Tom & Dinosaur Hand...

review:
Love in the Time of Cholera, Alice in Wonderland, and City Island. Tom: Hey there Dino, after that last review you did, I kind of figured we need to buckle down and do some reputable reviewing.
Dinosaur Hand: I don't know what you're talking about.
Tom: Deny it, that's fine. Do you remember Love in the Time of Cholera? We actually saw this a few months ago.
D.H: I remember boobies.
Tom: Jeez. I'm not sure that this movie got very good reviews, but I really enjoyed it. It is set in Cartagena, Columbia, and involves a young man, a poet/clerk, who falls in love with a young woman and pursues her, only to wait fifty years until they can be together.
D.H: Hurry up and wait. Sounds like a snoozer. 50 years a snoozer.
Tom: Of course a lot of stuff and a lot of women come and go in the fifty years, but when his true love finally becomes available, he immediately begins the pursuit again...
D.H: ..and she is pretty surly about that!
Tom: Good movie. I say Go for it.
D.H: Whatever. It's set in the year 2. What's this movie got? It's got no explosions!

Tom: Next movie, maybe this is more to your liking Dinosaur Hand; Alice in Wonderland, the Tim Burton version. What did you think?
D.H: Here we go...Jabberwockys, and disappearing cats and bigheaded queens and a Bandersnatch...wow.
Tom: How about the vorpal sword?
D.H: Hoo and wa!
Tom: Okay; I thought this movie pretty much sucked. It started off sort of willy nilly and after a while started to settle into a watchable story.
D.H: Are you mad? Did I mention the Bandersnatch? There were funny little round dimwits as well!
Tom: Mmm. Johnny Depp was as ridiculous here as he was in Willy Wonka. That movie was only slightly worse than this one. I thought the girl cast as Alice was good, and her progression from start to end was interesting, but nothing new. Why does Burton keep doing these remakes? His original stuff is brilliant.
D.H: You are a foo-bear-twit, and I shall write an epic poem about your dunderheadedness.

Tom: Here's a movie I doubt many people have heard of; City Island.
Dinosaur Hand: Is that a Mario Brother's game? Can we play it now, puleeeez?
Tom: No, Dino, it's a movie starring Andy Garcia. I really liked this one. It also starred Julianna Margulies and a few other actors I've never heard of, but were vaguely familiar.
D.H: Oh, ho...where have I heard that before?
Tom: Excuse me; what? Anyway, there were a lot of characters and a lot of stories to go along. One central character tied them all together in some fashion or another and it all came together. Funny, outrageous, quirky...all good stuff here. You like dramas? Here's a good one.
D.H: Fine, but come on, no car chases?
Tom: Well, Garcia threw some punches, right?
D.H: Boom, bam, bash!

Sunday Comix Redux

Happy Happy! Hope you all are enjoying the Christmas break--it's back to the grind tommorrow (ack--and another holiday right down the road...)

Dinosaur Hand,

reviews some stuff all by himself.

Dinosaur Hand: Poo on that pesky Tom—all these new movies out, and what's he doing, he's watching Bingo Crosby, or some such silly Christmas wiggler!
Toby: Woof! D.H: Uh huh. Toby says he'll co-review this one.
Toby: Woof x 2.
D.H: This weeks review is Dinosaur Hand Scares the World! Starring...Me!
Toby: wooo fff.
D.H: Action, car chases, punch outs..you name it. I get into it with Charlton Heston; I totally break his nose. Then Clint Eastwood,and his gun back me up – you feel lucky, punk?
Toby: heh heh heh. D.H: Dang it, your nose is cold, boy! Of course this is directed by Speelieburg and I'm huge...I mean really really big. I eat the head off some guy in a tuxedo! Later in the big 'finally' we go to the ocean and Godzilla and me get into a tussle, and oh man, that dude breathes fire and shit, but I got a fist and wham, a karate chop baby cakes!
Toby: grrrr. D.H: Sweet; and Jaws that big mama shark comes back like a zombie fish, oh yeah, and, oh, the blood! Lots of it. How about that, Toby; the blood, right?
Toby: heh.
Tom: Hey, what are you guys doing...what is this? This is a terrible review.
D.H: Who invited you? Go watch your silly singing Christmas movie. Tom: It's all lies. Why don't you review Harry Potter or something? We saw that, you know.
D.H: Aw...I don't remember what happened in it. Didn't they turn into a newt? Or something?
Tom: Never mind...do what you want. C'mon Toby, let's play with your rope.
Toby: weeeeeeeee!

lonely Comics.

ALiENaNTiCS!!!

since there is no Touche', Cliche' this week, I figured I'd include the bottom silly little one panel strip toilet strip that sprouted from Jeff's deranged noggin:

ennui

Yesterday when she had me in the chair, tied into a yarn suit and surrounded by those mewling chickens, I told her the truth.

She had not realized I found her letter to Santa Claus. It was written backwards in a shifted skink format, all the more surprising for its blueness off the get-go. Not without pains though I deciphered the crap and found her correspondence to be without merit. A ruse, yes; but a clever one.

I hold my secrets dearly, but I kept this one to save my life. Knowing it was known meant certain doom – at least a sound tickling. And in my condition, who knows where such things might end. Nuts, spilled among the gadgets and various raised accoutrements, not in the least.

Alone, for she was engaged that night to peruse various portraits of trebuchets in her Tuesday evening nipple piercing guild, I scoured the residence for additional clues and found much to my annoyance an eyesore. It was slightly L shaped and covered in Naugahyde and tucked away in a corner of the living room, a random space cordoned off by swinging doors and normally off limits to one such as I. In no time I deduced its perimeters by swinging my arms about and using my inch-stick. The exact proportions became known to me, and armed with this information I fell back, intact.

She came home late and complained of soreness and chafing, forcing me to alleviate her pains with a sponge and other means, but the advancing hours saved me from the usual drudgery and that night I did not don the suit of yarn, and the fowl pecked indiscriminately at their leisure, and more, at scattered jigsaw puzzle pieces of Buckingham Palace intermixed with macaroni. Ten thousand monkeys typing on ten thousand typewriters might eventually write the complete works of William Shakespeare, but all the chickens in the world couldn't sort out the edge pieces in a thousand piece puzzle of the queen when they've got macaroni too. That's the theorem I worked out, but I digress....

While I have little spare time, I confess also to sleeping very little, but I needn't ascribe that to insomnia. In every corner of the small world I inhabit there is a collection of motes, and I keep them occupied by means of a one hundred watt light bulb which is attached by various long cords, some green, some orange. The place is quite dark, and air currents have no refuge here, so by leaping around and casting my light like angry aspersions I keep these motes agitated, and thus fit for future duty. It is my army of dust, and I march my troops nightly. Quietly, in rank.

My captains and I were unrelenting that night, and it was understand that action was likely. In the wardroom we discussed general affairs, as well as the atrocity I had measured. When asked, I acceded, and so we cataloged it as Floral, for such was the pattern that enveloped the whole of its girth. Springtime floral, in fact, and dreadful. I begged to be left behind, for needles to be driven deep into the soft pieces of my frontal lobe, but mightily they held me down, and my dementia subsided.

I left them to it, and succumbed to a slumber as deep as any ever encountered, and to my everlasting shame, this is what I dreamed: A plethora of wire plugs danced willy nilly the length of my dozen unpolished casserole dishes and circled back, dosey doe, and with no warning fell deep into catatonia, whereupon they dreamed of me. Exclamation. Finally I became aware of my own shape and form – I was a god in every aspect, and looked exactly like Clark Gable. Eventually I woke after evaluating my good fortune, only to find that the casserole pans were absent, and worse, merely stew pots, and cooking at their innards were the plugs who writhed in a comic dance from some overwrought Dante-ish opera composed by the master himself, Batmaster Spleen. The wire plugs poked me and I awoke again, for real. Oh, my.

I sat up for some time brooding on my dilemma. Knowing of the heinous creation, I pondered the existence of further atrocities. If there be one, perchance there might be more. All would be lost, for I could not sustain my vigor knowing of such vile contraptions. No more would I recline, entranced by a jellybean sculpture, not even by a woven big stuffed thingamajig, not I, moi, the me. Nor would I entertain the thought of a new, a better horror 'round the next bend. Here I was, here I would stand my ground, my motes and I.

Balloon skulls rising in a bag of mesh, sobriety expressed by the girl in a window. Somewhere a dog is barking. No cliché would temper my mood, and ere I dissolved them all in an acid bath of forgetfulness, she came to me suggesting a soiree and teacakes. A certain rue must have been etched upon my face, and it reflected off her visage like a marble dropped on stone facade. Pigtails and a twelve foot Trojan elk. She stood, her chickens took me by the hand, and led me to a chair, unencumbered by prestige. Gently I was stripped and adorned anew by all involved – they circled so that by and by I, like a maypole, was born of wool streamers and immobile as a giant locked in immortal combat with really big glottal tongues. I would never jump rope with heavy nymphs, probably. Hardly could I bemoan the fact, when she stroked my cheek and teetered on the brink of a notion, suppressing a giggle while the tattoo brow of a maid jiggled atop her loosened bodice. I came undone and the babbled arcanum came flowing in a torrent of conjoined participles, my syllables were transient.

She mesmerized into my soul like a torch eating screwbit even as I pondered the parameters of my mecho-master board – interface and circuitry, inverting my eyes I followed the thread and moved across the board, tuning down the switchback and backflipping a lateral plunger. Too late, I flinched, and unraveled like a flung spool, cast like spent dregs in a pool of disorderly nematodes. My usefulness at an end, I fell wholly bent and subservient as a young willow to the North wind. My struggles were over, and preparations were all for naught, but lightly she gathered her yarn back into a ball and led me like a newborn through rhythmic doors and lay me down on a supple divan, kissing me back and forth, to and fro, thoroughly through and through, until all thoughts of subterfuge and motes died in a swirling vortex of fluff and daisies.

Sunday Toons

dog V cat

Touche',Cliche'--an apple a day...

by Jeff & Tom--click on for enhugement ;)

some

Alien Antics!!!

Shooting the Breeze...

...har!
FatPie short video: dig this
..and these:

alright, here are two of six 'toons i doodled up, i like to call them ALIEN ANTICS!!!
go ahead and click on the images for extralargifiable results.

the new Touche', Cliche', in which our Heroes Clarence and Jenifer have a meaningful bedtime conversation...

...not now, honey...
art by Tom, text by Jeff.

trolling the white space

She rode a tree naked
in a forest of black net
intrigued by skulls and
spiders through a frosted glass
pain

Finally
stretched in limber repose
by a skeleton dancer
he handed her
his card:
ecr. L'inf.
and his tell tale
memoir of UFO Life
a dreamstate account of
fantasy worlds and fantasy girls
endorsed by
anatomical formulists
in Prague

Now for her it ends
with twins in rubber hats
sipping absinthe
that voodoo libation
against a white wall
blasted by lights
and constructing
shadow V's
in defense of
woodland rides
and flights of forest fantasy.

shooting the breeeeeeeze

Lackadaisical wandering whereabouts, William Perry, ne'er do well extraordinaire is out and about, in a location near you. At the mall: Perusing shoes at the shoe store, “Why hello, miss. Did you know that the average shoe size for American women is 8? Wide, in fact. Only one hundred and fifty years ago, it was merely a size four!” So wizened by this trifle, the young miss moves on querifiably miffed and a tad bit creeped out. He bows,“Good afternoon, lovely shoe vixen,” and so our intrepid wanderer moves on, perhaps to a location nearer you.

He is on the avenue strolling with a purposeful stride, chin adjusted skyward for maximum smarmy effect. At the bus stop there is a believably smelly young man quaffing from a brown paper bag and a woman with a Goodwill shopping bag and a flimsy plastic grocery sack containing a loaf of day old french bread. William Perry produces from his overcoat a tub of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. “I know, really - but believe me Missy; it's the gol-darn truth!” He high fives the smelly young man, who doesn't appear to recognize the gesture, thus leaves him hanging, and zigs left, possibly to a location near you.

He enters a busy street, lined head to toe with shimmering black sedans, and penetrates the facade of a marbled office building. At the desk he produces his card for the information guru to ogle, knowingly. It reads as such: William Maniacal Perry, III, social outcast, rebel ax junkie for hire, and pie lover. Phone number? Don't call us, we're not home. In a whiny voice the info guy says “floor eleven,” and he munches something nondescript.

The elevator is awesome, for it goes up and down, and William Perry gets in line for the ride; he even has produced a dollar for the privilege and gives it to a fancy black woman who wears a tulip poplar on her lapel and a snow white dove tucked pleasantly into her coif. “Coo,” he says, and she in response, “oh, Daddy.” Then she tucks the buck into her brassiere and adjusts her meaty cleavage.

On the eleventh floor Perry squirms out from the elevator packed tight as a can of sardines patting his pockets and physical paraphernalia to be assured nothing has leapt off of his body or is springing loose only to find he has compromised the personal accounting offices of one Gordon Gahonas Gozongas! and Associates. There are secretaries spilling out into the hallway and men without coats but with natty suspenders and coffee cups leaning on desks and saying things like “send that out immediately” and “oops, I dropped all your pencils” or “hey, nice cubical – does it come in beige?”

William Perry sucker punches a mid-level clerical schmo and drags the carcass into a vacant cubicle, noting the general cleanliness of the paper trays and nicks a hole puncher. He disturbs the lackey's comb-over, drives a one and a half inch finishing nail into the center of the veneered desktop and blows an immense pink bubble which is surreptitiously surrendered onto the standard office issue keyboard. DNA tests will confirm that William Perry has indeed been on the premises.

Now he produces a Foldaway Barmah and dons it with a flourish escaping the corner unseen and meets Virginia at a water cooler. She is studying the bulletin board and has already read 'new insurance information: you are covered only in extreme cases of section 1.3 or alien seed pod invasion' and 'Marshall's retirement party is being moved to Ida Viscera's loft where she will be serving aperitifs and tiny leftover wieners from a jar'. Virginia reads aloud “Oh no, listen to this, 'effective immediately, all unicorn privileges are revoked!”

“Why, ma'am,” says William Perry, “Even I can see you haven't been a virgin for thirty years,” and he dances with her through the crowded hallway past a heavily guarded exhibit of Peruvian shrunken heads, then double dipping her tresses at the bubbler he flees unscathed into a stairwell, perhaps to visit a location near you...