cushion.

WOO girl. Some things to go sit in the corner and ponder:

A) What I wouldn't give for the above-mentioned image to delete itself from my own internal storage apparatus.

B) Why do I always feel the need to interpret the contents of tasteful period-piece morsels of cinematic dynamite like Jumpin' Jack Flash and form inappropriate connections between the spunky lead character and the enigmatic co-star? I did it now, I did it with Ghost, and I see no reason to stop when I get around to catching up with Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit. Although, if it's anything like the first Act, the movie itself will be the inappropriate connection, possessing the outrageous gumption of confusing my brains with unclear ecclesiastical messages of gyrating nuns commingling with cloak-donning capos. All the while, my own face will share the leading role with a sparkling slab of saliva as it makes its way down my chin, since I generally save that magical crown jewel of VHS antiquity for when I'm fresh out of mellow-tonin.

C) What I also wouldn't give for Pissy Galore to re-route her catnap locales to a more discreet quarter within our quantum kingdom. On second thought. . . the faint mellifluous wheezing is pretty endearing, even if I am in constant fear of mindlessly petting her angel-soft pelt only to ladle great gobs of hearty semi-digested cat stew into my paws.

Does this look like the face of a pygmy beast prepared to make accommodations?

strip sequence

Q: Why did DC hand Jack Kirby's scripting duties over to Gerry Conway?

A: He had better Kamandi English language.

Earlier this morning, against my better judgement, I exposed myself to the hellacious pun-ishment of the Mandalorian Merc-infested dweeb dominion that is Kansas City's Planet Comicon. If you've ever had the pleasure of attending a comic book convention with a friend, you already know how deliciously nerdy the experience can be. If you've ever gone to a comic convention alone, however, then you can identify with the level of terror associated with lingering in the admissions line to receive your bright red Yoda hand-stamp of misfit approval only to get speared in the gut by a lightsaber that is clenched betwixt the dangerous dukes of a hyperventilating hygiene-rebel with little regard for personal space.

I feel it is my civic duty to remind you meatballs that infiltrating the stomping grounds of rabid fanboys is not a joke. I don't advise going alone unless you a) have enough pocket change to purchase a tray of the stalest nachos ever invented in the hopes that your silent sogging munches will somehow magically invoke the ministrations of superpower invisibility; and b) possess a deep well of patience that renders you immune to such vexing rib-ticklers as the one described above.

Also, I blocked out don't recall his name, but I would like to express my sincere gratitude to the zany joke junkie who supplied me with that monotonic yet nonetheless priceless Kamandi groaner. According to Edgar Allan Poe, "The goodness of the true pun is in the direct ratio of its intolerability." Dude, you would have soaked your suspender-fastened britches if you witnessed the gnarled hodgepodge of humanity that skulked about the premises of that convention center. Thrilling highlights include...

Mega Monster Moxie

So, I'm fawning over some bloody disgusting DVDs and flipping through the supplementary literature surrounding the Troma booth and before I can even stab a memo into my blank bulletin board of a brain with a helpful reminder to practice conversational censorship, I manage to blurt out: "I would do anything to be in a Troma production!" to which the masculine mouthpiece replies with a slithering up-and-down assessment of my female form: "Anything, eh? Define anything. I don't see any reason why we can't make that a possibility, let's say... tonight? Heh heh heh." Awkward business card handoff and freaky one-eye blink ensue, and let me tell you, I could actually feel my face light up like Uncle Rudolph's progressively gin-blossoming nose at a familial holiday get-together decorated with tinsel and acrimony.

Nevertheless... Holy instant validation gratification, Batman! I'm honestly inclined to ignore the basic reality that it's his job to churn out identically charming retorts to the zillions of Troma-obsessed girl geeks who aspire to explore their cinematic chops in the realm of birthday suit B-movie bloodbaths, because it was actually the unequivocal horny highlight of my weekend! (You call it sad, I call it awesome. Go choke on it!)

And yes, to a certain extent, my head is in fact drooping at half-mast as a consequence of all the lessons instilled in me by way of Valerie Solanas' SCUM Manifesto. On the other hand, I probably did myself a complete disservice by not submitting to the cheeky chap's randy proposition of scrupulous oratory examination. If I had, my participation may have been required in the undertaking of a far more stimulating script than what I am able to supply to you at 10 o'clock on a Saturday night. Oh Ashley!

Olivia's Kindred Soulmate

A bitchin' Kansas City artist after my own heart, some of Jennifer Janesko's swoon-worthy subjects include Julie Strain, Dita Von Teese, and Echo Johnson, y'heard? Probably so, because in many ways, Jennifer's art is nearly indistinguishable in style from that of Olivia De Berardinis' voluptuous masterpieces, as they both tend to share a similar enthusiasm for breathtaking broads with jumbo juggs and impossible hip-to-waist ratios. I've often wondered if Olivia feels flattered or frosted by these inevitable comparisons. Either way, it was still pretty impressive to observe Jen sketching in action. (FYI, the photo above shows Dita posing with a soulmate of a different kind, as Janesko's website has made it crystal clear that the use of her images in any capacity is strictly verboten).

You're Solid Gold... I'll See You In Hell!

Racing heart nerd alert: Once upon a time I lived in D.C. If my best friend in D.C. was a comic book character who rocked the same outfit everyday, it would obviously be his yellow t-shirt emblazoned with the giant toothsome smiley face that proclaimed "Have a Psychotic Day!" This hysterical mantra derives from a button named Smiley that was formerly a pet rat belonging to the coolest (and most vicious) comic book character ever created: Evil Ernie. Before Ernie swung a U-turn and descended into berserko madness, he was merely another psychologically wounded schoolboy named Ernest Fairchild who was forced to deteriorate within the twisted confines of orphanage hell. After a brain transplant experiment gone awry, Ernest met a lethal demise that actually resulted in his subsequent rebirth as an undead teen psychopath capable of telepathically controlling the dead with his mischievous sidekick Smiley... a button. Trust me, I could go on and on about this demented serial slaughterfest, but I'll save Evil Ernie's adventures in lunacy for another inappropriate time (church basement pancake breakfast, perhaps?) The point is, the hotness that is Tommy Castillo was the coolest part of the convention, hands down. He sketched up a storm, cracked a couple jokes, and his artwork must be seen to be believed. He has since moved on to a plethora of other pen & ink projects that have mostly swept Ernie & Smiley into the dreaded dustpan of comic oblivion, but they still remain my favorite arcane duo of all time, mostly in part because of how much I enjoyed that threadbare t-shirt my friend used to rock like a proud uniform. Every time someone robotically moans "Have a Nice Day" and clearly doesn't mean it, you wanna take a wild guess at what I'm tempted to say in return?

Oddballs & Endcaps

The Bionic Woman (Lindsay Wagner) was there, as was Painkiller Jane (Alaina Huffman). I never did catch a glimpse of Reverand Steve Newlin (Michael McMillian) of True Blood fame, which really grinds my gears since I have been yearning for a glimmer of insight into the mind of the anti-vampire zealot whose influence has inspired many Karate-chopping corpse attacks ushered into action by a shirtless Jason Stackhouse. GearHead writer Dennis Hopeless was also in attendance, who I was surprised to learn is wed to Jessie Hopeless, the gloriously kickass superhero artist who designed and inked the strutting peacock tattoo perched atop my right arm.

cataleptic calisthenics

(Or, more accurately, fond memories of grades 7 thru the rest of my junior and senior high school existence in which I conveniently skipped co-ed sports bra hell and jockstrap misery on a regular basis in favor of alternate nonconformist acts of pop-&-jocularity).

Bowling night commences this upcoming Wednesday, and you better slow your roll to a screeching halt when it's my chance to twist the wrist, because my personal rulebook explicitly states that my lane is the second-born lane of triplets, meaning I can roll a tornado right over your alley any time I sees fit and neither of my congenitally fused linear kinfolk can bump their gutters about it because, well, it's THE RULES.

That being said, it has been brought to my recent attention that my athletic prowess is comically nonexistent at best, downright fictitious at worst. To which I say... the fuck? Seriously folks, I can Crip-walk on ice skates and practice Kung Fu moves in the shower like I'm David Carradine sans soap-on-a-rope. (And by practice Kung Fu I mean invoke peaceful meditation between shower spigot and clitoral floweret. Ommmm-kay... Don't judge). But that's just not hunky-dory enough for some sportylicious booty-smackers who grasp and squeeze their fellow ball-handlers' hindquarters at head-scratching moments of gesticulatory excellence that far exceed the 12th grade, an age when most awesome people appropriately ditch their benchwarming duties in favor of new experimental pastimes, like smokin', sexin', and stealin', to name a few.

To all my draconian whistle-blowing naysayers, I have the following to declare: I'll stratospherically crush ya azz on a mini-golf course and combat you in a cosmic-bowl crusade to the finish, and when I do win, I vow not to be all IN YO FACE about it. Unless, of course, copious amounts of grown-folk brewskies and unsolicited douchebaggy companionship magically presents itself (and, let's face it, it always does). In which case, the previous statement is obviously no longer applicable.

Runners-up, polish off your tenpins and squish your ten (or so) toes into those lubberly bowling shoes decomposing nicely under your kitchen sink and I'll peep ya in your lanes!

did i do that?

Dear Diary,

It's approximately 3:45 a.m. and I just awoke to the supremely thick and unpleasant surprise of combing my digits through a fresh pile of warm cat puke. In the rural locution of Mr. Hank Hill, "whut in the cat's meow is goin' on here? Is this yer idea of some kinda sick joke? Dhammit, Bobcat."

Aside from my apathetic pussy showcasing a glaring absence of shame in her spew game, the sludgy sensation immediately brought to mind the kind of kooky kitty regurgitation fantasy that would so obviously take place in some deviant realm of Doctor Claw's mind after a sensuous M.A.D Cat muff-walloping, followed by one too many nights of forced viewings of Grimalkin Island on Talon TV. You just know how that nefarious fool likes to get down, masterminding oddball projector-style screenings of late night double-features starring his favorite frisky four-steppers while he slinks back into a one-handed recline in that creepazoid throne he commandeers in the shadowy chambers of his clandestine lair. Jeepers! It gives me the gobsmackin' willies just thinking about it.

Sorry, family. I may still be partially comatose as I clack blearily away at my glowing terminal in the dusky gloom of daybreak. Apparently, kitten puke-fugues can cause, among other hurt and confused feelings, frenzied Inspector Gadget flashbacks and possibly even a delirious craving for some Cantonese-style bargain-basement kitten chow-mein (yeh, that side-eye is for you, gato).

P.S. Please don't tell Pissy Galore I was talkin' smack about her triflin' ass on da innerwebz or she might go all Mr. Bigglesworth on me and claw my face off so she can make use of my assorted orifices to hoard her exotic collection of catnips, among other unspeakable sticky-paw sundries. She be a miniature treasure reservoir, that cat.

reel unhinged

Lately I've been trying to charge up my brains with a blitz of low-budget movie reels in an effort to fulfill my 2011 goal of becoming a more cinematically inclined bitch (thus escaping dreaded cable bills while simultaneously viewing bottomless bins of weird shit with the sole intention of smugly peppering my group conversations with irritating banter and cryptic one-liners that only other irritating people with limited social circles will pick up on, in which case we will then chuckle conspiratorially, and with one concurrent self-satisfied nod of our bloated heads we will have deftly concluded our complacent foray into any possibility of securing new playfellows). Now, on with the show...

Crazy Love - Directed by Dan Klores

Just... whoa. This unflinching documentary by Dan Klores explores the shockingly grisly and obsessive relationship between Bronx-bred hellcat Burton Pugach and cheesecake stunner Linda Riss. The extremely unpleasant and godawful testimony zooms in on the heinous Pugach and the unfathomable manner in which he chose to put the hurt on the ravishing Riss, a vivacious cub of only twenty years with whom the loathsome lothario promptly fell into a deep and pathological one-sided love affair. From the onset of the feature, I was downright drawn in frame after frightening frame by simply listening to the twosome account for their outrageous history with a pair of matching Bronx brogues. As the narrative began to transit through to the alarming apex, my senses were slugged like a shot of gunpowder tea to the dome after a 4 a.m. wake-up call. If you decide to go into this movie with no prior knowledge of the disquieting duo, I can guarantee you will be served a scalding hot slice of startling true-life drama that is so dreadful and vile and yet somehow even poetic that, like me, you might even squeeze out a confused tear or two. Don't miss this truly bizarre psycho-saga, especially if you have ever been compelled to remain in a relationship with someone who has vocalized a threat along the lines of if I can't have you, no one can. As the complex layers evolve, you'll recognize in Burt the boisterous, misunderstood but still altogether insane crackpot you may have once known. You'll shiver at the recollection of the wacky-in-love hoodwinker with the warped romantic ideology: the dark obsession, the profound loneliness, the inevitable crime.

I give Crazy Love high marks for the method in which Klores chose to direct this atypical love story: It shocks you with an unorthodox tabloid-style strangeness (with a dab of comedic diversion thrown in for good measure), not the archetypal spine-chilling schlock scariness that would have undoubtedly been an easier avenue to traverse. The archival footage whisked in with the wacko-whimsy score that endlessly loops throughout the flick winks at the tale's '50s-'60s timewave with playful peculiarity, so at least you're not totally quaking under your quilt by the closing credits, afraid to take a midnight pee.

Tune in tomorrow for a discussion of one of my new best-loved jewels of the Mexploitation multiplex. You know who I'm talkin' about, and you know he don't text.