Can it be possible that this planet has actually spawned such things; that human eyes can have truly seen, as objective flesh, what man has hitherto known only in febrile fantasy and tenuous legend?
And yet I saw them in a limitless stream – flopping, hopping, croaking, bleating – surging inhumanly through the spectral moonlight in a grotesque, malignant saraband of fantastic nightmare.
Seems that human folks has got a kind o’ relation to sech water-beasts – that everything alive come aout o’ the water onct, an’ only needs a little change to go back agin. Them things told the Kanakys that ef they mixed bloods there’d be children as ud look human at fust, but later turn more’n more like the things, till finally they’d take to the water an jine the main lot o’ things daown har. An’ this is the important part, young feller – them as turned into fish things an’ went into thre water wouldn’t never die. Them things never died excep’ they was kilt violent.
Well, these are lovely.
Tempest art: the only kind of art that should be allowed.
Are you ready for this? Hero gets in a fight with a bad guy, and destroys the bad guy so utterly that he is completely disintegrated. And then the hero says “You’ll be mist.”
What, that is solid gold.
Every time I go back, I like it less, and I never liked it much to begin with. Someone once said of Los Angeles “It’s a nice place to live, but I wouldn’t want to visit.” Well, he got it half right. I can’t think of a less appealing place to exist, whether it’s Santa Monica, Long Beach, or what passes for a Downtown.
Like a huge, dirty suburb, nothing is “original” in that place. It was built to be the city it is, a city for cars to go in straight lines forever, a city to go to a dirty beach and be afraid to touch the ocean, a city with no resources but its population’s inexhaustible supply of self-delusion.
The air is bad, the water is bad, the architecture is bad, the coffee is bad, and the people, while not bad, are the same as everywhere else: not good.
I’m sorry if I’m insulting all the people I know and care about who live or lived in that city, but good lord, you’re the exceptions and you need to get the hell out of there.
Sacrilege, hilarious sacrilege.
From Cyanide & Happiness
Oh dear. This is why you don’t do that.
